"Oh, _can_ you play?" cried Kitty, both astonished and delighted. "That will help us out, and I am sure it is very nice of you to offer, for I think it is awfully stupid to play for dancing. Come, then, and I know everybody will be surprised as well as pleased."

And winding her arm about the slender waist of the fair seamstress, they went down stairs together, Miss McKenzie chatting away as sociably as if they had always been friends and equals.

Mrs. Montague lifted her eyebrows with well-bred astonishment when the young lady informed the company that Miss Richards preferred to preside at the piano, and a number of others appealed to share her surprise, and looked somewhat skeptical, also.

They were more amazed still when she modestly took her seat and began her duties, for Mona was perfectly at home in music, and soon made the room ring with inspiring melody for the eager dancers.

"Who is that beautiful and talented girl?" Amos Palmer asked of his host, when the young people were tired of dancing, and Mona quietly withdrew from the room.

"Her name is Ruth Richards, I believe," Mr. Wellington replied.

"You 'believe!' Isn't she a guest here?" inquired Mr. Palmer, with surprise.

"No; she is simply a maid in the employ of Mrs. Montague."

"Well, it is a great pity."

"What is a great pity?"

"That such a lovely young lady should have to serve any one in that capacity; she is beautiful and talented enough to fill any position."

And this was Amos Palmer's opinion regarding Ray's unknown lady-love.

CHAPTER XVII.

MRS. MONTAGUE QUESTIONS MONA.

"Where did you learn to play the piano, Ruth?" Mrs. Montague inquired the next morning, while Mona was engaged in a.s.sisting her to dress, and she turned a searching glance upon her as she put the question.

To conceal the flush that mounted to her brow, Mona stooped to pick up a pin.

It had not occurred to her, when she offered to play for the dancing the previous evening, that such proficiency in music would be regarded as something very unusual in a sewing-girl, and might occasion remark.

Her only object had been to oblige Kitty McKenzie and avoid dancing with the guests.

"I had a relative who gave me lessons for a while," she said, in reply to Mrs. Montague's query.

"For a while!" repeated that lady, who had not been un.o.bservant of the flush. "You finger the piano as if you had been accustomed to diligent practice all your life, and you must have had the best of instruction, too."

"I am very fond of music, and it was never any task to me to practice,"

Mona remarked. Then she added, to change the topic: "Shall I baste this ruffle in the full width, or shall I set it down a trifle?"

Mrs. Montague smiled at the tact of her pretty companion, in thus attempting to draw her attention to her own affairs.

A good many things had convinced her of late that her seamstress had not been reared in poverty, and certain suspicions, that had startled her when she first saw her, were beginning to force themselves again upon her.

"You can set it down a trifle," she replied; then she asked, persistently returning to the previous question: "Why do you not give music lessons, since you play so well, instead of sewing for your living? I should suppose it would be a much more congenial occupation."

"There are so many music teachers, and one needs a reputation in order to obtain pupils; besides, people would doubtless regard me as too young to have had much experience in teaching. There, I have finished this--is there anything else I can do for you?" and Mona laid the dress she had been at work upon on a chair, and stood awaiting further orders.

"Yes; the buckle on this slipper needs to be more securely fastened. It is true that there are legions of music teachers. Was this relative of yours a teacher?"

"Oh, no; he simply bore the expense of my instruction."

"I suppose he cannot be living, or you would not be sewing for me," Mrs.

Montague remarked, with another searching glance.

"No," was the brief reply, and hot tears rushed to Mona's eyes, blinding her so that she could hardly see where to put her needle.

She then made some remark to the effect that she needed some stronger silk, and left the room to hide the grief which she found so hard to control.

"Aha! this relative must be the friend for whom she is in mourning--he cannot have been dead very long, for the girl is unable to speak of him without tears," muttered Mrs. Montague, thoughtfully, a heavy frown settling on her brow. "There is some mystery about her which I am bound to ferret out; she is exceedingly reticent about herself--I wonder if my suspicions can be correct?" she continued, her face settling into hard, revengeful lines. "She certainly looks enough like that girl to be her child. If I were sure, I would not spare her; I would crush her, for the hate that I bore her mother, notwithstanding she is so useful to me. Ha, ha!" and the laugh was exceedingly bitter, "it would seem like the irony of fate to have her child thrown thus into my power. But if she is Mona Montague why does she call herself Ruth Richards? what can be her object?

Can it be possible," she added, with a startled look, "that she has been told her history, and she has engaged herself to me with the purpose of trying to obtain the proofs of it? Is she deep enough for that? or has she been advised to adopt such a course? She seems to be very frank and innocent, intent only upon doing her work well and pleasing me. Yet, if she should get hold of any of those proofs, she could make a great deal of trouble for me. I believe I shall have to destroy them, although I always feel as if a ghost were haunting me whenever I touch them. I shall never be satisfied until I learn Ruth's history. I'll attack her about the Palmers; if she is Mona Montague--the girl that Ray Palmer loves--she certainly will betray herself if I take her unawares; although she did not appear to know Mr. Palmer, last evening."

Mona returned at this moment, and Mrs. Montague's musings were cut short.

The young girl had recovered her self-control, and was as calm and collected as usual; even more so, for she had told herself that she must be more on her guard or she would betray her ident.i.ty.

Mrs. Montague appeared to have forgotten all about their recent conversation, and chatted sociably about various topics for a while.

But suddenly she asked:

"Did you observe the new arrival last night, Ruth?"

"Do you mean that portly gentleman, who is slightly bald, and with whom you went out for refreshments?" Mona inquired, lifting a frank, inquiring look to her companion, though her heart beat fast at this reference to Ray's father.

"Yes; he is very fine-looking, don't you think so?"

"Perhaps so--rather," replied Mona, reflectively.

"That is 'rather' doubtful praise, I am afraid," observed Mrs. Montague, with a light laugh. "I think he is a very handsome old gentleman, and he is certainly a decidedly entertaining companion. You know who he is, I suppose."

"I do not think that I heard anybody address him by name while I was in the drawing-room; of course; I was not introduced to any one," Mona evasively answered.

"His name is Palmer," Mrs. Montague remarked, as she bent a searching look upon the young girl.

But Mona had herself well in hand now, and she made no sign that the name was a familiar one to her.

"He has a son who is strikingly good looking, too," Mrs. Montague continued. "I met them both at a reception in New York a little while ago, and was greatly attracted to them, though just now the young man is rather unhappy--in fact, he is wearing the willow for some girl whom he imagines he loves."

Mrs. Montague paused to note the effect of this conversation, but Mona had finished fastening the buckle on the slipper, and quietly taken up some other work, though her pulses were beating like trip-hammers.

"It seems," the woman resumed, her keen eyes never leaving the fair face opposite to her, "that he has long been very fond of a girl whose surname is the same as mine--a Miss Mona Montague. She was a niece of that wealthy Mr. Dinsmore, who died so suddenly in New York a short time ago."

It seemed to Mona that her heart must leap from her bosom as she listened to this reference to herself; but, with every appearance of perfect composure, she measured off some ribbon that she was making into bows, and severed it with a sharp clip of her scissors.