struggled in vain against going to this ball. She had shrunk from appearing at it. A queer thought had haunted her of late, making her dread Miss Rothwell's eyes, and dislike the idea of Amberwolds. True, she was to meet Mr. Ellis, the author, but even this did not seem to give her pleasure. Had she been told as she drove along that he had declined to come to the ball, a considerable amount of her trepidation might have disappeared.

It was pretty to drive up the avenue to Amberwolds that night. Lamps glittered like fire-flies in the fine old trees. It was pleasantly startling to come with a sudden sweep in front of the house, one blaze of lights. Ellen's shrinking left her as she turned her back upon the frosty blackness of the November night, and crossed the broad threshold. She would not now, she felt, turn and go back as ignorant and perplexed as she had come, hardly to save her life.

Ellen was early. Felicia quickly met her, and brought her friend to her own room, a beautiful chamber. Ellen's pretty nest amongst the shadows of Wimpole Street was frugal, compared with this. The evidences of unbounded wealth and a generous and delicate taste were everywhere perceptible. This Amberwolds was a splendid home. Felicia stood before the hearth in the light of the wax candles, looking very lovely in peach-coloured silk, with pink coral in her pale hair. Looking at her, Ellen felt an indescribable pang, quite inexplicable and equally intolerable. She fancied that her head ached, and that its throbbing gave her a pain in her side somewhere near her heart.

They went down stairs together. Ellen begged to be left awhile in a quiet ante-room, nestling in a couch, coaxing her headache to go away. Lying so, she heard the hum of voices and the rustle of dresses swelling louder in the adjoining rooms, and name after name announced on the landings. Her couch was in an alcove, before which a curtain hung. The drapery was drawn, so that she felt at ease. She would rest till Felicia came for her.

"Mr. Ellis" was announced. Ellen started up, trembling inexplicably. Just then she heard steps entering the room, and voices beside her. One said,

"Ellis has just come in; have you seen him?

'No, but one expects to see him here. Is it true that he is going to marry Miss Rothwell?"

"Have not heard of it, but shouldn't be surprised," was the drawling answer. 'Ah, here he comes !" "How do, Ellis? We've just been talking about the pictures in your book. I have heard the fair artist is to be here-a bosom friend of Miss Rothwell's."

"They are friends, I believe," was the reply spoken quietly by a voice altogether different in tone and accent from the other two.

Quite a disinterested votary of art, I understand," struck in the first speaker of all. They say she is very wealthy, and only works con amore."

"I have heard so," uttered again the quiet voice with the un-English accent.

"There is another nice little family arrangement pending, I believe," said the drawling speaker. "Observe young Rothwell during the evening. verses ?"

Have you seen his last

The entrance of a fourth person here interrupted the conversation. In a few minutes all had strayed back to the drawing

room.

"I am afraid you are very ill," Felicia said, when she came to find her friend. "Will you come and lie in bed awhile up

stairs ?"

No, no; just let me run up for my head-salts, and then I will go with you."

"That is a good girl. So many are waiting to see you, Mr. Ellis amongst the rest."

A few minutes after, Felicia and Ellen entered into the full blaze of the drawing-room lights. Ellen had been pale on the landing, but hearing Rothwell's voice at her side, the vexed blood lit her cheeks, and she looked brilliant in a moment. She felt angry and embarrassed. Young Rothwell's manner was that of an ardent admirer. Many eyes were upon her, and who could say that that blush was one of annoyance ? Some of those unseen eyes hurt her.

"Mr. Ellis, my friend, Miss Waldron."

Ellen raised her glance with a desperate effort, and it seemed only natural that she should see Egbert Aungier's eyes bent

upon her, blue and stern. So they had looked at Elswitha across the supper-table on that first memorable night at Dunmara, she remembered. It was the look of one wronged, who is too self-sustained and too proud for complaint or reproach. Ellen had been in a degree prepared for this meeting. That he had not, she saw in her hasty glance. She put her hand mechanically on Rothwell's proffered arm, moving at his will. Safe at the other end of the room, she asked for a seat. Here she was quickly followed by Felicia.

"It is too bad of you, walking off with that absurd boy, and leaving Mr. Ellis standing there disappointed. He does not dance, or I would bring him to you for a partner. But, by-the-way, you will not dance either, I suppose, and so you can have some talk in a corner. I will bring him. They are going to begin."

"I will dance: you need not bring him here!" Ellen went on, looking gay, "I am going to dance all night."

Felicia looked curiously at the flush on her friend's cheek.

'Will it not hurt your head?" she asked.

"Not at all, thank you: my headache is quite better. When are they going to begin?"

