CONTENTS.

PREFACE. CHAPTER I.—An Invitation CHAPTER II.—"I shall snub her" CHAPTER III.—A Yachting Party CHAPTER IV.—A Stranger CHAPTER V.—Fortune Telling CHAPTER VI.—"Your Sister, Dolores" CHAPTER VII.—At Nice CHAPTER VIII.—You never can tell CHAPTER IX.—"Shall we not be friends?" CHAPTER X.—"I wonder who she can be?" CHAPTER XI.—Trouble overtakes the best of men CHAPTER XII.—Too confiding. "Yes, it is my husband" CHAPTER XIII.—The Convent of St. Marguerite CHAPTER XIV.—Trying to be economical CHAPTER XV.—An accident. A wild hope CHAPTER XVI.—"Truly, vengeance is mine" CHAPTER XVII.—Blondine gains the victory CHAPTER XVIII.—"A woman one does not meet every day" CHAPTER XIX.—A revelation CHAPTER XX.—Rea's atonement. The new Mother Superior CHAPTER XXI.—Ned Crane. "The one and the same," CHAPTER XXII.—Lord Streathmere's sit. Sir Barry's heart's desire CHAPTER XXIII.—Zoe's some day

PREFACE.

Just a few words to my readers, with regard to the book before them. The story of a girl's ambition; a novel certainly, but containing many incidents that have lately happened. It is most certainly very difficult to attempt to please every one, when there are so many different tastes to please. The many readers of my first novel, "Trixie's Inheritance; or, Which shall Win?" were kind enough to remember that the story had not come from the pen of a woman who had lived to realize the many changes that happen during years of personal experience, but that it had all been composed and written by a girl sixteen years old. They pardoned, overlooked the many flaws and mistakes, and remembered that we are not to be condemned for our first efforts. It was a very pleasant remembrance for me of my first book, that Her Majesty, Queen Victoria, on receipt of a copy, sent me the following recognition for my letter and book:

"General Sir Henry T. Ponsonby is commanded by the Queen to thank Miss May Leonard for her letter of the 20th March, and for the book she sends." Buckingham Palace. 18th May, 1887.

A copy was sent to Lord Lansdowne, Governor General of Canada, who also sent a pleasant note of thanks.

In conclusion, I wish to thank the many ladies and gentlemen who so heartily, willingly and kindly have assisted me in making this, my second book, so successful.

MAY LEONARD.

CHAPTER I.

AN INVITATION.

"Dolores, will he ever come?"

The hammock, slung between the two sturdy old apple trees, swings gently to and fro, the scorching rays of an August sun beat fiercely down, the bees hum lazily in the dense heat, the flowers droop their pretty heads, as if inviting a refreshing shower to brighten their fainting spirits.

"Dolores, I believe you are asleep. Do you think he will soon be here?"

"Who?" comes the lazy enquiry from the young lady of the hammock.

"Why, the postman, of course. How stupid of you not to remember. I never saw any one so indifferent in my life."

Zoe's red lips form themselves into as near a pout as her ever ready smiling mouth will allow.

"Who could be anything else than indifferent on a day such as this?" is the half sleepy reply.

"Dolores, like my own sweet sister, sit up and talk to me."

The bees hum on, the butterflies light here and there, now on this flower, now on that. Then sweet, gentle, pretty Dolores Litchfield stretches her white arms over her pretty head, yawns, and slips from the hammock.

"Now Zoe, you little worry, what is the trouble?"

Dropping into a garden chair, Dolores folds her white hands, to await further developments from her wilful, impulsive, harum-scarum sister Zoe.

"How handsome you are, Dolores. Do you think I shall ever be as beautiful as you, do you, Dolores?" the girl cries eagerly.

Dolores brushes a fly off her white dress and laughs softly.

"Ah, Zoe, what a little flatterer. One of those days I will be no comparison to my little sister; you will eclipse me in every respect." And Miss Litchfield smiles fondly at the troubled, eager face before her.

"Oh, I could never be like you, Dolores. I have a wicked temper, and a quick tongue; were I not to speak out what I think, why I should choke to death. I may have a pretty face and nice figure, but I can never be good, unselfish, forgiving, like you, never."

The girl shakes her head; she feels herself far from perfect. Since Dolores has come home from her foreign tour she has been her sister's ideal of all women.

