ZOE; Or, SOME DAY.

CHAPTER I.

AN INVITATION.

"Dark is her hair, her hand is white,
Her voice is exquisitely tender;
Her eyes are full of a liquid light,
I never saw a waist so slender."

—Praed.

"Dolores, will he ever come?"

The hammock, slung between the two sturdy old apple trees, swings gently to and fro, the scorching rays of an August sun beat fiercely down, the bees hum lazily in the dense heat, the flowers droop their pretty heads, as if inviting a refreshing shower to brighten their fainting spirits.

"Dolores, I believe you are asleep. Do you think he will soon be here?"

"Who?" comes the lazy enquiry from the young lady of the hammock.

"Why, the postman, of course. How stupid of you not to remember. I never saw any one so indifferent in my life."

Zoe's red lips form themselves into as near a pout as her ever ready smiling mouth will allow.

"Who could be anything else than indifferent on a day such as this?" is the half sleepy reply.

"Dolores, like my own sweet sister, sit up and talk to me."

The bees hum on, the butterflies light here and there, now on this flower, now on that. Then sweet, gentle, pretty Dolores Litchfield stretches her white arms over her pretty head, yawns, and slips from the hammock.

"Now Zoe, you little worry, what is the trouble?"

Dropping into a garden chair, Dolores folds her white hands, to await further developments from her wilful, impulsive, harum-scarum sister Zoe.

"How handsome you are, Dolores. Do you think I shall ever be as beautiful as you, do you, Dolores?" the girl cries eagerly.

Dolores brushes a fly off her white dress and laughs softly.

"Ah, Zoe, what a little flatterer. One of those days I will be no comparison to my little sister; you will eclipse me in every respect." And Miss Litchfield smiles fondly at the troubled, eager face before her.

"Oh, I could never be like you, Dolores. I have a wicked temper, and a quick tongue; were I not to speak out what I think, why I should choke to death. I may have a pretty face and nice figure, but I can never be good, unselfish, forgiving, like you, never."

The girl shakes her head; she feels herself far from perfect. Since Dolores has come home from her foreign tour she has been her sister's ideal of all women.

"How I do wish he would come," the youngest Miss Litchfield says impatiently. "He is like the policemen in town, never around when they are wanted. Well," defiantly, "I don't care a snap of my finger if he comes or stays."

Dolores smiled in her lazy fashion; she is too much accustomed to Zoe's "ways," to say anything.

"Dolores, talk to me; tell me a story, anything to put in the time, something you saw on your visit abroad; it must be an Italian story; dear, beautiful, sunny Italy! Oh, Dolores! what would I not give to be there! What pictures I could paint! I did not for one moment begrudge your going, but if I could have had the chance, I would have painted pictures which would have made me famous. Oh, Dolores, think what it is to be famous. Some day, it may be far off or it may be near, but the time will surely come, when you will be proud to own me as your sister. I want—my ambition is—to be great, grand, noble."

Dolores laughs. "And good, my sister; that is better than all," she says, smiling. "My ambitious little one, do not be too eager, you have all your life before you yet; fame will not be caught easily; she demands much chasing, and those who pursue her have many slips and tumbles before they achieve their end, so be patient. And now for the story."

"Well, once upon a time there was a castle in Italy, a beautiful, costly, grand structure. The lord of the castle was a brave, generous gentleman, honorable and true. His lady was lovely, proud, and intensely jealous of her very charming husband; she had a gentle serving maid, Christina, a girl as pure in thought and deed as the lily; they had grown up as playfellows. The Countess was very fond of her, for she was not like her other friends. The Countess would quarrel with any and every one, on account of her fiery temper; with Christina she never quarreled. The maid was fond of solitude, and passed her spare time in wandering alone among a grove of beautiful trees, her white dress could often be seen as she paced back and forth among the dark trees, and gained for her, among the people, the name of the White Lady. The Countess' room was costly and elegant, the toilet table was of massive silver, covered with a profusion of everything handsome. Her chair was placed in front of the glass, and one day, so the legend runs, she was sitting there, while Christina was combing her mistress's golden hair; the Count was called away on urgent business, and as he passed through the door she saw, as she believed, a smile, a glance at parting, given and answered, that turned her heart almost to stone. That night, ere the moon was up, Christina was led forth; no instrument of death was used, not one hair of her head was harmed. In all the full glow of life and health, fair, gentle, good Christina was walled up within the castle walls, in a vault under the chapel. And now, every night, at the same hour, a figure stands, with eyes uplifted, and hands clasped in prayer, then it vanishes, and the hunter meets her on his hunting track, and the shepherd on the heath starts and exclaims, 'It is the White Lady!'"

Dolores' voice sinks to a whisper; there are tears in her dusky eyes. Surely one would think the sad story of poor Christina awakened more than a passing feeling of sadness for her in Dolores' kind heart. Zoe was too much interested to notice her sister's silence.

"And you really walked in the Countess' own room, saw the grove where Christina walked and spent her lonely hours of solitude, and the vault which she never came out of?"

"Yes, dear, it was all very lovely, sad and beautiful," the eldest Miss Litchfield replies. "But look! your patience is rewarded; there comes the postman in at the gate."

Zoe darts off in quest of the daily post. Before many minutes she is back again, her face wreathed in smiles, for there actually was a letter addressed to Miss Zoe Litchfield, from an affectionate girl friend; and soon Zoe is deep in its contents. Dolores languidly scans the handwriting on the large square envelope addressed to herself, then breaks the seal, and reads; and as she reads a gleam of satisfaction, quickly followed by one of sorrow, passes over her ever changing face.

"What's in yours, Dolores?" Zoe asks, putting her own epistle in the pocket of her white frilled apron.

"There is to be a yachting party, and I have been invited to join it," Dolores answers, absently gazing at a rose bush stirred by the breeze.

"Oh!" Zoe ejaculates. "Will you go? Who asked you? Won't it be sublime?"

Zoe's eyes dilate, and a wish, not altogether unnatural in a girl fifteen years old, arises in her mind, to be Dolores. Now, however, Dolores smiles faintly, and says slowly,

"I shall think it over. The Hon. Jeremiah Hopkins sent the invitation, and as to its being sublime, I suppose so."

Then Dolores arises and goes across the lawn towards the house, with her white dress trailing over the green grass behind her. Pretty, graceful, sweet Dolores. What was the reason no one cared to be seen talking to her? And in crowded parlors or assemblies, if her name happened to be mentioned, why did virtuous mammas look at the person who spoke her name with such a shocked expression? Surely gentle Dolores could not have wronged any one by word or deed. A gentleman once said, speaking of Miss Litchfield, "That if ever a true, pure woman lived, a woman on whom any man might stake his life and honor, it was a woman like Dolores Litchfield whom he might trust." And it is quite safe to say, that this praise did not make Dolores any more of a favourite with the roomful of ladies of all ages, where the remark was made.

CHAPTER II.

I SHALL SNUB HER.

"A favourite has no friends."

—Gray.

"And just for that one simple reason you refuse this invitation; which you have been craving for so long a time? Well, my dear, stranger every day grow the works and ways of this troublesome world. Of course you certainly know your own reasons best; it is nothing to me if you act foolish." Mrs. St. James shrugs her pretty shoulders as she looks with astonishment at her young visitor, charming Rea Severn, who, as she stands before the cosy fire, tapping her small foot impatiently on the brightly polished fender, looks the original of injured dignity.

"No, but Arial, just think yourself, how more than provoking it is. What do you think possessed Jerry to invite the girl? Oh dear, the men are so green sometimes; there is no accounting for their tastes in some matters."

Mrs. St. James smiles, and twists the heavy gold bracelet about on her white arm as she replies:

"Be reasonable, Rea; of the two, I have more reason to dread the meeting than you." Bitterly, "I owe her a debt, and she—I wonder if she has forgotten what she owes me?"

