A vivid blush suffused Mona’s cheeks as she reached this point in her soliloquy, as if she was overcome at having allowed her thoughts to run away with her to such an extent.

“So Ray is coming to Hazeldean for the ball on Monday evening,” she continued, after a while.  “Shall I see him?  Yes, I shall try to,” with an air of resolution.  “If he loves me as well as I love him, why should any foolish sensitiveness prevent my allowing him to make it manifest, if he wishes?  I do not believe I have any right to ruin both our lives by hiding myself from him.  I will prove him in this way; but I must see him alone, so that no one will know that I am Mona Montague, instead of Ruth Richards, the sewing-girl.  What if he should ignore me?” she added, with sudden fear and growing very white; then, with renewed confidence:  “He will not; if he has been noble enough to confess his feelings to his father, he will not hide them from me.  He is noble and true, and I will not doubt him.”

CHAPTER XVIII.

“MY DARLING, I LOVE YOU!”

Mr. Palmer, true to his promise to the fair young guests at Hazeldean, telegraphed to Ray the next morning requesting him to come up for the ball on Monday.  Later in the day he received a reply from the young man stating that he would do so, although he did not mention the hour when he should arrive.

Thursday, Friday, and Saturday were gay and busy days, for the ball was to be a grand affair, and everybody was anxious to do all possible honor to the occasion and made preparations accordingly.

Mrs. Montague, however, was not so busy but that she managed to spend a good deal of her time with Mr. Palmer, who seemed to renew his youth in her presence, and was so gallant and attentive that the young people, who were exceedingly interested in watching the progress of this middle-aged romance, were kept in a constant flutter of amused excitement.  Mr. Wellington and his wife were also considerably diverted by the affair.

“I’m afraid Palmer is a ‘gone goose,’” the gentleman laughingly remarked to his spouse, after they had retired to their room on Saturday evening.

“It looks like it,” the lady returned; “and really,” she added, with some impatience, “there is something almost ridiculous to me in seeing an old man like him dancing attendance upon a gay young widow like Mrs. Montague.”

“Young! How old do you imagine her to be?” inquired Mr. Wellington.

“She cannot be much over thirty, and she dresses in a way to make her look even younger than that,” the lady responded.  “At all events, she seems like a mere girl beside portly, bald-headed Mr. Palmer, and I am afraid that he will regret it if he allows himself to become entangled in her net.”

“I see that you are not in favor of the match,” replied Mr. Wellington, much amused over his wife’s earnestness.