ed brilliant that evening, and
she sang her best. There was a royal personage amongst her hearers, and
the royal personage begged to be presented to her, and complimented her
upon her singing. As Cynthia made her little curtsey and smiled her
bright little smile, she wondered what the royal personage would say if
he knew that she was "Westwood, the murderer's daughter." She had been
called so too often in her earliest years ever to forget the title.

In spite of her waywardness that night, she was woman enough to wish
that Hubert had been there to witness her triumph. She had never
offended him before. She thought that perhaps he would come back, and
darted hasty glances at the throng of smart folk around her, longing to
see his dark face in some corner of the room. But she was disappointed;
he did not come.

"Oh, Miss West," said her hostess to her, in the course of the evening,
"do come here one moment! I hope you won't be very much bored; you young
people always like other young people best, I know. But there is a lady
here--an old lady--who is very much impressed by your voice--your
charming voice--and wants to know you; and she is really worth knowing,
I assure you--gives delightful parties now and then."

"I shall be most happy!" said Cynthia brightly. "I like old ladies very
much; they generally have something to say."

"Which young men do not, do they? Oh, fie, you naughty girl! I saw you
with young Lord Frederick over there---- Dear Miss Vane, this is our
sweet songstress, Miss Cynthia West--Miss Vane. I have just been telling
her how much you admire her lovely singing;" and then the hostess
hurried away.

Something like an electric shock seemed to pass through Cynthia's frame.
She did not show any trace of emotion, the smile did not waver on her
lips; but suddenly, as she bowed gracefully to the handsome, keen-eyed
old lady to whom she had just been introduced, she saw herself a ragged,
unkempt, savage little waif and stray, fresh from the workhouse,
standing on a summer day upon a dusty road, the centre of a little group
of persons whose faces came back to her one by one with painful
distinctness. There was the old lady--not so wrinkled as this old lady,
but still with the same clearly-cut features, the same sharp eyes, the
same inflexible mouth; there was the child with delicate limbs and
dainty movements, with sweet sympathetic eyes and lovely golden hair,
which Cynthia had passionately admired as she