CHAPTER II.
'Tis night in a boarding-school. The doors of many small rooms open on the dreary hall, and the glimmering light through the key-holes tells of the fair students within. One is partly open, and through it we see two young girls standing near a toilet: one is drawing a comb through a mass of rich brown curls, which stray in playful wantonness about her snowy shoulders. The other is rummaging amid the elegant trifles which decorate the table.
"Alice," she began, "many, many times have I seen this beautiful little glove among trumpery, and often thought I'd beg of you its history, but always forgot it. Tell me now whose hand it once imprisoned."
"Mine, Kate, mine. When a little child of eight years old I lost the fellow, and put this one away until I should find it. Years have rolled away; but it speaks so eloquently of a happy May-day I then enjoyed, that I have never been able to part with it, and still treasure it as an index to the bright scenes of the past."