The night of the ball came, bright, frosty, and calm. The large, roomy, old-fashioned family carriage held Rose, Eeny, Sir Ronald, and Doctor Danton, while Mr. Stanford drove Kate over in a light cutter. The Ponsonbys, who were a very uplifted sort of people, had not invited Grace; and Captain Danton, at the last moment, announced his intention of staying at home also.
"I am very comfortable where I am," said the Captain, lounging in an arm-chair before the blazing fire; "and the trouble of dressing and going out this cold night is more than the ball is worth. Make my excuses, my dear; tell them I have had a sudden attack of gout, if you like, or anything else that comes uppermost."
"But, papa," expostulated Kate, very much surprised, for the master of Danton Hall was eminently social in his habits, "I should like you to come so much, and the Ponsonbys will be so disappointed."
"They'll survive it, my dear, never fear. I prefer staying at home with Grace and Father Francis, who will drop in by-and-by. There, Kate, my dear, don't waste your breath coaxing. Reginald, take her away."
Mr. Stanford, with the faintest shadow of a knowing smile on his face, took Kate's arm and led her down stairs.
"The brown eyes and serene face of your demure housekeeper have stronger charms for my papa-in-law than anything within the four walls of the Ponsonbys. What would Kate say, I wonder, if I told her?"
As usual, Captain Danton's two daughters were the belles of the room. Kate was queenly as ever, and as far out of the reach of everything masculine, with one exception, as the moon; Rose, in a changeful silk, half dove, half pink, that blushed as she walked, with a wreath of ivy in her glossy hair, turned heads wherever she went. Doctor Frank had the privilege of the first dance. After that she was surrounded by all the most eligible young men in the room. Rose, with a glow on her rounded cheeks, and a brilliancy in her eyes, that excitement had lent, danced and flirted, and laughed, and sang, and watched furtively, all the while, the only man present she cared one iota for. That eminently handsome young officer, Mr. Stanford, after devoting himself, as in duty bound, to his stately fiancée, resigned her, after a while, to an epauletted Colonel from Montreal, and made himself agreeable to Helen Ponsonby, and Emily Howard, and sundry other pretty girls. Rose watched him angry and jealous inwardly, smiling and radiant outwardly. Their fingers touched in the same set, but Rose never deigned him a glance. Her perfumed skirts brushed him as she flew by in the redowa, but she never looked up.
"He shall see how little I care," thought jealous Rose. "I suppose he thinks I am dying for him, but he shall find out how much he is mistaken."
With this thought in her mind, she sat down while her partner went for an ice. It was the first time that night she had been a moment alone. Mr. Stanford, leaning against a pillar idly, took advantage of it, and was beside her before she knew it. Her cheeks turned scarlet, and her heart quickened involuntarily as he sat down beside her.
"I have been ignored so palpably all evening that I am half afraid to come near you," he said; "will it be high treason to ask you to waltz with me!"