eard such extravagant eulogies, and as an American I
proudly and cordially congratulate you----'"

"Are you going to faint! Stand back, William, and let me bathe her
face with cologne. What is the matter, Mrs. Orme? You shake as if you
had an ague."

But her mistress sat with eyes fixed upon a line visible only to
herself: "Your countrymen here are very much elated, and to-night I
shall be accompanied by Mr. and Mrs. Cuthbert Laurance, son of
General Rene Laurance, whose wealth and social eminence must have at
least rendered his name familiar to all Americans travelling in
Europe."

"Be quick, Phoebe, and get her a glass of wine. She has no more
colour in her lips than there is in my white beard."

"No--give me nothing. I only want rest--quiet."

She crushed the delicate satin paper in her hand, and rallied her
composure. After a moment she added:

"A slight faintness, that is all. Mr. Waul, before the curtain rises
to-night, I wish you to ascertain in what portion of the house the
American minister's box is located; write it on a slip of paper and
send it to the dressing-room by your wife. Just now I believe I have
no other commissions. If I do not ring my little bell, do not disturb
me until five o'clock, then bring me a cup of strong coffee. And,
Mrs. Waul, please baste a double row of swan's-down around the neck
and sleeves of the white silk I shall wear to-night. Let no one
disturb me; not even the manager."

As the husband and wife withdrew, she followed them to the door,
locked it on the inside, and returned to the easy chair. With a
whitening, hardening face she reread the note, and thrust it into one
of the silk pockets of her robe.

Although nine years had elapsed since we saw her first, in the mellow
lamplight of Mr. Hargrove's library, time had touched her so
daintily, so lovingly, that only two lines were discernible about the
mouth, where habitual compression has set its print; and it would
have been difficult to realize that she was twenty-eight, had not the
treacherous eyes betrayed the gloom, the bitterness, the ceaseless
heartache that filled them with shadows, which prematurely aged the
whole countenance.

The added years seemed only to have ripened and perfected her
exquisite beauty, but with the rounded smoothness, and the fresh,
pure colouring of youth was mingled a weird indescribable expression
of stern hopelessness, of solemn repose, as if she had deliberately
shaken hands for ever