After a considerable pause, with some more impatient tapping of the little high-heeled boots on the fender, Rea decided that upon second thought, perhaps it would not do any good to any one, and beside be a great punishment to herself, to remain away from this entertainment. It had been so extremely nice of Jerry Hopkins, (the Honorable Jeremiah, but dubbed "Jerry" by his intimates), to give this yachting party to his friends. The gentlemen all declared it would be just the thing, and the ladies, why they were charmed. Then, above all, on their trip they were to visit one of H. M. steamships. The officers, who were all well known to the Hon. Jerry's guests, had invited them to a dance on board the war ship, lunch afterward, and then row by moonlight back to the yacht.

Rea Severn was delighted; but when she heard that pretty Dolores, the eldest daughter of Edward Litchfield, Esq., the genial and portly ship-builder, was one of the invited guests, she was so angry that on the impulse of the moment, in a burst of temper, she had flown to her bosom friend, wealthy Arial St. James, and declares her determination to refuse to go.

"And another thing, Rea," Mrs. St. James goes on in her soft, smooth tones, "you have surely heard of the arrival of Lady Streathmere and her son. To be sure I remember distinctly when I went to school with him, what a perfectly horrid little boy he was. Such a coward; beat all the little boys and girls smaller than himself, and run when one of his own age and size approached. But for appearance sake, and the hope that he has improved with his years, we must be civil. Then it must be remembered, a match like he would be, with I forget how much income a year, is not to be picked up every day for the asking. Perhaps if you are favored by Fate, and try hard enough, you might make an impression."

Rea was prevented from a replying by the door being opened and a servant announcing Mr. Gordon Aubrey. Mrs. St. James arises to welcome him, and Rea's pouting lips become radiant with smiles. Mr. Aubrey was tall, slight and fair. He had a great habit of continually looking at you through an eye-glass, which to some of his friends proved decidedly embarrassing. When the eye attachment proved wearisome he took to stroking a slight moustache, of which he was extremely proud, which was a very good thing, because no one else considered it worth noticing. They talked about the approaching yachting cruise, last night's concert, the theatre of last week, the people in town, the merits of the latest novel, and the last new song. Then Rea happened to glance toward the window, to behold the rain pouring in torrents. Mrs. St. James presses her to remain, but she declares it is impossible, that mamma will wonder what has happened to her. So Gordon Aubrey jumps up to offer Miss Severn a seat in his covered carriage waiting at the door; and Rea, thinking of her thin shoes and the probable fate of the costly suit she is wearing, is not inclined to refuse to be driven home in Mr. Aubrey's or any one else's carriage. She likes him quite well, and so smilingly consents to go with nice looking but fickle Gordan Aubrey, who falls in love with every pretty new face he meets.

"And you will not refuse Jerry's invitation?" Mrs. St. James says, in a whisper; and Rea, as she stands in the hall, draws her tall figure to its fullest height, replies:

"No; I shall not refuse Jerry. As for Dolores Litchfield, I will snub her."

"My dear child," Mrs. St. James says quickly, "as I told you before, her going should not influence you, and why worry about imaginary evils; it is quite time enough when they appear, so be sensible; it is not your nature to despond."

As Rea turns to say good-bye, she cries impulsively, "Oh, Arial! what would become of me without you? I should get discouraged and give up altogether."

Gordon Aubrey calls out that he will have no more whispering, for who can tell but what it might be something about him. Then Rea takes her place in the large roomy carriage, while the footman climbs up in his seat beside the coachman, where in a united way they call down devout blessings on their master's head for his extreme thoughtlessness in letting the horses stay out in the rain for a good half hour. Such were the woes of Gordon Aubrey's Jehu.

CHAPTER III.

A YACHTING PARTY.

"Broken friendship may be soldered, but never made sound."

—German Proverb.

Out over the clear blue waters come floating sweetly the music of the band on board of Her Majesty's flag ship, the "Keepsake." Since five o'clock the war ship's dainty boats had been plying to and fro between the shore and the steamer, laden with gaily attired guests, for there was a dance being given on board by the officers. The little luxurious yacht, belonging to the Hon. Jeremiah Hopkins, anchored not many yards from the steamer, was left to itself, save for the crew and servants, for the Hon. Jeremiah and his guests were all over attending the gorgeous entertainment provided by the "Keepsake." A bright-hued awning covered the deck where dancing was enjoyed. The whole vessel had a gay holiday appearance; then everything was so spotlessly clean, why one could eat one's dinner off the very decks.

Mrs. St. James is here, looking superb. Her husband never accompanies his clever wife; she was much younger than he. Another thing, he was too much engrossed with his busy business life to care for gaieties; so he left her to go her own way, enjoy herself after her own fashion, nor ever complained if his dream of having a cosy home, with a bright pleasant companion to discuss his affairs with, and be his household fairy, had vanished. It certainly was nonsense to fancy such a life for Arial. Why, she was a mere child when he married her; she was of the world, worldly. So Mr. St. James kept his own counsel, his temper and his tongue. She is now standing by the railing, watching the little waves lapping against the ship's side. She is laughing too, in that lazy fashion so peculiarly her own, while the pretty boyish looking fellow at her side thinks that if ever he had a friend in the world, to whom he would confide his secrets, that woman is Mrs. St. James. No one knew exactly who Ned Crane was; he had no friends or relatives; at least no one knew if he had any. He was a young bank clerk. Mrs. St. James was very proud of him, made a pet of him, while Mr. St. James liked the boy, and said "the lad would make a fine man if he lived." Every one liked him, for he was a jolly good fellow, beloved by one and all, as all sunny-dispositioned persons are, welcomed everywhere for the pleasant brightness their presence throws around.

"Do introduce me, Mrs. St. James. I will do any thing for you if you will. Come, before the next band."

Mrs. St. James does not reply, but the lazy smile leaves her perfect face, as she looks into the boy's dark, earnest eyes. Arial has good places in her character. She pities the young man at her side; it will not be without an effort, to save him further pain, that she refuses to do as he asks.

"Look here, Ned," she says gently, "why do you wish to know this Miss Litchfield? There are lots of the girls here whom you know; it is more than probable were you to ask for a dance she would refuse you, on the ground that all her dances are promised; so it would only be another case of the 'moth and the candle.' See, there is Florrie Silverstone just over there, waiting for you to ask her. Ah! Gordon, you promised to show me over the vessel; shall we go?" and Mrs. St. James places her dainty hand on Gordon Aubrey's arm, calls Rea to join them, and turns away.

"Well! of all the cool acts I ever heard of, that was done the neatest." Ned looks after the retreating trio with a comical mixture of amusement and vexation. Then he sees Jerry Hopkins, and when Mrs. St. James returns to dance her promised waltz with a lieutenant of the flagship, who had gone down without a struggle before her charms, she glances across the deck, while a look—is it displeasure, or what?—crosses her face, for what she sees is Ned Crane pacing to and fro, and beside him, in a marvel of a white lace dress, is Dolores Litchfield. She has removed her white lace and satin hat, and Ned, looking too utterly happy for anything, is carefully holding a huge white lace parasol above her pretty dark head. Arial St. James never loses her temper at trifles; if Ned will be so headstrong, to get himself into scrapes, he will have to get out again the best way he can. However, she goes over, with her prettiest smile, and taps Dolores on the shoulder with her fan.

"Can it be possible, Miss Litchfield, that you have forgotten me?"

Dolores starts, turns pale, then a hot, burning blush dyes her smooth young cheek. It is very evident Mrs. St. James and Miss Litchfield are not entire strangers to each other. Ned Crane, standing there, never remembers having felt so guilty ever in his life before; not that there was any reason for feeling so, but it was decidedly annoying to have Mrs. St. James lift her large blue eyes to his face, with a look that said so plainly, "You know her in spite of me, don't you?" Then the pink flush leaves Dolores' pretty face, and she looks Arial straight in the eyes.

"Yes, Mrs. St. James, I remember you perfectly. Our past knowledge of each other could scarcely allow of my forgetting you. As for your recognizing me, to be candid, I never dreamed you would do so."

For once Mrs. St. James almost loses her presence of mind. She looks as if it would do her good to shake the girl standing before her, looking so beautiful and defiant.

"Why should I not recognise you, Dolores? You will allow me to call you so still, will you not?"

Dolores' heart beats under the pretty lace dress almost to suffocation, the deeply hidden fiery blood inherited from her Southern mother, up to this moment had slumbered; now it broke forth.

