He strolled away through the palms, and I instantly

threw off my ulster and hat, cast them behind some

bushes, and boldly opened the door and entered.

The ball-room was on the third floor, but the guests

were straggling down to supper, and I took my stand

at the foot of the broad stairway and glanced up carelessly,

as though waiting for some one. It was a large

and brilliant company and many a lovely face passed

me as I stood waiting. The very size of the gathering

gave me security, and I smoothed my gloves complacently.

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The spectacled gentleman whose breath of night air

had given me a valued hint of the open conservatory

door came now and stood beside me. He even put his

hand on my arm with intimate friendliness.

There was a sound of mirth and scampering feet in

the hall above and then down the steps, between the

lines of guests arrested in their descent, came a dark

laughing girl in the garb of Little Red Riding Hood,

amid general applause and laughter.

"It's Olivia! She's won the wager!" exclaimed the

spectacled gentleman, and the girl, whose dark curls

were shaken about her face, ran up to us and threw

her arms about him and kissed him. It was a charming

picture,-the figures on the stairway, the pretty graceful

child, the eager, happy faces all about. I was too

much interested by this scene of the comedy to be uncomfortable.

Then, at the top of the stair, her height accented by

her gown of white, stood Marian Devereux, hesitating

an instant, as a bird pauses before taking wing, and then

laughingly running between the lines to where Olivia

faced her in mock abjection. To the charm of the girl

in the woodland was added now the dignity of beautiful

womanhood, and my heart leaped at the thought

that I had ever spoken to her, that I was there because

she had taunted me with the risk of coming.

[Illustration: At the top of the stair, her height accented by her gown of white,

stood Marian Devereux.] Above, on the stair landing, a deep-toned clock began

to strike midnight and every one cried "Merry Christmas!"

and "Olivia's won!" and there was more hand-clapping,

in which I joined with good will.

Some one behind me was explaining what had just

occurred. Olivia, the youngest daughter of the house,

had been denied a glimpse of the ball; Miss Devereux

had made a wager with her host that Olivia would appear

before midnight; and Olivia had defeated the plot

against her, and gained the main hall at the stroke of

Christmas.

"Good night! Good night!" called Olivia-the real

Olivia-in derision to the company, and turned and ran

back through the applauding, laughing throng.

The spectacled gentleman was Olivia's father, and he

mockingly rebuked Marian Devereux for having encouraged

an infraction of parental discipline, while she

was twitting him upon the loss of his wager. Then her

eyes rested upon me for the first time. She smiled

slightly, but continued talking placidly to her host.

The situation did not please me; I had not traveled so

far and burglariously entered Doctor Armstrong's house

in quest of a girl with blue eyes merely to stand by while

she talked to another man.




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