[Ill.u.s.tration: PEVERIL FINDS MARY AGAIN]

Other newly arrived guests demanding Mrs. Owen's attention at this moment, Peveril found himself borne away by her mother, who had greeted him effusively, and now seemed determined to learn everything concerning his Western life to its minutest details. To accomplish this she led him to a corner of the conservatory for what she was pleased to term an uninterrupted talk of old times, but which really meant the propounding of a series of questions on her part and the giving of evasive answers on his.

While Peveril was wondering how he should escape, a hush fell on the outer a.s.sembly, and some one began to sing. At first sound of the voice the young man started and listened attentively.

"Who is she?" he asked.

"n.o.body in particular," responded Mrs. Bonnifay; "only a girl whom Rose met when she was studying music in Germany. I fancy she spent her last cent on her musical education, which, I fear, won't do her much good, after all; for, as you must notice, she is utterly lacking in style. She is dreadfully poor now, and earns a living by singing in private houses--all her voice is really fit for, you know. So Rose takes pity on her, and has her in once in a while. Why, really, they are giving her an encore! How kind of them; and yet they say the most wealthy are the most heartless. But you are not going, Mr. Peveril? I haven't asked you half--"

Peveril was already out of the conservatory and making his way towards the piano, as though irresistibly fascinated. For her encore the singer was giving a simple ballad that had been very popular some years before. The last time Peveril heard it was when cruising along a sh.o.r.e of Lake Superior, and it had come to him from somewhere up in the red-stained cliffs.

At last he had found Mary Darrell--"his Mary," as he called her--in quick resentment of the smiling throng about him, who _paid_ her to sing for them.

He did not speak to her then, nor allow her to see him, but when, with her task finished, she left the room, his eyes followed her every movement and lingered lovingly on her beautiful face--for it was beautiful. He knew it now, as he also knew that he loved her, and always had done so from the moment that he first beheld her, a vision of the cliffs.

When, accompanied by faithful Aunty Nimmo, she left the house, he was waiting outside. She tried to hurry away as he approached her, but at the sound of his voice she stood still, trembling violently.

An hour later, in the modest apartment far downtown, which was the best her scanty earnings could afford, he had told his story. Mary Darrell knew that she was no longer a poor, struggling singer, but an heiress to wealth greater than she had ever coveted in her wildest dreams. But to this she gave hardly a thought, for something greater, finer, and more desirable than all the wealth of the world had come to her in that same brief s.p.a.ce of time. She knew that she was loved by him whom she loved, for he had told her so. Even now he stood awaiting, with trembling eagerness, her answer to his plea.

Could she not love him a little bit in return? Would she not go back with him, as his wife, to the house that had been hers, and still awaited her, by the sh.o.r.e of the great lake?

"But I thought, Mr. Peveril--I mean, I heard that you were engaged?"

"So I was. I was engaged to Mrs. Owen, at whose house you sang this evening, and where I was so blessed as to find you. But she thought me unworthy and let me go. I know I am unworthy still; but, Mary dear, won't you give me one more chance? Won't you take me on trial?"

"Well, then, on trial," she answered, though in so low a tone that he barely caught the words.

In another instant he had folded her in his arms, for he knew that she was wholly his, and that in _this_ Copper Princess his interest was unshared.

THE END

By S. R. KEIGHTLEY

THE LAST RECRUIT OF CLARE'S. Being Pa.s.sages from the Memoirs of Anthony Dillon, Chevalier of St. Louis, and Late Colonel of Clare's Regiment in the Service of France. Ill.u.s.trated. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.50.

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