"Mrs. St. James, I allow no one, only my friends, to call me by my Christian name. If you consider yourself my friend, I think otherwise. Had I treated you as basely as you have done me, who never harmed you knowingly, would you consider me other than the deadliest enemy? No! you shall not call me Dolores, never, never again."

Dolores stamps her little slippered foot with decision; she is trembling with passion. Surely something has touched quiet, lazy, languid, sweet Dolores very deeply, to arouse such a tirade of passion and feeling. Mrs. St. James laughs lightly.

"Ah, you have not forgiven me yet? Well you know, dear," she goes on, not heeding Dolores' averted face, "you know, dear, what I said was true. I meant you no harm when I spoke of your mother's nationality. You would not listen to any explana—"

But Dolores interrupted her.

"You called my mother a negress. You said a man in my father's position was worse than a fool to marry a penniless negress. Some one said you were mistaken, that Mr. Litchfield's wife was a Creole; and I heard you, with my own ears, say there was not a shadow of difference; one was the same as the other. But," and Dolores comes down from her towering rage to a wonderfully quiet tone, "I forgive you for all the pain you may have caused me—you know for whose sake, and the reason why I do forgive, even though I shall never forget. Will you shake hands with me?"

Of course no human mortal could bear to refuse to take the girl's outstretched hand. But Ned Crane was perfectly dumbfounded to see proud, haughty Arial St. James eagerly clasp Dolores' hand in both her own, and, can it be possible? yes, there are tears in the large blue eyes that people say look as if the owner had no feeling.

"Ah, Dolores, you are and have been an angel. My pride makes me forget sometimes; but I should never quarrel with you, should I, Dolores, should I?" Mrs. St. James passes her white handkerchief across her eyes.

"We won't talk about it any more," the eldest Miss Litchfield replies. "Pray don't make yourself miserable; your secret is safe with me."

Then Dolores turns to Ned with a grave, earnest look in her pretty dark eyes. "I trust you will pardon my unhappy interview with the lady who has just left us."

And Ned declares that of course he never thought anything about it; then immediately condemned himself by saying Mrs. St. James was a fiend. Dolores laughs softly.

"You should never take up the cudgels for other people, Mr. Crane. I did the same thing myself one time, and found it would not work."

The gong sounds for luncheon, and Gordon Aubrey comes up hurriedly.

"You promised I should take you down, Miss Litchfield. I hope you have not forgotten."

Gordon forgets, in the excitement of the moment, to adjust the gold eye-glass, to stare at Mr. Crane as he reluctantly furled Dolores' white parasol and placed it carefully in her hand.

The dance was a grand success; the officers did all that lay in their power to make it so; and as the party from the yacht took their departure, floating dreamily across the smooth moonlit waters, all felt perfectly contented with the day's pleasure. All but pretty, restless Rea Severn; her peace of mind was sadly disturbed, and why? Well, perhaps Dolores Litchfield, sitting there, leaning over the side of the pretty little row-boat, idly trailing her white fingers in the cool water, with Gordon Aubrey apparently utterly unconscious of everything else, sitting beside her, trying to be as entertaining as possible. Perhaps that had something to do with Rea's coldness to Jerry Hopkins, who is talking to her now, and who, chatty people say, is not indifferent to Miss Severn's good looks, or her forty thousand pounds.

CHAPTER IV.

A STRANGER.

"He lived at peace with all mankind,
In friendship he was true;
His coat had pocket holes behind,
His pantaloons were blue."

—A. G. Greene.

"Zoe, come in out of the hot sun, child; do you hear? Sitting out there in the full glare, bless my soul, without even a hat on your head."

Miss Adeline Litchfield, the monitress of the Litchfield establishment, stands in the pretty front porch, overhung with fragrant blossoming honeysuckle and sweet climbing roses. She looks with wrathful eyes upon her niece, curled up on a chair on the veranda, her book on the top railing, with her elbows beside it, her head buried in her two hands. Zoe was lost to the objects around and the world in general. She was far off, taking a far deeper interest in the pleasures and trials of her friends in the book spread out before her, than in the everyday employments or household duties in which "auntie" wished her to excel.

"Zoe! do you hear me? Come in directly."

"Let me alone, Auntie; I am all right. I just have two chapters more, and then I'll come."

Miss Litchfield retires discomfitted, but not conquered. After a few moments she again appears, bearing a large white sun hat, daintily trimmed with muslin, and a small oval basket. Going over to the guilty party, she quietly shuts the book up and puts it under her arm.

"Zoe, put on your hat; I want you to go an errand for me, down to Mrs. Haley's. Tell her I was so well pleased with the rolls of fresh butter she sent, that I will take two more."

Zoe's eyes blazed; it was on the tip of her quick tongue to say, "I won't;" but an inward sense of politeness forbade her to do so; for though "Auntie" had a sharp tongue and a strong sense of right, which made her at times hard to get on with, still for all that her two nieces, to whom she had been mother, counsellor and friend since their own mother left them, were wrapped up in quick-tempered but kind meaning aunt Adeline.

People were not sure if Mrs. Litchfield was dead or not. Rumors had been afloat that she had left her husband. No one dared question either Mr. Litchfield nor his sister; every one knew it to be an understood fact that the family desired the public to consider her dead. "Auntie" had always been all-in-all to her brother and his children.

Now Auntie hurries in to the kitchen, to see that the beautiful brown loaves of bread, baking in the oven, are not burning. Zoe departs on her mission; she walks down the road slowly; it is awfully warm. Goodness! she never felt the heat so intense, with such a trot way down ever so far. Ah! here is a brilliant chance for saving herself the weary walk to Mrs. Haley's. Coming down behind is a cart filled with hay, and sitting on top are three little boys in white pinafores, chattering to the old man who holds the reins, and every little while flicks a fly off the horses' backs with the whip he idly dangles.

"Have a ride?" comes in chorus from the load of hay. Without a second invitation, throwing the basket up ahead, Zoe climbs nimbly up; with the able assistance of the three small pinafored gentlemen, she is pulled triumphantly aloft. The heat is great, but it has no visible effect on the three younger members of the party. After tumbling about at the imminent peril of being minutely precipitated over the side, they propose to bury Zoe alive. This takes some time to accomplish to every one's satisfaction, so long, in fact, that presently Mrs. Haley's white mite of a cottage appears in view. Zoe suggests that perhaps she had better alight before she gets quite to the door. So the horses are stopped by a tremendous "whoa!" and Zoe proceeds to descend as gracefully as it is possible to do so. She is going down famously, thinking how more than fortunate it is that she got this ride on such a melting day. She happens to glance up the road; oh, horrors! coming leisurely down, with his hands thrust carelessly in the pockets of a little dark blue shooting coat, and a cigar between his lips, is a man—a young man too—and, yes, he is looking at her. She misses her balance, her foot slips, and, throwing her arms wildly upward, arrives in the arms of mother earth, in any but a dignified descent.

The "horrid brute" came quickly to see if he could assist the young lady to arise; he takes her arm, and Zoe stands up, her face as red as the scarlet passion flower tucked in her belt.

"You are very kind," she stammers. "I should not have got up there; it was very unfortunate."

The gentleman, finding she is unharmed, lifts his hat and proceeds on his way.

Zoe hurries into Mrs. Haley's. Oh how silly she feels; oh heart! what would auntie say if she knew the disgrace which had fallen upon her niece? She wondered, with a sickening at her heart, if he had seen her feet. Oh, dear! if he had would it not be dreadful? She looked at her pretty slippered feet inquiringly. Of course they were nothing to be ashamed of, but oh dear! And now come to think of it, "Auntie" had strictly forbidden her riding on top of hay carts, ever since she had read in the papers how some one had fell and broke their arm. Oh, she hoped and prayed Auntie would never find out this wretched morning's work.

