“As you doubtless know,” Mona replied, “Uncle Walter died very suddenly the day after I attended the opera with you, and for a fortnight afterward I was so overcome with grief and—­other troubles, that I scarcely looked at a paper.  After that, one day, I saw a brief item referring to the robbery, and it is only since I came here that I had even a hint that you had been ill.”

“Come, then, dear, and let me tell you about it, and then I am sure you will absolve me from all willful neglect,” Ray said, as he led her to a tete-a-tete and seated himself beside her.  “But first tell me,” he added, “how I happen to find you here.  Are you one of the guests?”

“No,” Mona said, blushing slightly, “You know, of course, that I lost home and everything else when I lost Uncle Walter, and now I am simply acting as seamstress and waiting maid to a Mrs. Montague, who is a guest here.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the young man, with a start, as he remembered how Mrs. Montague had denied all knowledge of Mona.  “I have met the lady—­is she a relative of yours?”

“No; at least, I never saw her until I entered her house to serve her.”

“My poor child! to think that you should have to go out to do such work,” said Ray, with tender regret.  “But of course, as you say, I can understand all about it, for that, too, was in the papers; but it was very heartless, very cruel in that Mrs. Dinsmore not to make you any allowance, when she could not fail to know that your uncle wished you to inherit his property.  She must be a very obnoxious sort of person, isn’t she?”

“I do not know,” said Mona, with a sigh; “I have never seen her—­at least, not since I was a child, and too young to remember anything about her.”

“Do you mean that you did not meet her during the contest for Mr. Dinsmore’s fortune?” questioned Ray in surprise.

“No, she did not appear at all personally; all her business was transacted through her lawyer, as mine was through Mr. Graves,” Mona answered.

“Well, it was an inhuman thing for her to do, to take everything and leave you penniless, and obliged to earn your own living.  But that is all over now,” the young man said, looking fondly into the fair face beside him.  “Isn’t it, darling?  You have told me that you love me, but you have not yet promised me anything.  You are going to be my wife, are you not, Mona?”

“I hope so—­if you wish—­some time,” she answered, naively, yet with crimson cheeks and downcast eyes.

He laughed out gladly as he again embraced her.

“‘Some time, if I wish,’” he repeated.  “Well, I do wish, and the some time must be very soon, too.  Ah, my sweet, brown-eyed girlie! how happy I am at this moment!  I did not dream that I was to find such a wealth of joy when I came hither at my father’s earnest request.  I was grieving so for you I had no heart for the gayeties which I knew I should find here; now, however, I shall not find it difficult to be as gay as any one.  How glad I am, too, that I came to-night to find you here alone.  My father does not expect me until to-morrow; but I had a matter of importance to talk over with him, so ran up on the evening train.  But I am forgetting that I have a thrilling story to tell you.”