shows promise of a fairer morrow.
Mona, coming slowly downstairs, enters with lagging steps the library, where tea is awaiting them before they start.
She is gowned in a cream-colored satin that hangs in severe straight lines, and clings to her lissom rounded figure as dew clings to a flower. A few rows of tiny pearls clasp her neck. Upon her bosom some Christmas roses, pure and white as her own soul, lie softly; a few more nestle in her hair, which is drawn simply back and coiled in a loose knot behind her head; she wears no earrings and very few bracelets.
One of the latter, however, is worthy of note. It is a plain gold band on which stands out a figure of Atalanta posed as when she started for her famous race. It had been sent to her on her marriage by Mr. Maxwell, in hearty remembrance, no doubt, of the night when she by her fleetness had saved his life.
She is looking very beautiful to-night. As she enters the room, nearly every one stops talking, and careless of good breeding, stares at her. There is a touch of purity about Mona that is perhaps one of her chiefest charms.
Even Lady Rodney can hardly take her eyes from the girl's face as she advances beneath the full glare of the chandelier, utterly unconscious of the extent of the beauty that is her rich gift.
Sir Nicholas, going up to her, takes her by both hands, and leads her gently beneath the huge bunch of mistletoe that still hangs from the centre-lamp. Here, stooping, he embraces her warmly. Mona, coloring, shrinks involuntarily a few steps backward.
"Forgive me, my sister," says Nicholas, quickly. "Not the kiss, but the fact that until now I never quite understood how very beautiful you are!"
Mona smiles brightly—as might any true woman—at so warm a compliment. But Doatie, putting on a pathetic little moue that just suits her baby face, walks over to her fiance and looks up at him with appealing eyes.
"Don't altogether forget me, Nicholas," she says, in her pretty childish way, pretending (little rogue that she is) to be offended.