had imagined; there had
been some good reason why he had not come to her during the early days of
her trouble. He might have been called suddenly away from New York on
business and not been able to return until her home was broken up; and
now he was grieving--"wearing the willow," as Mrs. Montague expressed
it--because he could not find her. He loved her! he had been upon the
point of telling her so, and this blissful knowledge made the world seem
suddenly bright again to the hitherto depressed and grieving girl.

But it would never do to betray anything of this, for then Mrs. Montague
would know at once that _she_ was Mona Montague; so she made no sign that
she was any more interested in this little romance regarding Ray Palmer's
love, than she would have been in that of any stranger. She even forced
herself to ignore him altogether, and ask, in a matter-of-fact way:

"Is it not strange, if Mr. Dinsmore had a wife living, that he did not
make some provision for his niece, by will?"

"The girl _isn't_ Mona Montague after all, or she never would have asked
such a question with that innocent air," said Mrs. Montague to herself,
with some disappointment; "the strange resemblance must be only a
coincidence, striking though it is. But I would really like to know where
Walter Dinsmore's niece is. I feel as if I had an enemy in ambush all the
time, for she would have it in her power to do me a great deal of harm if
she could prove her identity. I am half sorry that Ruth doesn't prove to
be she, for having her here, under my eye, I could manage her capitally."

"Why, the papers discussed all that at the time," she remarked aloud,
with some surprise. "There was considerable excitement over the affair,
and sympathy was very strong for the niece. Didn't you read about it?"

"No, I was very much engaged just then, and I did not read any account of
it. There, these bows are ready, and I will sew them to the dress," Mona
concluded, rising to get the garment, but trembling with nervous
excitement in every limb.

"Ah!" she added, glancing at her fingers, three of which were stained
with blood. "I have pricked myself with my needle; I hope I have not
soiled the ribbon. No, fortunately, I have not," as she carefully
examined it, "but I will step into the bath-room to wash my hands. I will
not be long," and she immediately left the room again. She had purposely
run the needle into her delicate flesh to obtain this respite, for she
fe