eyes shone,
her lips smiled. He seemed to take courage at this, for, walking
straight up to her, he said, as coolly as if a crown-prince,--

"Mademoiselle, may I have the honor?"

A flash of surprise passed over her face, but there was no anger,
pride, or hesitation in her manner, as she leaned toward him with a
quiet "Thanks, monsieur."

A look of triumph was in his eyes as he swept her away to dance, as
she had never danced before, for a German waltz is full of life and
spirit, wonderfully captivating to English girls, and German gentlemen
make it a memorable experience when they please. As they circled round
the rustic ball-room, Hoffman never took his eyes off Helen's, and,
as if fascinated, she looked up at him, half conscious that he was
reading her heart as she read his. He said not a word, but his
face grew very tender, very beautiful in her sight, as she forgot
everything except that he had saved her life and she loved him. When
they paused, she was breathless and pale; he also; and seating her he
went away to bring her a glass of wine. As her dizzy eyes grew clear,
she saw a little case at her feet, and taking it up, opened it. A worn
paper, containing some faded forget-me-nots and these words, fell
out,--

"Gathered where Helen sat on the night of August 10th."

There was just time to restore its contents to the case, when Hoffman
returned, saw it, and looked intensely annoyed as he asked, quickly,--

"Did you read the name on it?"

"I saw only the flowers;" and Helen colored beautifully as she spoke.

"And read _them_?" he asked, with a look she could not meet.

She was spared an answer, for just then a lad came up, saying, as he
offered a note,--

"Monsieur Hoffman, madame, at the hotel, sends you this, and begs you
to come at once."

As he impatiently opened it, the wind blew the paper into Helen's lap.
She restored it, and in the act, her quick eye caught the signature,
"Thine ever, Ludmilla."

A slight shadow passed over her face, leaving it very cold and quiet.
Hoffman saw the change, and smiled, as if well pleased, but assuming
suddenly his usual manner, said deferentially,--

"Will mademoiselle permit me to visit my friend for an hour?--she is
expecting me."

"Go, then, we do not need you," was the brief reply, in a careless
tone, as if his absence was a thing of no interest to any one.

"Thanks; I shall not be long away;" and giving her a glance that made
her turn scarlet with ang