"How I do wish he would come," the youngest Miss Litchfield says impatiently. "He is like the policemen in town, never around when they are wanted. Well," defiantly, "I don't care a snap of my finger if he comes or stays."

Dolores smiled in her lazy fashion; she is too much accustomed to Zoe's "ways," to say anything.

"Dolores, talk to me; tell me a story, anything to put in the time, something you saw on your visit abroad; it must be an Italian story; dear, beautiful, sunny Italy! Oh, Dolores! what would I not give to be there! What pictures I could paint! I did not for one moment begrudge your going, but if I could have had the chance, I would have painted pictures which would have made me famous. Oh, Dolores, think what it is to be famous. Some day, it may be far off or it may be near, but the time will surely come, when you will be proud to own me as your sister. I want—my ambition is—to be great, grand, noble."

Dolores laughs. "And good, my sister; that is better than all," she says, smiling. "My ambitious little one, do not be too eager, you have all your life before you yet; fame will not be caught easily; she demands much chasing, and those who pursue her have many slips and tumbles before they achieve their end, so be patient. And now for the story."

"Well, once upon a time there was a castle in Italy, a beautiful, costly, grand structure. The lord of the castle was a brave, generous gentleman, honorable and true. His lady was lovely, proud, and intensely jealous of her very charming husband; she had a gentle serving maid, Christina, a girl as pure in thought and deed as the lily; they had grown up as playfellows. The Countess was very fond of her, for she was not like her other friends. The Countess would quarrel with any and every one, on account of her fiery temper; with Christina she never quarreled. The maid was fond of solitude, and passed her spare time in wandering alone among a grove of beautiful trees, her white dress could often be seen as she paced back and forth among the dark trees, and gained for her, among the people, the name of the White Lady. The Countess' room was costly and elegant, the toilet table was of massive silver, covered with a profusion of everything handsome. Her chair was placed in front of the glass, and one day, so the legend runs, she was

sitting there, while Christina was combing her mistress's golden hair; the Count was called away on urgent business, and as he passed through the door she saw, as she believed, a smile, a glance at parting, given and answered, that turned her heart almost to stone. That night, ere the moon was up, Christina was led forth; no instrument of death was used, not one hair of her head was harmed. In all the full glow of life and health, fair, gentle, good Christina was walled up within the castle walls, in a vault under the chapel. And now, every night, at the same hour, a figure stands, with eyes uplifted, and hands clasped in prayer, then it vanishes, and the hunter meets her on his hunting track, and the shepherd on the heath starts and exclaims, 'It is the White Lady!'"

Dolores' voice sinks to a whisper; there are tears in her dusky eyes. Surely one would think the sad story of poor Christina awakened more than a passing feeling of sadness for her in Dolores' kind heart. Zoe was too much interested to notice her sister's silence.

"And you really walked in the Countess' own room, saw the grove where Christina walked and spent her lonely hours of solitude, and the vault which she never came out of?"

"Yes, dear, it was all very lovely, sad and beautiful," the eldest Miss Litchfield replies. "But look! your patience is rewarded; there comes the postman in at the gate."

Zoe darts off in quest of the daily post. Before many minutes she is back again, her face wreathed in smiles, for there actually was a letter addressed to Miss Zoe Litchfield, from an affectionate girl friend; and soon Zoe is deep in its contents. Dolores languidly scans the handwriting on the large square envelope addressed to herself, then breaks the seal, and reads; and as she reads a gleam of satisfaction, quickly followed by one of sorrow, passes over her ever changing face.

"What's in yours, Dolores?" Zoe asks, putting her own epistle in the pocket of her white frilled apron.

"There is to be a yachting party, and I have been invited to join it," Dolores answers, absently gazing at a rose bush stirred by the breeze.

"Oh!" Zoe ejaculates. "Will you go? Who asked you? Won't it be sublime?"

Zoe's eyes dilate, and a wish, not altogether unnatural in a girl fifteen years old, arises in her mind, to be Dolores. Now, however, Dolores smiles faintly, and says slowly,

"I shall think it over. The Hon. Jeremiah Hopkins sent the invitation, and as to its being sublime, I suppose so."