Zoe did her errand, and returned home, taking special care to "walk." And the "horrid man," sitting on the veranda, talking so comfortably with aunt Adeline, on being presented to "my youngest niece," bows, and seems as unconscious of ever having laid eyes on the youngest Miss Litchfield before, or knew what a pretty sight a young lady could make of herself, coming to the ground in a diagonal line from half way down a cart of hay. Yes, coming quickly around the corner, and running right up the steps, she was astonished at finding this stranger conversing with her aunt. Miss Litchfield rocked to and fro in the little wicker chair, and Zoe, as she stands there holding the little basket with the rolls of fragrant, sweet butter, covered with cool green leaves, concludes in her own mind, this young man must be something of a favourite, or auntie would not be so willing to be interrupted in her morning's work.

"Zoe, how hot you are, child; your face is perfectly scarlet. What is the matter with your skirt, child? a great rent in one side, a frill torn beyond all mending, and the dress a brand new muslin, just made last week. Where have you been, or what have you been about, to, literally speaking, come home in such a ragamuffin fashion?"

Zoe looks at her dress in dismay. Not for one instant had she remembered to notice if her tumble had proved destructive to the pretty new suit she had felt so proud of. Auntie was waiting for an answer to her question. The young gentleman was busy looking at the fuschia climbing up the pillar near which he sat. Perhaps he turned to look at the flower, perhaps it was to hide the smile of amusement which would curl the corners of his handsome mouth.

"Put your hair off your forehead, do, child. The person who invented the fashion of wearing one's hair all over their eyes should have been banished from all civilized lands. The only thing that will keep your father out of Heaven, Zoe Litchfield, is your persistent act of wearing bangs, for it is the only fault in you that makes him angry."

Just then the visitor turns around and deliberately surveys the pretty culprit.

"Nothing wrong in keeping along with the times, Miss Litchfield," he says pleasantly; and Zoe casts him a grateful glance from the pretty blue eyes, whose color no one can tell the exact shade. Any one who will defend her pet bang is Zoe's friend.

"I will tell you some other time how this wretched dress got torn. Surely you will trust me enough to know I will tell you the truth, and the exact truth about it." And Zoe turns to walk into the house, her head thrown proudly up, with the torn frill of her white gown trailing after her.

CHAPTER V.

FORTUNE TELLING.

"Lady, cross the Gipsy's hand with gold,
She will to you the future unfold."

—Mae.

"What a beautiful spot! how lovely if we could go on shore and investigate."

"Yes, Miss Litchfield, that is an excellent idea of yours. I will order the boats out, and if the company are willing we will row over and land."

The Hon. Jerry goes rapidly away to give the order. Dolores is sitting in a camp chair on the deck of the Hon. Jerry's yacht, a scarlet shawl thrown lightly over her pretty shoulders. The yacht has glided into one of the most charming inlets of beautiful scenery Dolores' eyes have seen since her return from abroad.

"Are we to really go on shore?" demands Rea Severn, lifting for a moment her eyes from the crazy cushion she is engaged in making. She has been industriously at work, with her eyes fixed most devoutly on the silks and crewels, but her ears have heard every word Dolores and the Hon. Jerry have spoken for the last twenty minutes.

"I believe so," Dolores answers absently. She is busy gazing dreamily across the deep, blue, shining, sparkling, rippling waters.

"Come, ladies, let us be up and doing; the boats are ready."

Gordon Aubrey flings overboard the cigar he has been smoking, and a general move is made. Rea Severn hastily tosses aside her work, and puts on the hat her maid has brought. Rea, Dolores, Mrs. St. James, Gordon Aubrey, the Hon. Jerry, Ned Crane, and Florrie Silverstone depart. The other members of the party are either too lazy, or have something to do more pleasing to their minds than going to explore a place which would in all probability be "abounding in snakes, bugs, and other venomous reptiles," as old Lady Streathmere observed when she was told of the intended expedition. Lord Streathmere would have gone too, and been only too happy, especially as Dolores went, for poor Lord Streathmere was very severely smitten with pretty, gentle Dolores; but unfortunately for him he had gone on the tug boat to view a wrecked steamer some five or six miles away.

Ned Crane whispered, as he took his accustomed place by Dolores' side, "that he was just as glad Streathmere could not come, as there was no room for him in the boat." Mrs. St. James smiles languidly, endeavoring now and then to stem the current of squabbling going on between Florrie Silverstone and Gordon Aubrey. They never agree; so at last Arial gives the attempt up in despair, and turns her attention to Ned and Dolores. When at length the boat grates on the beach, three little children, with bare feet, are building castles in the sand. They are well dressed children, probably boarding here for the summer months. They gaze in wide eyed wonder at the boat and her occupants; evidently they are not accustomed to have their sandy domains intruded upon by strangers. The eldest, a girl of eight or nine, accosted Gordon Aubrey.

"Have you come to have your fortune told?" she asked sharply.

"Will you do me the honor to tell me mine?" he answered with all due respect to the oracle. She looked him over critically, from the toe of his trim shoe to the top of his jaunty sailor hat.

"People like you, with only one eye, and the other one glass, can't have much to be told, I know," the tiny maid replies, looking at him from under her big shady hat.

"Who tells fortunes on this fairy island? won't you tell me, little one?" Mrs. St. James touches the child's dark curly head caressingly.

"Molly will; but you have to give her gold, or she won't." This information was supplied by one of the other children.

"What a joke if we could find some one who could tell us," Rea Severn cries.

Jerry Hopkins shows the girl a bright silver dollar, and says if she will show them where "Molly" is to be found she may consider herself the happy possessor of the aforesaid dollar.

"Certainly, I will take you to Molly's tent, but mamma never allows us to take money from strangers," the tiny maiden replies, as she sat down in the sand to put on her stockings and slippers. Then she led the way to the Gipsy's camp. Jerry Hopkins put the rejected offering in his pocket, thinking that some children are wiser than people twice their age.

"Here's her tent, and there's Molly. See Molly," she cries, "I brought you some people that want you to tell them their fortune. Will you tell them, Molly? Will you?"

"Ah, little Miss, you never forget old Molly, do you, dearie? Tell them to come in." Dolores feels a shiver go over her; a nasty, creepy, crawley sensation always seizes her at the mention of either Gipsy or Indian. Auntie always had such a horror of all such travelling companies. It may have been hearing her talk of them with so much repulsion that made Dolores, who is generally so fearless, feel nervous now.

"You are not frightened?" Ned Crane has watched Dolores' pretty pink colour die slowly out of her face and lips.

"Let the others go in; we will stand out here by the door to take in all that is going on inside."

When she finds she is not expected to go inside the miserable hut, Dolores brightens up, and the pink comes back to her cheeks. So they station themselves in the doorway. Contrary to most people of their or her profession, the Gipsy allows them all to remain; so, as each is being warned of that which is in store for them, good, bad or indifferent, every one hears what every one else is told.

"She seems pretty well up in the arts," Ned whispers; Dolores nods; she is listening intently. Mrs. St. James has shuffled and cut the cards, she has also wished in obedience to the rule.

"Your path has once been more rugged than that which you now tread, my lady. There is a dark spot in your past, on which you pray, the light of knowledge may never shine. There is one here present, who can betray you if she chooses."

Mrs. St. James glances toward the door; the gipsy's eyes also take the same direction. Dolores stands there, placidly, calmly; she meets the eyes turned on her with cool indifference; her pocket-handkerchief drops to the ground; she stoops to pick it up, and the gipsy goes on:

"There is a dark gentleman here whom you will have some trouble with. There is a disappointment for you; but you will get your wish even if it does turn out differently from what you think. You will get some money, and there is a pleasant conversation with a light man. He has a good heart for you; will tell you some pleasant news. You will receive a letter within a day or two. Your life will be full of ups and downs, the same as most of us."

"Now, pretty lady, will you cross the gipsy's palm?" She has turned to Rea Severn. "You are anxious about the doings of a fair man; but my pretty one, put no faith in him; the men are fickle, the best of them. You will be a little sick, not much, but brought on by your own foolishness. Let me advise you to drop the habit you have contracted. If you do not kill it, it will kill you; so be guided."

Rea shivers; she begins to feel a little frightened; she is glad the others are behind her; it would not answer for them to see the expression of fear on her face. Then each of the others had their turn. Dolores refused to have anything to do with cards; she despised the very sight of them. She told Ned they sent a cold chill over her, and Ned believed it.

