More than a year had passed since that dark and rainy morn on the shores of France, when Xenie had wandered up and down on the "sea-beat shore" seeking her lost sister—a year that had brought its inevitable changes, and dulled the first sharp edge of grief—so that to-night she was to throw off her mourning robes and reappear in society for the first time at a ball given by her aunt, Mrs. Egerton.
Yet, after that first moment of exultant triumph at her mother's praise, a faint, intangible shadow settled over Mrs. St. John's brilliant face.
The scarlet lips took a graver curve upon their honeyed sweetness, the dark, curling lashes drooped low, until they shaded the peachy cheek.
The white-gloved hand that held the rare bouquet drooped wearily at her side.
"Mamma," she said, abruptly, "I wish I had not promised to go."
"What has come over you, Xenie? I thought you had looked forward to this night with real pleasure."
"I did—I do, mamma, and yet for the moment my heart grew sad. I was thinking of poor little Lora."
A hot tear splashed down upon her cheek, and Mrs. Carroll sighed heavily, while her grave, sad face grew sadder and graver still. She put her hand upon her heart.
"Oh, that we might have her back!" she breathed, in a voice that was almost a moan of pain.
"The carriage is waiting, madam," said Finette, appearing at the door.