shment
she was accustomed to take at twelve, for the ashes of the loving epistles
which the fond husband and wife believed no other save themselves would
peruse.

Chapter XIII.

Becoming Acquainted.

Little Virginia May Heath was just six weeks old, and becoming most
interesting to her fond mamma, who was getting stronger every day, and
able to take a little exercise in the corridor outside her rooms, when one
morning as she was pacing slowly back and forth, thinking of her absent
husband, and wishing, oh, so yearningly, that he could come to her, she
encountered two ladies who had just ascended the stairs, and passed on to
their apartments which were just beyond hers.

One was a finely formed, majestic woman, evidently somewhat over fifty
years, having the air and bearing of one accustomed to society and the
ways of the world. She was tastefully and elegantly dressed, every article
of her apparel denoting wealth and a careful regard for fashion.

The other was a young lady, perhaps a year or two older than Virgie, a
perfect blonde, with a tall, beautifully developed form, and with a face
such as poets and artists rave about. It was a pure oval, faultless in
feature and coloring, and yet withal, if closely studied, there was a
suspicion of shallowness and insincerity in the full, sapphire eyes, and
the perfectly formed but rather weak mouth.

Still Virgie, as she lifted her own lovely eyes and beheld this young
lady, thought she had never seen any one more beautiful, while she colored
slightly, and wondered why the strangers should observe her so closely
and with such evident interest.

It was a very warm day, and she was clad in a fine white robe, richly
embroidered and garnished with pale lavender ribbon. If she had but
realized it, she was exquisitely beautiful herself, with her glossy, brown
hair carelessly yet gracefully coiled at the back of her head, the color
beginning to tinge her cheeks, that smile of happiness upon her sweet
lips, and the holy mother-light shining in her violet eyes.

"Mamma, that must be she; that must be Lady Heath," whispered the younger
of the two strangers, when they had passed beyond hearing.

"Lady Heath!" was the scornful repetition, accompanied by a flash of anger
from the dark eyes of the elder woman.

"Well, mamma, you know of course who I mean. She must be the girl whom
Lady Linton wrote about."

"I imagine so. She answers the description that Miriam gave of