"How silly! What ails you, Dolores? You are generally one of the last to back down when any fun is going on," Florrie Silverstone says petulantly. There have been some facts told Florrie, by the gipsy, which have made her a little cross. But Dolores is busy, and does not answer. She has taken some tall golden-eyed daisies from the hedge row.

"It is a much pleasanter way to tell one's own fortune, you know," she tells Ned, the ever attentive; and of course Ned agrees—he always does to what pretty Dolores says.

"He loves me, he loves me not; he loves me, how nice," Dolores laughs softly, as she flings the petalless flower in the water.

"Will it be a soldier smart, who will storm and take me?
Or will a sailor break my heart, his figure-head to make me?
Will it be a man to preach, Even-song and Matin?
Or shall I go to school again, with Jack to teach me Latin?
Will it be a coach and four? Will it be a carriage?
Or will a cart be at the door, to take me to my marriage?"

Sings Jerry blithely.

"Why, Jerry, old fellow, have you just woke up?" cries Gordon Aubrey.

"Jerry has such a sweet, fine, sympathetic voice; almost think it was a chime of bells," Florrie Silverstone says saucily.

Now this is rather hard on the Hon. Jerry, his voice, on the contrary, having once been compared favourably with a bass drum. But it being his favourite cousin, Florrie, who made the remark, it was, considering the person who expressed the implied sarcasm, overlooked.

"There is Lord Streathmere waving his hat to us from the deck," cries Rea. "We must not for the world say we have had our fortunes told, before Lady Streathmere, for she would be shocked. Now remember, not a word." Mrs. St. James holds up a warning finger, and she expects all to obey.

"Well, my dears, you must be very tired, I dare say you tramped all over that island this morning, and what reward did you get for your pains?"

The party are all on deck enjoying the beautiful sunset. Tea has been over for some time, the wind is blowing softly over the deep blue and green patches of water, and makes the yacht rock gently from side to side.

"Do you not consider having one's fortune told a sufficient reward?" Dolores' lazy tones inquire.

Now it so happened that Dolores, if she did hear Arial's command, had by now forgotten all about it. Gordon Aubrey coughed frantically; there seemed every reason to believe that he would strangle to death. Florrie giggled, they all did their best to cover up the effects of Dolores' unfortunate words. However, it was Florrie who saved them all from disgrace.

Lady Streathmere adjusted her gold eye-glasses firmly and cautiously upon her aquiline nose. "You seem to be prone to a cold, my dear; do you take any remedy for it? Now something hot would, I know, be most beneficial." And Florrie, in a voice choking with laughter, said she thought she must.

"Now I know just how you came by your wretched cold. Quite likely the grass was wet on the island this morning, and your feet have got damp, and last night you stayed out here quite late, and you know the night air is bad for any one with a weak throat. Now if you young people won't mind, I think I would be more comfortable where the fire is," and the poor unsuspecting lady arose, and, escorted by Jerry to the saloon door, disappeared.

CHAPTER VI.

YOUR SISTER DOLORES.

"Give your tongue more holiday than your hands or eyes."

—Rabbi Ben Azai..

"This is a splendid photo of your father, and this, yes this must be—"

Zoe, sketching busily away at a little landscape she is copying, answers "Yes," vacantly. She is devoted to her work, and after giving Mr. Glen the three large family photograph albums to look at, sincerely wishes he will look at them quietly, and not disturb her. But the spirit moves the young man in an opposite direction. He suddenly becomes intensely interested in the members of the Litchfield family, past, present and absent. She does not notice the stop he makes now.

"And this lady in the white dress. Who is she?"

"With a big white hat?" Zoe enquires, looking up for a moment. "That is my sister."

"Your sister! So this is the peerless Dolores. Well, I will own she is beautiful enough to command all your admiration." He studies the picture before him intently.

"How angry Dolores would be if she heard you say that."

Mr. Glen looked up, inquiring so innocently, "Why?" that Zoe's heart smote her with remorse.

"She rather objects to having strangers call her by her Christian name, of course," the youngest Miss Litchfield goes on cautiously. "Perhaps she would not mind your admiring her picture. I am sure there was nothing but perfect truth in what you said, was there?"

Mr. Glen gazes across from his seat in the bay window, and regards Zoe thoughtfully.

"I suppose your sister, Miss Litchfield, has told you many pleasant stories regarding her trip abroad," he enquires, with strong emphasis on the Miss Litchfield.

"Oh yes! Sometimes I almost think I am in the various places she has been. Dolores describes persons and places so graphically."

Mr. Glen rather winces. In the enthusiasm of speaking of Dolores, Zoe's work is for the time forgotten.

"Yes, she is more than clever in almost everything; she has certain magnetic powers not possessed by us all."

Zoe looks at him in amazement. Had a bombshell suddenly gone off at her feet in the pretty sitting room, her eyes would not have fairly popped out of her head as they did now.

"Why, do you know my sister? You can't; at least she never mentioned your name."

Mr. Glen laughs, toys with his watch chain, and, does his face become just a trifle red?

"I am judging from the picture, my dear little girl."

Zoe resents being called his "dear little girl," so she says, "Oh, indeed," very stiffly. She goes on with her sketching, but its charm has gone. She has a strong, very strong impression that this young man and Dolores have met. But why has Dolores never told her? Perfect confidence has hitherto existed between them. Surely Dolores would not have any secrets from her. She would love to question Mr. Glen about it, but pride forbids. If there is anything to tell, Dolores will let her know when she thinks proper. So Zoe works on, and Mr. Glen turns the leaves of the books over listlessly. It is evident his thoughts are far away from the pretty room he is in, and the young girl, who looks at him from time to time, as some one has said, "out of the corner of her eye."

Mr. Glen had been an inmate of Mr. Litchfield's household for a week now. Aunt Adeline was generally averse to having either small boys or big boys around her house, but here she was wonderfully taken. Mr. Glen was her ideal of all that a young gentleman should be. Mr. Litchfield discussed the topics of the day with him; there was no subject but what he was thoroughly versed in: a brilliant musician, with a fine tenor voice, a capital hand at whist, and if there was one thing that delighted Mr. Litchfield's heart more than another, it was to have some one to sympathise with him in this his favorite after-tea game. And Zoe? Well, he could paint, draw or sketch, and that with a true artist's eye for the beautiful. One of Zoe's drawings was quite another article after Mr. Glen had touched up and smoothed over the flaws. So in spite of their first unfortunate introduction, Zoe has accepted his being there as a thing to be tolerated. He lets her have her own way, and that is all Zoe cares about.

The soft warm breeze floats in at the open doors and windows, laden with the heavy perfume of flowers. The tall white and scarlet lilies in the garden nod and bob their stately heads. A bird, just outside in a tree, is pouring forth his joyous song of gladness; it is an ideal day in summer. Jet Glen, as he sits over there in the window, is "having it out" with his conscience. The reason he is here is to find out all he can, and as much more as possible. It was an anxious moment, when he got within thirty or forty miles of the place, how to proceed further; but fortune is good as well as fickle. He had greatly ventured, and all must do so who would greatly win. A former school mate was in the railway carriage; he was down with the blues. He had been invited to join a fishing party, with a number of other young friends. Suddenly, on the very day before they were to start, his mother, who was a woman of many minds, commanded him to give up his intended cruise and go down to the country to stop with her old school friend, Miss Adeline Litchfield. So, like an obedient son, he was on his way. This was just the chance for Jet's attaining his desired haven. Within less than an hour Jet Barry Traleigh was passing himself off as Jet Glen, the son of her school friend, and Miss Litchfield was delighted. And yet there was nothing, no, not a look, smile, gesture or tone of voice that recalled the remembrance of his mother. Poor deluded aunt Adeline, if you could see the real Jet Glen disporting himself with his holiday friends, what would you say?

They had all received him so cordially Jet's conscience pricked him most severely. But it was no use going back now; what he had done could not be undone.

