on for surmises such as
you have just mentioned to me, I will give him an opportunity of
reciting his part to me, alone, as soon as ever he wishes."

"I think you are right, dearest," responds Mrs. Talbot sweetly. She is
a little afraid of her cousin, but still maintains her position bravely.
"It is always a mark of folly to defy public opinion. Do not wait for
him to ask you again to go through your play with him alone, but tell
him yourself to-morrow that you will meet him for that purpose in the
north gallery some time during the day."

"Very well," says Florence; but her face still betrays dislike and
disinclination to the course recommended. "And, Dora, I don't think I
want my hair brushed any more, thanks; my head is aching so dreadfully."

This is a hint that she will be glad of Mrs. Talbot's speedy departure;
and, that lady taking the hint, Florence is soon left to her own
thoughts.

The next morning, directly after breakfast, she finds an opportunity to
tell Mr. Dynecourt that she will give him half an hour in the north
gallery to try over his part with her, as she considers it will be
better, and more conducive to the smoothness of the piece, to learn
any little mannerisms that may belong to either of them.

To this speech Dynecourt makes a suitable reply, and names a particular
hour for them to meet. Miss Delmaine, having given a grave assent to
this arrangement, moves away, as though glad to be rid of her companion.

A few minutes afterward Dynecourt, meeting Mrs. Talbot in the hall,
gives her an expressive glance, and tells her in a low voice that he
considers himself deeply in her debt.

CHAPTER III.

"You are late," says Arthur Dynecourt in a low tone. There is no anger
in it; there is indeed only a desire to show how tedious have been the
moments spent apart from her.

"Have you brought your book, or do you mean to go through your part
without it?" Florence asks, disdaining to notice his words, or to betray
interest in anything except the business that has brought them together.

"I know my part by heart," he responds, in a strange voice.

"Then begin," she commands somewhat imperiously; the very insolence of
her air only gives an additional touch to her extreme beauty and fires
his ardor.

"You desire me to begin?" he asks unsteadily.

"If you wish it."

"Do you wish it?"

"I desire nothing more intensely than to get this rehearsal over," she
replies impatiently.

"You take