Palmers; if she is Mona Montague--the girl that Ray Palmer loves--she
certainly will betray herself if I take her unawares; although she did
not appear to know Mr. Palmer, last evening."

Mona returned at this moment, and Mrs. Montague's musings were cut short.

The young girl had recovered her self-control, and was as calm and
collected as usual; even more so, for she had told herself that she
must be more on her guard or she would betray her identity.

Mrs. Montague appeared to have forgotten all about their recent
conversation, and chatted sociably about various topics for a while.
But suddenly she asked:

"Did you observe the new arrival last night, Ruth?"

"Do you mean that portly gentleman, who is slightly bald, and with whom
you went out for refreshments?" Mona inquired, lifting a frank, inquiring
look to her companion, though her heart beat fast at this reference to
Ray's father.

"Yes; he is very fine-looking, don't you think so?"

"Perhaps so--rather," replied Mona, reflectively.

"That is 'rather' doubtful praise, I am afraid," observed Mrs. Montague,
with a light laugh. "I think he is a very handsome old gentleman, and he
is certainly a decidedly entertaining companion. You know who he is, I
suppose."

"I do not think that I heard anybody address him by name while I was in
the drawing-room; of course; I was not introduced to any one," Mona
evasively answered.

"His name is Palmer," Mrs. Montague remarked, as she bent a searching
look upon the young girl.

But Mona had herself well in hand now, and she made no sign that the name
was a familiar one to her.

"He has a son who is strikingly good looking, too," Mrs. Montague
continued. "I met them both at a reception in New York a little while
ago, and was greatly attracted to them, though just now the young man
is rather unhappy--in fact, he is wearing the willow for some girl whom
he imagines he loves."

Mrs. Montague paused to note the effect of this conversation, but Mona
had finished fastening the buckle on the slipper, and quietly taken up
some other work, though her pulses were beating like trip-hammers.

"It seems," the woman resumed, her keen eyes never leaving the fair face
opposite to her, "that he has long been very fond of a girl whose surname
is the same as mine--a Miss Mona Montague. She was a niece of that
wealthy Mr. Dinsmore, who died so suddenly in New York a short time ago."

It seemed to Mona that her heart must leap from h