The sun suddenly flashes full upon Zoe's work; she rubs her eyes, and wonders if Mr. Glen has gone to sleep, or why in the world is he sitting there, staring so idiotically at a photo of herself and Dolores when they were quite small children? But in all probability he is inwardly dying of laughter, commenting on the two thin little pairs of legs dangling from the high chair, in which they are seated, and criticising the braided pig-tails under the little round straw hats. How many times Dolores and herself have laughed over the closely shut lips, and demurely folded hands and short frocks. But for this young man to commit a like action was justly unpardonable. Then she thinks she is playing the part of hostess rather lamely.

"Say, Mr. Glen," Zoe pushes her chair back, and proceeds briskly to gather up her working implements. "Shall we go finish the game of tennis we were playing yesterday?"

Mr. Glen starts, shuts the album, and assents.

"The sun looks like playing tennis, or any thing else; you both stop just where you are, I am not anxious to have two cases of sun-stroke on my hands, with all my other household cares. Another thing, you both know the old maxim of "idle hands," so I have provided you with some useful employment."

Aunt Adeline sinks on a lounge, unties, and takes off the large yellow sun-bonnet, and fans herself energetically with a huge palm leaf. The useful employment consists of a bushel basket nearly full of green peas to be shelled for dinner. Jet laughingly declares he is ready to do anything to escape the two evils, sun-stroke, and the fate of the "Idle men and boys who were found."

And aunt Adeline replied admiringly, "Jet Glen, how much that sounds like your mother."

Jet looks thoughtfully on the floor, his conscience giving an unusually sharp twinge. This was rather much for him to make any reply. How easily we poor, frail mortals in this world are deceived.

CHAPTER VII.

AT NICE.

"We know nothing of to-morrow: our business is to be good and happy to-day."

—Sidney Smith.

A day in December, two years previous to the beginning of my story.

"Dolores, uncle Dick is going into the town; do you care to go?"

Dolores is reading a long home letter from Zoe, full to the very edges, beside being crossed and recrossed with all the latest sayings, doings, and prospective to be done, ending up with the ardent wish and longing to be with her darling Dolores, in beautiful, bright, sunny Italy.

"I am so sorry, Blondine, but I must write to father this morning; so, you see, to go would be impossible."

Beautiful Blondine Gray, a distant cousin of the Litchfields, opens her brown eyes in horrified astonishment.

"Why, my dear, bury yourself in the house to write a letter on such a day as this! Come, don't talk so nonsensical; get your largest umbrella, for the sun is scorching. You can write this afternoon."

But no persuasions, either on the part of Blondine or uncle Dick, can move her, and they leave her in disgust. She watches them go down the road. Blondine walks with the ease, grace and quietness of a born native of Tyrol. Dolores admires Blondine's style of walking very much; it is a pleasure just to watch her movements; so different from uncle Dick's roll. A regular sailor's swing and roll of a walk did uncle Dick Gray possess. He was major in the army, and of course very portly, as majors are somehow, generally. But he had retired some years since with high honors. Blondine, his brother's child, being left an orphan, he considered it his duty to provide her a home; so before settling down to house-keeping, a trip abroad was considered just the nicest idea. Blondine was sick of school, so uncle Dick sent for Dolores to go with them on their journey.

After reading Zoe's letter over twice, to make sure there was nothing skipped, Dolores takes her pen, ink and paper out on the piazza. The day is like June; the waves, dancing and sparkling in the sunlight, are as blue as the heavens above them. The little boats rock from side to side as they float, now in, now out, from their moorings, and far out a white sail glistens in the glimmering sunlight. On shore children, dark eyed, red lipped little rascals, are selling flowers—roses and orange blossoms, with quantities of violets. Little groups are sitting or loitering about, their chief object seemingly to see who can produce the largest and gayest parasol. Dolores takes in all the details of the surroundings. Probably uncle Dick and Blondine are having some fun in town; they will sit on the promenade, after they have made their purchases, and rest themselves. They would be back by afternoon sometime; then Dolores would go with them to the Casino, see the people and hear the band. Suddenly her attention is attracted by a child, somewhere near, crying. There was never an animal or child yet that Dolores failed to sympathise with; now she looked about for the object of her awakened feelings.

"Don't go, mamma; don't go an' leave Roy alone."

A carriage is standing at the door, and a tall, handsome woman is getting in, a woman with a proud, cold face. A tiny boy, in a white frilled dress, is vainly trying to get away from the nurse girl, who is in her turn vainly trying to keep him out of sight, until his mother gets away.

"Take the child away, Hester, and do try to stop that terrible crying. Gracious! what a pest some children are." This is addressed to the young lady who comes down the broad steps to take her place by her friend's side. Mrs. St. James, with Rea Severn, are going to spend the day at Villafranche, and no foolish whim of a child's was going to interfere with their pleasure.

The carriage goes off, and Dolores tries her charms on the little man left behind. She goes over and talks to him; he is instantly fascinated by the lovely lady, consents to sit on her lap, listens to the ticking of her watch, and finally falls asleep, with his dark curly head pillowed on the train of Dolores' dress. She wrote her home letter, and did not forget to mention her latest gentleman admirer.

Walking back and forth, in one of the garden avenues opposite, there is a gentleman who has been a witness of all that has taken place; a tall fair man, broad shouldered, and with a noble face—a face possessed of everything good, kind and generous—a thorough gentleman. There are a great many "men" in the world, some great, some small, but the "gentlemen," of them it is to be regretted there are too few. Sir Barry Traleigh was here at Nice on business. He was very wealthy, but he was always employed by his business affairs. He believed in a man, whether rich or poor, having something with which to occupy his mind. Not an idle life did Sir Barry, the genial owner of Castle Racquette, beside many broad acres of land, lead. Castle Racquette was one of the finest estates in all Glengarry, Scotland, and very pardonable was the pride which Sir Barry entertained for his ancient, luxurious home. Now as the sun steals slyly under the large Panama hat and turns his short pointed beard, worn after the style of a Venetian, to a golden shade, Sir Barry is a very fine specimen of a nineteenth century Scotchman. From his promenade he watches Dolores; and Dolores, did she know who was watching her? Why certainly not. Well then, how was it a few minutes afterward, as Sir Barry came past the piazza, Dolores looked up, and their eyes met, Sir Barry's full of respectful admiration; why did Dolores blush and droop her eyes? It is truly wonderful how much can be said in a look. The next instant Dolores is ready to call herself a silly simpleton. What does she know of this man, that she should care to know who he was? Probably she would never lay eyes on him again. And yet Dolores could not help acknowledging, rather reluctantly to her own conscience, that a handsomer man she had never seen.

Presently little Roy wakes up, and Dolores and he have dinner brought up to Dolores' charming parlor, and all his mother's unkind neglect is forgotten. They have a right royal feast; and when Hester comes to take him, Roy goes, with the promise of again taking luncheon with his pretty Dolly. To all his nurse's entreaties to call Miss Litchfield by her proper name he refused; to him she was his pretty, kind Dolly; so Dolores, with a kiss, tells him laughingly he shall call her whatever he pleases, and the child goes for his walk perfectly satisfied.

"Come girls, come, don't be all day fixing yourselves; come on. Hello! there is that—no, it can't be—Traleigh!"

Uncle Dick, issuing forth on the way to the Casino, adjusts his gold eye-glass quickly, and forgets for the moment his anger at Dolores and Blondine, who hurry after him, secretly praying that their veils are on all right, for of all the fussy men in the world uncle Dick is the fussiest.

"Yes, but it is Traleigh in the flesh, and more than delighted to see Major Gray."

Dolores' handsome man of the morning is shaking uncle Dick's hand heartily. And uncle Dick, delighted to see his friend, turns and calls in his usual quick, blustering fashion—

"Say, girls, this is Traleigh, that I have told you so much about. Traleigh, those are the girls who have been toting me around from pillar to post for the last year or more. We are going to the Casino, so come on, and go with us. But there is a fellow over there I must speak to; you all go on, and I will catch up with you."

Uncle Dick dives through the crowd of people, leaving Sir Barry to make himself agreeable to the ladies. It is evident he has heard of them before, as each girl was called by her proper name. Dolores remembers this morning, and hopes he did not see her make a fool of herself over little Roy. Sir Barry is pleased to know the young lady whose looks he admired so much. As for Blondine—well, Blondine was always pleased to make herself pleasant to no matter whom she was with, from the humblest to the highest; it was always the same with her. She rather resents Dolores' cold, commonplace answers, and secretly wonders what has come over gentle, merry Dolores. Well, when they get back to the hotel she will give Miss Litchfield a bit of her mind.