"They form the sets!" cries Rothwell. "Let us take our places at once!"

Ellen stood under the dazzling chandelier in her rich dress. Excitement had chased away all traces of illness. She looked flushed and animated. She talked gaily to her partner. Many admiring eyes were turned on her, as she flashed through the dance. But the dance was not quick enough for her, and she could not bear the pause. Why would they not dance-dance on, and never stop? It was so dreadful to stop and keep quiet, and turn one's eyes calmly on any person who happened to come within the range of one's glance. It was impossible, when standing still, to avoid seeing the quiet figure in the corner over against the window. It was impossible, through it all, to keep one's thoughts arranged. How they whirled along under one's throbbing forehead! Going to marry Miss Rothwell." Yes, no doubt she is wondrously soft of late, this odd Felicia. She must look very lovely in his eyes, when even I am compelled to own her atrraction.

This dancing makes my head worse, but it is better than being set to converse in a corner with Mr. Ellis. Why do people call him by his nom de plume? Why did I not stay at home? But it is better to see and know than to keep brooding over a puzzle with no possibility of solution, as I have been doing-(Interruption)" No, I have never ridden in London." Working con amore, very wealthy. I look like it, too, with these things on my neck and arms. I could pull them off, and dance them under foot. I know the evidence they are giving against me— (Interruption)-"I have no time, I am wholly occupied with my father." Why can you not turn round, Mr. Ellis, and ask some one if Miss Waldron's wealth is not drawn from her estate in the west of Ireland? You will not do anything of the kind -you are quite wise enough already. You know all about it-(Interruption)-" We are going to Italy when he is well enough." He stirs at last, and goes over to Felicia, who is not dancing. He is looking very noble, she very fair and poetic as usual-more than usual-fit for a vignette on the page of a legend. No doubt he will immortalize her in his books. His last heroine was not like Felicia, though; but his next. will. Authors must cultivate variety-(Interruption)— “No, thank you, I don't mind the heat." Oh, dear, they are going to stop dancing. It is over, I suppose. What shall I do now?

Ellen went through several more dances like this, and would probably have fulfilled her promise of dancing all night, only that an unexpected occurrence startled her into a more sober frame of mind.

Having taken refuge from the heat in the conservatory she had hardly recognised that she was alone tête-à-tête with her late partner, before she found herself standing humiliated under an orange tree, with young Rothwell pouring out a very glowing declaration of attachment by her side. Their position in the conservatory had been rather romantic, because the moon was visible from the window, setting behind some trees. The poetic aspect of things had been too much for him, and had brought matters to a climax. It was easy, Ellen felt, to gently stop the poor lad short, to coolly snap off his honest hope, much as she had broken the stem of the Christmas rose in her hand, but it was not so easy

to get rid of the sense of sorry humiliation, the pang of selfreproach, and the painful self-questioning which remained with her during the night long after he had disappeared from the rooms; whilst he was, perhaps, ranting melodramatically under the moonlight; or perhaps earning his first title to genuine manhood, by swallowing bravely a first bitter disappointment. And yet Ellen had been merely animated and gay with him on that one night. Ah! but that was her fault; for she had not used to be so with him in the latter days of their former intercourse. She had forgotten all about the nosegay and the verses.

Ellen was quiet in her sober senses now. The conservatory opened off that ante-room, in which she had rested early in the evening. It was empty, and she sat down in a chair, grieving for what had happened. She began to wish that the evening were over, and that she were not going to sleep at Amberwolds.

"I wonder how many of their guests will stay all night," she mused. "I daresay Mr. Ellis will. Could I make no excuse to get to London to-night? Oh dear, there is some one coming to spoil my quietness. Here they are! I am hunted down at last."

It was Felicia and Mr. Ellis who entered the room. Ellen could struggle no longer to keep up a fictitious appearance She was quite helpless now. She sat back in her chair trembling, and raised her hand to hide the paleness of her face.

"I have been searching for you," said Felicia. "Where have you been, and what have you done with my brother ?"

"I have not seen him. He left me a long time ago."

"You naughty girl. I know how it is with this friend of mine, Mr. Ellis! What do you think of a person with a headache dancing as she has danced to-night? I can see that it has grown worse. Come to the conservatory door, Ellen, and we will open the window. Mr. Ellis, will you, please? Now be so kind as to cut some flowers for us. A few fresh ones will do Miss Waldron's headache good. Come, Ellen." Ellen obeyed. The more quiet and yielding her conduct the less she would have to say or do. Egbert Aungier cut some flowers, and presented them to her. His fingers touched hers. She said, "Thank you," and held them in her hand, not putting them to her cheek as she would have done had Felicia