“I—­I helped to make it.  I told you I do not know how to fit,” Mona answered, with a quick flush, and almost a feeling of guilt, for she had really done but very little work upon the simple black robe which had been made since her uncle’s death.

“Well, I shall soon find out how much you do know,” said the lady in a business-like tone.  “You can begin upon those sheets and pillow slips to-morrow morning—­Mary has told you, I suppose.  That will be plain sewing, and you can manage it well enough by yourself.  Now you may go,” and the elegant woman turned to her dressing-case, gathered up an exquisite point-lace fan and handkerchief, while Mona stole softly out of the room and up to her own, where, no longer able to control the nervous excitement under which she was laboring, she wept herself to sleep.

The poor grief-stricken girl felt very desolate on this, her first night beneath a strange roof, and realized, as she had not before, that she was utterly alone in the world, and dependent upon the labor of her own hands for her future support.

Aside from the grief which she experienced in losing her uncle and the lovely home which for so many years had been hers, she was both wounded and mortified because of Ray Palmer’s apparent indifference.

She could not understand it, for he had always seemed so innately good and noble that it was but natural she should expect some evidence of sympathy from him.

He had been so marked in his attentions to her during that evening at the opera, he had appeared so eager for her permission to call, and had implied, by both words and manner, that he found his greatest pleasure in her society, she felt she had a right to expect some condolence from him.

She had begun to believe—­to hope that he entertained a more tender sentiment than that of mere friendship for her, and she had become conscious that love for him—­and the strongest passion of her nature—­had taken deep root in her own heart.

How kind he had been to her that night—­how thoughtful! anticipating her every wish!  How his glance and even the tones of his voice had softened and grown tender whenever their eyes had met, or he had spoken to her!

What, then, could be the meaning of his recent neglect?  Could it be possible that it had been occasioned by the loss of her wealth?—­that it had been simply the heiress of the wealthy Mr. Dinsmore in whom he had been interested, and now, having lost all, his regard for her had ceased?

It was a bitter thought, but she could assign no other reason for his strange silence and absence during her sorrow.

Must she resign all the sweet hopes that had begun to take form in her heart?—­all the bright anticipations in which he had borne so conspicuous a part?

Must she lose faith in one who had appeared to be so manly, so noble, and so high-minded?

It certainly seemed so, and thus the future looked all the darker before her, for, humiliating as it was to confess it, she knew that Ray Palmer was all the world to her; that life without him would be almost like a body without a soul, a world without a sun.