"Perhaps you do not know whom I mean," said Mrs. Montague, and paused, determined to make the girl speak.

"Oh, yes, I have heard of him, and I remember reading the notice of his death in a paper," Mona compelled herself to say, without betraying anything of the pain which smote her heart in recurring thus to her great loss.

Mrs. Montague frowned.

She was not progressing as well as she could have wished in her "pumping"

operation; but she meant to probe the matter as far as she dared.

"Well," she went on, "this niece was supposed by everybody to be Mr.

Dinsmore's heiress; but a discarded wife suddenly made her appearance, after his death, and claimed the whole of his property, and the girl was left without a penny. She must have been terribly cut up about it, for she suddenly disappeared, and cannot be found, and it is this that has so upset young Palmer. He had not committed himself, his father informed me, but was just on the point of declaring his love when Mr. Dinsmore died; and the girl, evidently crushed by her loss, has hidden herself so securely that no one can find her."

It was fortunate for Mona that her recent troubles had taught her something of self-control, or she must have betrayed herself at this point.

She realized that Mrs. Montague must have a purpose in relating all this to her, and feared it was to verify some suspicion regarding herself.

She now believed that the woman must know all her mother's history, and certain facts regarding her own birth, which she felt that Mr. Dinsmore had, for some reason, withheld from her. This conviction had grown upon her ever since she had been a member of her family, and she hoped, by some means, if she remained long enough with her, to learn the truth.

Still she feared that if Mrs. Montague should discover that she was her husband's daughter she might be so prejudiced against her she would at once dismiss her from her employ, and she would then lose her only chance to solve the questions that puzzled her. But she found it very hard to conceal the great and sudden joy that went thrilling through her as she listened to these facts regarding Ray Palmer's affection for and his loyalty to her.

He had not been unworthy and faithless, as she had imagined; there had been some good reason why he had not come to her during the early days of her trouble. He might have been called suddenly away from New York on business and not been able to return until her home was broken up; and now he was grieving--"wearing the willow," as Mrs. Montague expressed it--because he could not find her. He loved her! he had been upon the point of telling her so, and this blissful knowledge made the world seem suddenly bright again to the hitherto depressed and grieving girl.

But it would never do to betray anything of this, for then Mrs. Montague would know at once that _she_ was Mona Montague; so she made no sign that she was any more interested in this little romance regarding Ray Palmer's love, than she would have been in that of any stranger. She even forced herself to ignore him altogether, and ask, in a matter-of-fact way:

"Is it not strange, if Mr. Dinsmore had a wife living, that he did not make some provision for his niece, by will?"

"The girl _isn't_ Mona Montague after all, or she never would have asked such a question with that innocent air," said Mrs. Montague to herself, with some disappointment; "the strange resemblance must be only a coincidence, striking though it is. But I would really like to know where Walter Dinsmore's niece is. I feel as if I had an enemy in ambush all the time, for she would have it in her power to do me a great deal of harm if she could prove her ident.i.ty. I am half sorry that Ruth doesn't prove to be she, for having her here, under my eye, I could manage her capitally."

"Why, the papers discussed all that at the time," she remarked aloud, with some surprise. "There was considerable excitement over the affair, and sympathy was very strong for the niece. Didn't you read about it?"

"No, I was very much engaged just then, and I did not read any account of it. There, these bows are ready, and I will sew them to the dress," Mona concluded, rising to get the garment, but trembling with nervous excitement in every limb.

"Ah!" she added, glancing at her fingers, three of which were stained with blood. "I have p.r.i.c.ked myself with my needle; I hope I have not soiled the ribbon. No, fortunately, I have not," as she carefully examined it, "but I will step into the bath-room to wash my hands. I will not be long," and she immediately left the room again. She had purposely run the needle into her delicate flesh to obtain this respite, for she felt as if she could no longer endure the trying conversation.

"Oh, how she has tortured me!" she sobbed, as she swung the door to after her, and dashed from her eyes the tears which she could no longer restrain. "I could not bear it another moment, and I must not give way, even now, or she will see that I am unnerved, but I cannot be wholly wretched now that I know that _Ray loves me_!"

A vivid blush mounted to her brow as she whispered the sweet words, and she dashed the cold water over her burning cheeks to cool them.

"Ah!" she continued; "I judged him wrongfully, and I am sorry. It will be all right if we can but meet again. It must be true that he loved me; he must have confessed it, or his father would not have told Mrs. Montague so."

She hastily dried her face, and hands, then composing herself, returned to Mrs. Montague's room to find her with her dress on and looking very fair and lovely in the delicately tinted blue cashmere, with the soft ruching in the neck and sleeves and the shining satin bows at her waist.

The woman glanced sharply at Mona as she entered, but, for all that she could see, the sweet face was as serene as if she were intent only upon her duties as waiting-maid, instead of thrilling with joy over the knowledge of being beloved by one whom, until that hour, she had believed lost to her.

"I will submit her to one more test, and if she can stand it I shall be satisfied," she said to herself, as she fastened a beautiful pin at her throat, and then turned smilingly to Mona, but with the most innocent air in the world.

"Am I all right, Ruth? Is the dress becoming?" she asked.

"Exceedingly," Mona returned; "the color is just suited to you."

