-colored masters of
ceremony, promenades in an oblong figure.

Here, leaning modestly on the arm of a tall figure in military uniform,
and advancing slowly up the hall, is a girl of some sixteen summers. Her
finely-rounded form is in harmony with the ravishing vivacity of her
face, which is beautifully oval. Seen by the glaring gas-light her
complexion is singularly clear and pale. But that freshness which had
gained her many an admirer, and which gave such a charm to the roundness
of early youth, we look for in vain. And yet there is a softness and
delicacy about her well-cut and womanly features--a childlike sweetness
in her smile--a glow of thoughtfulness in those great, flashing black
eyes--an expression of melancholy in which at short intervals we read
her thoughts--an incessant playing of those long dark eyelashes, that
clothes her charms with an irresistible, a soul-inspiring seductiveness.
Her dress, of moire antique, is chasteness itself; her bust exquisite
symmetry; it heaves as softly as if touched by some gentle zephyr. From
an Haidean brow falls and floats undulating over her marble-like
shoulders, the massive folds of her glossy black hair. Nature had indeed
been lavish of her gifts on this fair creature, to whose charms no
painter could give a touch more fascinating. This girl, whose elastic
step and erect carriage contrasts strangely with the languid forms about
her, is Anna Bonard, the neglected, the betrayed. There passes and
repasses her, now contemplating her with a curious stare, then muttering
inaudibly, a man of portly figure, in mask and cowl. He touches with a
delicate hand his watch-guard, we see two sharp, lecherous eyes peering
through the domino; he folds his arms and pauses a few seconds, as if to
survey the metal of her companion, then crosses and recrosses her path.
Presently his singular demeanor attracts her attention, a curl of
sarcasm is seen on her lip, her brow darkens, her dark orbs flash as of
fire,--all the heart-burnings of a soul stung with shame are seen to
quicken and make ghastly those features that but a moment before shone
lambent as summer lightning. He pauses as with a look of withering scorn
she scans him from head to foot, raises covertly her left hand, tossing
carelessly her glossy hair on her shoulder, and with lightning quickness
snatches with her right the domino from his face. "Hypocrite!" she
exclaims, dashing it to the ground, and with her foot placed defiantly