n his
face. The utter absence of constraint, of fear, she displays in his
presence has charmed him, being so unlike the studied manner of all
those with whom he comes in contact.

"Then I shall cry my eyes out," says Molly, still lightly, though
secretly her heart is sinking.

There is a perceptible pause. Then Mr. Amherst says, slowly,
regretfully:

"Crying will come too soon, child. None escape. Keep your eyes dry as
long as your heart will let you. No, you shall not fret because of me.
You shall have your ball, I promise you, and as soon as ever you
please."

So saying, and with a quick movement of the hand that declines all
thanks, he moves away, leaving Molly to return to the boudoir
triumphant, though somewhat struck and saddened by his words and
manner.

"Let me embrace you," cries Cecil, tragically, flinging herself into
her arms. "Molly, Molly, you are a siren!"

Without a word or a look, Marcia rises slowly and quits the room.

* * * * *

The invitations are issued, and unanimously accepted. A ball at Herst
is such a novelty, that the county to a man declare their intention of
being present at it. It therefore promises to be a great success.

As for the house itself, it is in a state of delicious unrest. There is
a good deal of noise, but very little performance, and every one gives
voice now and then to the most startling opinions. One might, indeed,
imagine that all these people--who, when in town during the season,
yawn systematically through their two or three balls of a night--had
never seen one, so eager and anxious are they for the success of this
solitary bit of dissipation.

Lady Stafford is in great form, and becomes even more _debonnaire_
and saucy than is her wont. Even Marcia seems to take some interest in
it, and lets a little vein of excitement crop up here and there through
all the frozen placidity of her manner; while Molly, who has never yet
been at a really large affair of the kind, loses her head and finds
herself unable to think or converse on any other subject.

Yet in all this beautiful but unhappy world where is the pleasure that
contains no sting of pain? Molly's is a sharp little sting that pricks
her constantly and brings an uneasy sigh to her lips. Perhaps in a
man's eyes the cause would be considered small, but surely in a woman's
overwhelming. It is a question of dress, and poor Molly's mind is much
exercised thereon.

When