"Thank you, I wonder if Mr. Palmer will also think so. Do you know," with a conscious laugh and forced blush, but with a covert glance at the girl, "I am becoming very much interested in that gentleman. I like the son, too, but chiefly for his father's sake. By the way, young Mr. Palmer is to be here for the ball on Monday evening; at least his father is going to telegraph him to come."

"Is he?" said Mona, absently, while she appeared to be engrossed with something which she had suddenly discovered about the new morning robe.

But the statement that Ray was coming to Hazeldean had given her an inward start that made every nerve in her body bound as if an electric current had been applied to them. "This skirt does not seem to hang just right," she added, dropping upon her knees, as if to ascertain the cause.

"Ah! it was only caught up--it is all right now."

She smoothed the folds into place and arose, while, the breakfast-bell ringing at that moment, Mrs. Montague pa.s.sed from the room, very nearly if not quite satisfied that Ruth Richards was an entirely different person from Mona Montague.

Poor over-wrought Mona, however, fled into her own chamber, and locked the door the moment she was alone.

She sank into the nearest chair, buried her face in her hands, and fell to sobbing nervously.

"How can I bear it?" she murmured. "It is perfectly dreadful to have to live such a life of deception. I never would have been guilty of it if I had not been caught just as I was; but I could not give her my real name, for she would have known at once who I am; and I do so want to find out just why my father deserted my mother, and what there was between him and Uncle Walter that was so terrible. Perhaps I never shall, but I mean to stay with her for a while and try. She is a strange woman," the young girl went on, musingly. "Sometimes I think she is kind and good, then again she seems like a designing and unprincipled person. Can it be possible that she is contemplating an alliance with Mr. Palmer? She certainly received his attentions last evening with every appearance of pleasure, and he seemed to be equally delighted with her society. I wonder if Ray will like it? Somehow the thought of it is not agreeable to me, if--if--"

A vivid blush suffused Mona's cheeks as she reached this point in her soliloquy, as if she was overcome at having allowed her thoughts to run away with her to such an extent.

"So Ray is coming to Hazeldean for the ball on Monday evening," she continued, after a while. "Shall I see him? Yes, I shall try to," with an air of resolution. "If he loves me as well as I love him, why should any foolish sensitiveness prevent my allowing him to make it manifest, if he wishes? I do not believe I have any right to ruin both our lives by hiding myself from him. I will prove him in this way; but I must see him alone, so that no one will know that I am Mona Montague, instead of Ruth Richards, the sewing-girl. What if _he_ should ignore me?" she added, with sudden fear and growing very white; then, with renewed confidence: "He will not; if he has been n.o.ble enough to confess his feelings to his father, he will not hide them from me. He is n.o.ble and true, and I will not doubt him."

CHAPTER XVIII.

"MY DARLING, I LOVE YOU!"

Mr. Palmer, true to his promise to the fair young guests at Hazeldean, telegraphed to Ray the next morning requesting him to come up for the ball on Monday. Later in the day he received a reply from the young man stating that he would do so, although he did not mention the hour when he should arrive.

Thursday, Friday, and Sat.u.r.day were gay and busy days, for the ball was to be a grand affair, and everybody was anxious to do all possible honor to the occasion and made preparations accordingly.

Mrs. Montague, however, was not so busy but that she managed to spend a good deal of her time with Mr. Palmer, who seemed to renew his youth in her presence, and was so gallant and attentive that the young people, who were exceedingly interested in watching the progress of this middle-aged romance, were kept in a constant flutter of amused excitement. Mr.

Wellington and his wife were also considerably diverted by the affair.

"I'm afraid Palmer is a 'gone goose,'" the gentleman laughingly remarked to his spouse, after they had retired to their room on Sat.u.r.day evening.

"It looks like it," the lady returned; "and really," she added, with some impatience, "there is something almost ridiculous to me in seeing an old man like him dancing attendance upon a gay young widow like Mrs.

Montague."

"_Young!_ How old do you imagine her to be?" inquired Mr. Wellington.

"She cannot be much over thirty, and she dresses in a way to make her look even younger than that," the lady responded. "At all events, she seems like a mere girl beside portly, bald-headed Mr. Palmer, and I am afraid that he will regret it if he allows himself to become entangled in her net."

"I see that you are not in favor of the match," replied Mr. Wellington, much amused over his wife's earnestness.

"No, Will; I confess I am not," she said, gravely. "I knew Amos Palmer's first wife, and she was a devoted, care-taking, conscientious woman, never sparing herself when she could add to the comfort and happiness of her family. But this woman is entirely different--she cares very little for anything but society. I admit she is very delightful company--a charming person to have in the house at such a time as this; but I doubt her ability to make Mr. Palmer happy, and I never would have believed that he could have had his head so thoroughly turned by any woman. I thought he was bound up in making money, to leave to that handsome son of his."

"Well, it appears that Cupid can make fools of the best of us," Mr.

Wellington returned, with a roguish glance at his wife; "and we do not discover the fact until the noose is irrevocably knotted about our necks.

By the way, speaking of acc.u.mulating money makes me remember that Palmer had a telegram to-day, telling him that the detective whom he employed on that affair of the diamonds thinks that he is on the track of the thief at last."

"Is that so?" said Mrs. Wellington, with surprise. "Do you imagine that he will ever recover the stones?"