The Promenade des Anglais is visited, and Blondine goes in raptures over the magnificent horses, the jaunty equipages, and elegant toilettes. The Casino is packed; they espy uncle Dick frantically indicating with his arm that, as the crush is so great, he cannot get to them now, but will get in their vicinity as soon as it is possible. Sir Barry does his best to do his duty toward the two ladies thrown upon his tender mercies. He and Blondine talk, while Dolores listens to the music of the band, for music in Italy is worth listening to.

"Dolores, for Heaven's sake let us walk."

Blondine has nudged Miss Litchfield several times, but no notice being paid to her efforts, she has been obliged to speak. Blondine declares something ails her foot, a cramp, or asleep, or something, she cannot just decide which. Sir Barry clears the way, and they go, to be presently met by uncle Dick and two ladies. Sir Barry lifts his hat courteously as uncle Dick presents Mrs. St. James and Miss Severn. Mrs. St. James says they were caught in a shower on the way to Villafranche, and when they had hurried back found the sun shining most gloriously. Blondine bows and smiles—when does Blondine not smile?—and Dolores? Dolores deliberately turns her back; of course it is most unpardonably rude. Uncle Dick never notices anything wrong, he never does, poor deluded man, but goes on talking about one thing, then another. Blondine is shocked; the warm blood surges up in her face, covering her ears and throat. It is the first time she has ever had cause to feel ashamed of pretty, gentle Dolores. Poor Blondine ponders and worries; what has come over Dolores? she must certainly be ill to act so strangely. Sir Barry looks surprised as well as pained, but does his best to make things pass off as smoothly as possible. The walk back to the hotel was anything but pleasant. If there had been no gentlemen present Rea Severn would have been sullen or sulky; her manner now, however, was something betwixt and between the two. Mrs. St. James received the "direct cut" from Miss Litchfield with cool self-possession and indifference. If she noticed the insult offered to her she made no sign. A clever nineteenth century woman was Arial St. James.

CHAPTER VIII.

YOU NEVER CAN TELL.

With every pleasing, every prudent part,
Say what does Chloe want?
She wants a heart.

—Pope.

"No one could expect anything better from a person of Miss Litchfield's position. Of course you could not help noticing her manner yesterday; the girl's bringing up must account for her actions. Any man, a gentleman, who would marry a negress, could not but expect some flaw in his family."

Sir Barry Traleigh turns sharply from contemplating the reflection of his own face in the mirror opposite.

"Do you say Miss Litchfield's mother was a negress?"

Mrs. St. James takes up a scarlet ball of silk from her work basket.

"Oh, well," she answers with sarcasm, "I consider Creoles and negroes the same. As I said before, the girl is not to blame, considering everything. Then her mother ran away; why, surely you heard the story. She disappeared; no one knows if she is dead or living. The deepest sympathy was felt for Mr. Litchfield, who, I understand, is a very worthy man. His sister took charge of his home and children. Miss Litchfield has a younger sister home; they were quite young at the time of the trouble, and I believe they think their mother dead."

Mrs. St. James has waited patiently to hear Sir Barry reply, but reply in the way she wished him to; Mrs. St. James gets disappointed.

Sir Barry is thunderstruck. It cannot be possible that Dolores can be connected with any one but those whom any honest man would be willing to take by the hand. There must be some good reason for Dolores' mother leaving her home and family; and to find that reason out will be Sir Barry's future aim. Mrs. St. James goes on in soft, smooth tones.

"You see it places the family in a very perplexing and awkward position. Outside of the friends of the family, I believe no one makes anything of them." Mrs. St. James thinks Sir Barry will appreciate her defence of Miss Litchfield. "Of course the girls are not to blame for their mother's strange behaviour, but you know what the world is."

Yes, Sir Barry, in his wanderings about among persons and places, knew the world, and felt at this moment a fierce desire to punch every head in the world who dared to cast a slur on Dolores, or any one belonging to her. A very great interest he takes in this girl, whom he has not seen over half a dozen times, and who takes special pains to snub him at every opportunity. Mrs. St. James knits on the scarlet wool, contrasting vividly with her marble face and hands. The sunbeams, peeping coyly in through the half closed shutters, catches her diamond rings, and throws around them a hundred glimmering, glistening, sparkling rays. Some one, who has been sitting outside the open window, gets up to go. Sir Barry glances lazily out. He meets Dolores' eyes fixed full upon him—Dolores' pretty, gentle face no longer. Until he dies Sir Barry will remember that agonized, broken-hearted look on Dolores' face. As he turns to Mrs. St. James, he sees—can it be—a satisfied smile on her perfect lips? When he looks again, Dolores is gone.

"Did you see who just passed the window, and of course heard our conversation?" breaks sternly from between Sir Barry's clinched teeth.

"No. Who was it?"

But this is too much for any man to swallow. He knew the lady sitting right by the window had led the conversation to the topic they had been discussing, knowing perfectly well who was sitting outside, and would hear, whether she wished or not, what was said.

"Oh it's all right; good morning." And Sir Barry takes his hat and is gone. Mrs. St. James bites her scarlet lips in vexation, and hopes Sir Barry has gone to thoroughly digest what was said. And Dolores—poor Dolores—she is in her room, sobbing her heart out. Who can realize what her feelings are, to be thus rudely awakened to the knowledge that there hung over their family a dark cloud, some dreadful story about the beloved mother, whom Zoe and she had so often mourned as dead?

To be sure no tombstone marked her grave in the pretty shady cemetery at home. Aunt Adeline said their mother was dead, and that, to their minds, was proof enough, for was Auntie ever known to tell them a falsehood? Since she had grown up, the desire to have her mother, like the other girls around, had often possessed her. But to hear this woman tell Sir Barry that her mother had gone away and left her home and family! Believe it indeed! No! Certainly she could never look on the sweet, grave pictured face hanging in its massive frame of gilt, over the drawing room mantle at home, and believe that the original could commit any act that would make her children blush when they heard the name of their mother.

Probably had Arial St. James known how deeply her words had wounded Dolores, she would have been very sorry. Not a bad woman at heart, but she spoke without thinking. Another thing, she had but repeated to Sir Barry the story which every one knew at the time it happened. "A guilty conscience needs no accusing," as has often been said before. When Dolores turned her back on being presented to Mrs. St. James, it was because she could not bring herself to treat with any show of civility a woman who could treat her child so unkindly. Mrs. St. James attributed it to a wholly different cause. Two years ago she and her husband had come to Italy. Arial was charmed with the place, and when Mr. St. James proposed returning home, his wife declined to go. So he, as usual, let her have her own way, and left her and Roy, then an uninteresting, sickly little infant of only a few months old. Arial was not much of a person to write letters, so Mr. St. James, working away among his law books, heard very seldom from his wife, and knew very little of the way she employed her time. Sometimes the thought would flash across his busy brain that he would like to see his son. But Arial never mentioned the child's name, and Mr. St. James, thinking women were queer fish, came to the conclusion that the baby must have died in its infancy, and as perhaps it might hurt his wife's feelings, he never mentioned the child's name to her. But contrary to his ideas the baby did live, grew strong and flourishing, and little Roy was the favorite of all in the large crowded hotel. But in spite of his beautiful dresses, sashes, white kid slippers, dainty feathered hats, and little lace bonnets, still, for all those desirable things, the poor Italian peasant women followed the pretty, dark, curly headed lad, with deep pity in their dark lustrous eyes—for the Italians love their children with a deep passionate devotion almost amounting to idolatry. But the little white frocked, blue sashed English boy, Roy, had no loving mother to caress and love him. Mrs. St. James considered it time wasted to make a fuss over children. She never talked to her little son, nor played with him; she was proud of his beautiful face, and was not ashamed to call him her son. She considered she was doing her duty by him in providing a suitable nurse; he had everything he wanted, what more was required? And yet night after night he has cried himself to sleep, because his mother has passed his nursery door, and never "come to kiss Roy good night." Every one knew in the respect of affection she did her son a great wrong.