Then Dolores arises and goes across the lawn towards the house, with her white dress trailing over the green grass behind her. Pretty, graceful, sweet Dolores. What was the reason no one cared to be seen talking to her? And in crowded parlors or assemblies, if her name happened to be mentioned, why did virtuous mammas look at the person who spoke her name with such a shocked expression? Surely gentle Dolores could not have wronged any one by word or deed. A gentleman once said, speaking of Miss Litchfield, "That if ever a true, pure woman lived, a woman on whom any man might stake his life and honor, it was a woman like Dolores Litchfield whom he might trust." And it is quite safe to say, that this praise did not make Dolores any more of a favourite with the roomful of ladies of all ages, where the remark was made.

CHAPTER II.

I SHALL SNUB HER.

"And just for that one simple reason you refuse this invitation; which you have been craving for so long a time? Well, my dear, stranger every day grow the works and ways of this troublesome world. Of course you certainly know your own reasons best; it is nothing to me if you act foolish." Mrs. St. James shrugs her pretty shoulders as she looks with astonishment at her young visitor, charming Rea Severn, who, as she stands before the cosy fire, tapping her small foot impatiently on the brightly polished fender, looks the original of injured dignity.

"No, but Arial, just think yourself, how more than provoking it is. What do you think possessed Jerry to invite the girl? Oh dear, the men are so green sometimes; there is no accounting for their tastes in some matters."

Mrs. St. James smiles, and twists the heavy gold bracelet about on her white arm as she replies:

"Be reasonable, Rea; of the two, I have more reason to dread the meeting than you." Bitterly, "I owe her a debt, and she—I wonder if she has forgotten what she owes me?"

After a considerable pause, with some more impatient tapping of the little high-heeled boots on the fender, Rea decided that upon second thought, perhaps it would not do any good to any one, and beside be a great punishment to herself, to remain away from this entertainment. It had been so extremely nice of Jerry Hopkins, (the Honorable Jeremiah, but dubbed "Jerry" by his intimates), to give this yachting party to his friends. The gentlemen all declared it would be just the thing, and the ladies, why they were charmed. Then, above all, on their trip they were to visit one of H. M. steamships. The officers, who were all well known to the Hon. Jerry's guests, had invited them to a dance on board the war ship, lunch afterward, and then row by moonlight back to the yacht.

Rea Severn was delighted; but when she heard that pretty Dolores, the eldest daughter of Edward Litchfield, Esq., the genial and portly ship-builder, was one of the invited guests, she was so angry that on the impulse of the moment, in a burst of temper, she had flown to her bosom friend, wealthy Arial St. James, and declares her determination to refuse to go.

"And another thing, Rea," Mrs. St. James goes on in her soft, smooth tones, "you have surely heard of the arrival of Lady Streathmere and her son. To be sure I remember distinctly when I went to school with him, what a perfectly horrid little boy he was. Such a coward; beat all the little boys and girls smaller than himself, and run when one of his own age and size approached. But for appearance sake, and the hope that he has improved with his years, we must be civil. Then it must be remembered, a match like he would be, with I forget how much income a year, is not to be picked up every day for the asking. Perhaps if you are favored by Fate, and try hard enough, you might make an impression."

Rea was prevented from a replying by the door being opened and a servant announcing Mr. Gordon Aubrey. Mrs. St. James arises to welcome him, and Rea's pouting lips become radiant with smiles. Mr. Aubrey was tall, slight and fair. He had a great habit of continually looking at you through an eye-glass, which to some of his friends proved decidedly embarrassing. When the eye attachment proved wearisome he took to stroking a slight moustache, of which he was extremely proud, which was a very good thing, because no one else considered it worth noticing. They talked about the approaching yachting cruise, last night's concert, the theatre of last week, the people in town, the merits of the latest novel, and the last new song. Then Rea happened to glance toward the window, to behold the rain pouring in torrents. Mrs. St. James presses her to remain, but she declares it is impossible, that mamma will wonder what has happened to her. So Gordon Aubrey jumps up to offer Miss Severn a seat in his covered carriage waiting at the door; and Rea, thinking of

her thin shoes and the probable fate of the costly suit she is wearing, is not inclined to refuse to be driven home in Mr. Aubrey's or any one else's carriage. She likes him quite well, and so smilingly consents to go with nice looking but fickle Gordan Aubrey, who falls in love with every pretty new face he meets.

"And you will not refuse Jerry's invitation?" Mrs. St. James says, in a whisper; and Rea, as she stands in the hall, draws her tall figure to its fullest height, replies:

"No; I shall not refuse Jerry. As for Dolores Litchfield, I will snub her."

