otable
chance for her to display the splendid magnanimity of her
disposition--to overwhelm Mr. Lionel Moore with her forgiveness and her
generous intervention on his behalf. At all events, in the first scene
in which these two met on the stage, Harry Thornhill became instantly
aware that the merry and mischievous Grace Mainwaring appeared bent on
being very friendly towards him--even while she looked curiously at him,
as if there were something in her mind. Moreover, she seemed in
excellent spirits; there was no perfunctory "drag" in her give-and-take
speeches with the adventurous young gentleman whom fate had thrown in
her way. He was very well pleased to find the scene going so well; he
sang his share in the parting duet with unusual _verve_; she responded
with equal animation; the crowded house gave them an enthusiastic
recall. But the public could not tell that, even in the midst of this
artistic triumph, the audacious young lover had his own thoughts in his
head; and that he was really saying to himself, "What the mischief is
she at now?"

He was to learn later on in the evening. Just as he got dressed for the
ball-room scene, a message was brought him that Miss Burgoyne would like
to see him for a minute or two as soon as he was ready. Forthwith he
went to her room, tapped at her door, entered, and found himself the
sole occupant; but the next moment the curtain concealing the
dressing-room was opened about five feet from the ground; and there (the
rest of her person being concealed) he beheld the smiling face of Grace
Mainwaring, with its sparkling eyes and rouge and patches, to say
nothing of the magnificent white wig with its nodding sprays of
brilliants.

"Just a moment, Mr. Moore," said she, "and I shall be with you
directly"--and therewith the vision was gone, and the crimson curtains
came together again.

Very shortly thereafter the Squire's Daughter came forth in all the
splendor of her white satin and pearls; and she lost no time in letting
him know why he had been summoned.

"You are a very bloodthirsty man," said she, in accents of grave
reproach (though her eyes were not so serious), "and I am ashamed of you
that you should think of harming that poor boy; but I am not going to
allow it--"

"Why, who told you anything about it?" he said; for he could not pretend
not to know what she meant.

"A little bird," she made answer, with much complacence. "And the idea
that you should really want to do