This was the conclusion Mrs. St. James came to—somebody had told Dolores that she neglected her child; and, be it said, Arial respected this girl, who dared to show her feelings. A good many older people than Dolores did not approve of Mrs. St. James' actions, but they held their tongues, made much of the lively English lady, and Arial enjoyed her power in her far Italian home.

Out on the beach, romping among the dancing waves, and having a good time generally, are Dolores and little Roy; much to Blondine's amusement; she is too lazy to take any part in the programme; all Blondine can do is to sit on a high boulder and laugh gaily at the two sea nymphs disporting themselves to their evident satisfaction. Roy and his "Dolly" are fast, firm friends; he cannot enjoy anything unless Dolores is present. Mrs. St. James, as long as the child keeps out of her way, does not take the bother to care who he is with. So many pleasant hours are spent in each other's company. Blondine says "Dolores cannot say she never had one staunch champion," and Roy declares he is going to marry his pretty Dolly as soon as ever he gets to be a "big man."

Coming along the sands, with his dog at his heels, is Sir Barry. He greets the ladies, and sends the dog in the water, to Roy's delight. When he appears Dolores immediately freezes. It is a never ending source of wonder to Blondine, what in the name of sense has Sir Barry ever done that Dolores treats him as she does.

"They are arranging a party to go and spend a couple of days or so at Monaco. Are any of you going?" Sir Barry asks, in his cheery voice.

"How delightful!" cries Blondine, starting up from her seat and brushing the sand off her blue flannel dress. Very bewitching she is looking in her blue gown and scarlet cap; and Blondine has the gift to know she looks pretty. "I do wonder if uncle Dick will go? I hope, oh how I hope he will; I am dying to go."

Dolores throws sticks in the water, to see the dog bring them out.

"Dolores, don't you hope uncle Dick will go? Did you hear what Sir Barry says?"

Dolores does not answer; perhaps the breeze carries Blondine's voice in an opposite direction, perhaps Roy's childish talk proves more agreeable.

Presently Hester comes to take Roy away, and Dolores saunters idly back to Sir Barry and his fair companion. Blondine is highly delighted; Sir Barry has seen and asked uncle Dick if he would join the party, and of course uncle Dick had said yes. Any affair Traleigh approved was in uncle Dick's mind commendable.

"Will it not be splendid! Dolores, are you not pleased?"

And Sir Barry laughs lightly at Dolores' answer.

"Blondine, you would think it splendid if a shower of rain should descend this moment and drench us."

Blondine is watching the white clouds float across the azure sky, and wishing the sun may shine as brightly for the next couple of days. Sir Barry looks at the massive gold watch in his pocket, and says by the time they lunch and get ready it will be time to start. So Blondine unfurls her large white cotton umbrella, tucks Dolores' unwilling hand under her arm, and laments the smallness of the parasol's compass. If it was possible she would offer a part to Sir Barry; as it is she advises him to pull his hat well over his face, for freckles on a man's face is something Miss Gray detests.

"But some people consider them a mark of beauty; that is the reason I am trying to cultivate some," Sir Barry says solemnly.

Dolores gives one swift side glance at the handsome face of the man walking the other side of Blondine. He happens, at the same instant, to be looking at her. Dolores is angry at the blush she feels rising to her face. The idea of his watching her that way; it is too bad he cannot find some one else to gaze at all the time.

"I do wish you would hold the umbrella a little on my side," she says coldly to Blondine.

Sir Barry bites his moustache savagely; he has never been so persistently snubbed in all his twenty-eight years.

Ten minutes later Dolores, sitting at her parlor window, happens to glance out, to see Sir Barry strolling leisurely down the garden, with Rea Severn at his side, in all the glory of a fresh effort of Worth's—a dress which every girl in the hotel would give anything to possess. It was made so marvellously, no one could tell just how—and so Miss Severn feared no imitation.

Dolores watches them pace up and down, to and fro. Her heart is throbbing with an angry, passionate feeling against Sir Barry. He was very anxious to get Blondine and her back to the hotel, so he could walk and talk with Rea Severn. She wished uncle Dick would take Blondine and her home, away, far away from the place where Sir Barry Traleigh is, and all belonging to him. And yet if such had been the case that uncle Dick should leave Nice, probably Dolores would feel most sincerely loath to go. Rea has a cluster of magnificent pink and white roses in her hand. Dolores sees her select one and give it to Sir Barry. He takes it, and Dolores waits to see him fasten it in his coat. But Sir Barry seems to forget how much more effective it would have looked there, but carries the frail blossom between his gloved fingers. Dolores wonders what they are talking about? Probably the intended trip; no doubt they are planning numberless blissful moments together. Rea talks on, and Sir Barry listens, and ponders if Miss Litchfield will allow him to drive her in his stylish dogcart and span of fine horses. The others are all going in those jaunty little donkey carts which are so plentiful in Nice. Probably Rea is not only very much interested in Sir Barry on account of his good looks, but also has an inward longing for an invitation to a seat beside the owner of the handsome bays.

CHAPTER IX.

SHALL WE NOT BE FRIENDS?

"The time I've lost in wooing,
In watching and pursuing,
The light that lies
In woman's eyes,
Has been my heart's undoing."

—Moore.

"Miss Litchfield regrets that she must refuse Sir Barry Traleigh's kind invitation to attend the excursion this afternoon."

Sir Barry feels very much hurt and disappointed. He had done nothing to merit Miss Litchfield's displeasure, and yet to his pleasantly worded offer of a seat in his dogcart, she has sent him back those few coldly formal words of refusal.

In Dolores' parlor Blondine and Dolores are having what is approaching the most serious unfriendly words that have ever been exchanged between them. Blondine, who has at first laughed, then pleaded and coaxed, and scolded, finally sits down and cries. Dolores pays no attention to her cousin's entreaties. She had said she would not go to Monaco that afternoon, and she meant to keep her word, no matter what any one may say to the contrary.

"You had much better get ready, and be in time," Dolores says quietly.

"I never saw any one change so in my life as you have done lately. Whatever has got possession of you? We were going to have such a charming time," sobs Blondine, who is utterly cast down at the prospect of not having Dolores go and enjoy the beauties of the place with her.

Now any one may coax, scold, plead or pray, and Dolores is immovable; but when tears are called into operation Dolores is lost. So she takes Blondine's pretty dark head in her lap and pats it soothingly.

"Never mind, dear; do not spoil your pretty eyes with crying over me, but when I tell you that I would not enjoy myself, that I should be wretchedly unhappy, were I to go to-day; and that for you and uncle Dick to go and leave me behind, would render me a kindness more than anything else, then you will believe me, dear, will you not?"

Blondine is silent for a moment.

"I wonder if Mrs. St. James is going?" she asks presently.

"Why no, certainly not; little Roy has been so very ill lately, I should think it would be the last thing to leave him with none but that little nurse maid," Dolores answers decidedly.

Blondine thinks differently. As she came up the stairs she heard Mrs. St. James tell Sir Barry that she hoped there would not be many hills to go down, or they would certainly be dumped out of those funny little carts.

Zoe; Or, Some Day: A Novel

ZOE; Or, SOME DAY.

A NOVEL.

BY MAY LEONARD.

Authoress of "Trixie's Inheritance; or, Which Shall Win."

SAINT JOHN, N. B.:PRINTED BY GEO. W. DAY, COR. PRINCESS AND PRINCE WM. STS.1888.

CONTENTS.

PREFACE.

ZOE; Or, SOME DAY.

CHAPTER I.

AN INVITATION.

CHAPTER II.

I SHALL SNUB HER.

CHAPTER III.

A YACHTING PARTY.

CHAPTER IV.

A STRANGER.

CHAPTER V.

FORTUNE TELLING.

CHAPTER VI.

YOUR SISTER DOLORES.

CHAPTER VII.

AT NICE.

CHAPTER VIII.

YOU NEVER CAN TELL.

CHAPTER IX.

SHALL WE NOT BE FRIENDS?

SAINT JOHN, N. B.:
PRINTED BY GEO. W. DAY, COR. PRINCESS AND PRINCE WM. STS.
1888.