Turning to Lizzie, who, fortunately, had not noticed her agitation, she said, “What did you say his name was?”

“St. Leon, from New Orleans,” replied Lizzie.

“Then I’m not mistaken,” Ada said inaudibly.

At that moment Anna Graham approached, and whispered something to Ada, who gave a startled look, saying, “Oh, no, Miss Anna; you would not have me make myself ridiculous.”

“Certainly not,” answered Anna; “neither will you do so, for some of your songs you sing most beautifully.  Do come; I wish to surprise my friends.”

Ada consented rather unwillingly, and Anna led her toward the music-room, followed by a dozen or more, all of whom wondered what a sewing woman’s daughter knew about music.  On their way to the piano they passed near St. Leon and Lucy, the former of whom started as his eye fell upon Ada.

“I did not think there was another such face in the world,” said he, apparently to himself; then turning to Lucy, he asked who that beautiful girl was.

“Which one?” asked Lucy; “there are many beauties here to-night.”

“I mean the one with the white muslin, and dark auburn curls,” said St. Leon.

Lucy’s brow darkened but she answered, “That? oh, that is Ada Harcourt.  Her mother is a poor sewing woman.  I never met Ada before, and cannot conceive how she came to be here; but then the Grahams are peculiar in their notions, and I suppose it was a whim of Anna’s.”

Without knowing it, St. Leon had advanced some steps toward the door through which Ada had disappeared.  Lucy followed him, vexed beyond measure that the despised Ada Harcourt should even have attracted his attention.

“Is she as accomplished as handsome?” asked he.

“Why, of course not,” answered Lucy, with a forced laugh.  “Poverty, ignorance, and vulgarity go together, usually, I believe.”

St. Leon gave her a rapid, searching glance, in which disappointment was mingled, but before he could reply there was the sound of music.  It was a sweet, bird-like voice which floated through the rooms, and the song it sang was a favorite one of St. Leon’s, who was passionately fond of music.

“Let us go nearer,” said he to Lucy, who, nothing loath, accompanied him, for she, too, was anxious to know who it was that thus chained each listener into silence.

St. Leon at length got a sight of the singer, and said with evident pleasure, “Why, it’s Miss Harcourt!”

“Miss Harcourt!  Ada Harcourt!” exclaimed Lucy.  “Impossible!  Why, her mother daily toils for the bread they eat!”