eyes and blooming complexions; the masses of foxgloves which Lady
Beauregard had as the only floral decoration of the evening; the pale
canary-colored panels and silver-fluted columns of the walls; and over
all the various candelabra, each bearing a cluster of sparkling and
golden stars. But there was something wanted. Was it the noble and
silver-haired lady of Castle Dare whom he looked for in vain in that
brilliant crowd that moved and murmured before him? Or was it the
friendly and familiar face of his cousin Janet, whose eyes he knew,
would be filled with a constant wonder if she saw such diamonds, and
silks and satins? Or was it that _ignis fatuus_--that treacherous and
mocking fire--that might at any time glimmer in some suddenly presented
face with a new surprise? Had she deceived him altogether down at
Prince's Gate? Was her real nature that of the wayward, bright,
mischievous, spoiled child whose very tenderness only prepared her
unsuspecting victim for a merciless thrust? And yet the sound of her
sobbing was still in his ears. A true woman's heart beat beneath that
idle raillery: challenged boldly, would it not answer loyally and
without fear?

Psychological puzzles were new to this son of the mountains; and it is
no wonder that, long after he had bidden good bye to his friend
Ogilvie, and as he sat thinking alone in his own room, with Oscar lying
across the rug at his feet, his mind refused to be quieted. One picture
after another presented itself to his imagination: the proud-souled
enthusiast longing for the wild winter nights and the dark Atlantic
seas; the pensive maiden, shuddering to hear the fierce story of Maclean
of Lochbuy; the spoiled child, teasing her mamma and petting her canary;
the wronged and weeping woman, her frame shaken with sobs, her hands
clasped in despair; the artful and demure coquette, mocking her lover
with her sentimental farewells. Which of them all was she? Which should