“Do you know, Mollie,” said Miriam, slowly, “I think you are in love?”

“Ah! do you really?  Well, Miriam, you used to spae fortunes for a living.  Look into my palm now, and tell me who is the unhappy man.”

“Is this artist you speak of handsome and young?”

“Handsome and young, and tolerably rich, and remarkably clever.  Is it he?”

“I think it is.”

Mollie smiled softly, and looked into the glowing mask of coals.

“You forget I refused him, Miriam.”

“Bah! a girl’s caprice.  If you discovered he was your mysterious husband, would you blow out his brains and your own?”

“No,” said Mollie, coolly.  “I would much rather live with Hugh Ingelow than die with him.  Handsome Hugh.”  Her eyes softened and grew humid.  “You are right, Miriam.  You can spae fortunes, I see.  I do like Hugh, dearly.  But he is not the man.”

“No?  Are you sure?”

“Quite sure.  He is too chivalrous, for one thing, to force a lady’s inclination.”

“Don’t trust any of them.  Their motto is:  ‘All fair in love!’ And then, you know, you played him a very shabby trick.”

“I know I did.”

Miss Dane laughed at the recollection.

“And he said he would not forget.”

“So they all said.  That’s why I fear it may be one of the three.”

“And it is one of the three; and you are not the clever girl I give you credit to be if you can not find it out.”

“How?”

“Are they so much alike in height, and gait, and manner of speaking, and fifty other things, that you can’t identify him in spite of his mask?”

“It is not so easy to recognize a masked man when he disguises himself in a long cloak and speaks French in a feigned voice.  Those three men are very much of a height, and all are straight and slender.  I tried and tried again, I tell you, during that last week, and always failed.  Sometimes I thought it was one, and sometimes another.”

“Try once more,” said Miriam, pithily.

“How?”

“Are you afraid of this masked man?”

“Afraid?  Certainly not.  I have nothing to fear.  Did he not keep his word and restore me to my friends at the expiration of the week?  You should have heard him, Miriam, at that last interview—­the eloquent, earnest, impassioned way in which he bid me good-bye.  I declare, I felt tempted for an instant to say:  ’Look here, Mr. Mask; if you love me like that, and if you’re absolutely not a fright, take off that ugly, black death’s-head you wear, and I’ll stay with you always, since I am your wife.’  But I didn’t.”

“You would not fear to meet him again, then?”

“On the contrary, I should like it, of all things.  There is a halo of romance about this mysterious husband of mine that renders him intensely interesting.  Girls love romance dearly; and I’m only a girl, you know.”

“And the silliest girl I ever did know,” said Miriam.  “I believe you’re more than half in love with this man in the mask; and if it turns out to be the artist, you will plump into his arms, forever and always.”