"My dear child," Mrs. St. James says quickly, "as I told you before, her going should not influence you, and why worry about imaginary evils; it is quite time enough when they appear, so be sensible; it is not your nature to despond."

As Rea turns to say good-bye, she cries impulsively, "Oh, Arial! what would become of me without you? I should get discouraged and give up altogether."

Gordon Aubrey calls out that he will have no more whispering, for who can tell but what it might be something about him. Then Rea takes her place in the large roomy carriage, while the footman climbs up in his seat beside the coachman, where in a united way they call down devout blessings on their master's head for his extreme thoughtlessness in letting the horses stay out in the rain for a good half hour. Such were the woes of Gordon Aubrey's Jehu.

CHAPTER III.

A YACHTING PARTY.

Out over the clear blue waters come floating sweetly the music of the band on board of Her Majesty's flag ship, the "Keepsake." Since five o'clock the war ship's dainty boats had been plying to and fro between the shore and the steamer, laden with gaily attired guests, for there was a dance being given on board by the officers. The little luxurious yacht, belonging to the Hon. Jeremiah Hopkins, anchored not many yards from the steamer, was left to itself, save for the crew and servants, for the Hon. Jeremiah and his guests were all over attending the gorgeous entertainment provided by the "Keepsake." A bright-hued awning covered the deck where dancing was enjoyed. The whole vessel had a gay holiday appearance; then everything was so spotlessly clean, why one could eat one's dinner off the very decks.

Mrs. St. James is here, looking superb. Her husband never accompanies his clever wife; she was much younger than he. Another thing, he was too much engrossed with his busy business life to care for gaieties; so he left her to go her own way, enjoy herself after her own fashion, nor ever complained if his dream of having a cosy home, with a bright pleasant companion to discuss his affairs with, and be his household fairy, had vanished. It certainly was nonsense to fancy such a life for Arial. Why, she was a mere child when he married her; she was of the world, worldly. So Mr. St. James kept his own counsel, his temper and his tongue. She is now standing by the railing, watching the little waves lapping against the ship's side. She is laughing too, in that lazy fashion so peculiarly her own, while the pretty boyish looking fellow at her side thinks that if ever he had a friend in the world, to whom he would confide his secrets, that woman is Mrs. St. James. No one knew exactly who Ned Crane was; he had no friends or relatives; at least no

one knew if he had any. He was a young bank clerk. Mrs. St. James was very proud of him, made a pet of him, while Mr. St. James liked the boy, and said "the lad would make a fine man if he lived." Every one liked him, for he was a jolly good fellow, beloved by one and all, as all sunny-dispositioned persons are, welcomed everywhere for the pleasant brightness their presence throws around.

"Do introduce me, Mrs. St. James. I will do any thing for you if you will. Come, before the next band."

Mrs. St. James does not reply, but the lazy smile leaves her perfect face, as she looks into the boy's dark, earnest eyes. Arial has good places in her character. She pities the young man at her side; it will not be without an effort, to save him further pain, that she refuses to do as he asks.

"Look here, Ned," she says gently, "why do you wish to know this Miss Litchfield? There are lots of the girls here whom you know; it is more than probable were you to ask for a dance she would refuse you, on the ground that all her dances are promised; so it would only be another case of the 'moth and the candle.' See, there is Florrie Silverstone just over there, waiting for you to ask her. Ah! Gordon, you promised to show me over the vessel; shall we go?" and Mrs. St. James places her dainty hand on Gordon Aubrey's arm, calls Rea to join them, and turns away.

"Well! of all the cool acts I ever heard of, that was done the neatest." Ned looks after the retreating trio with a comical mixture of amusement and vexation. Then he sees Jerry Hopkins, and when Mrs. St. James returns to dance her promised waltz with a lieutenant of the flagship, who had gone down without a struggle before her charms, she glances across the deck, while a look—is it displeasure, or what?—crosses her face, for what she sees is Ned Crane pacing to and fro, and beside him, in a marvel of a white lace dress, is Dolores Litchfield. She has removed her white lace and satin hat, and Ned, looking too utterly happy for anything, is carefully holding a huge white lace parasol above her pretty dark head. Arial St. James never loses her temper at trifles; if Ned will be so headstrong, to get himself into scrapes, he will have to get out again the best way he can. However, she goes over, with her prettiest smile, and taps Dolores on the shoulder with her fan.

"Can it be possible, Miss Litchfield, that you have forgotten me?"