In the last scene, when she comes on as a bride, Harry remembered, with a curious laugh, she had never been so attired for him.  Bluebell was warming to her part.  She and Peter Spyk were pulling the whole coach, and when the play was ended they were both loudly called for before the curtains.

Happy and delighted at her success, it was hard to fall from triumph to insignificance; but, in the first flush of the former, Bluebell was left in solitude.  Her fellow actors had flown away to exchange their theatrical costume for ball dress, and she had received no carte blanche to mingle with the dancers.

Lingering listlessly alone in the greenroom, wishing to join the rest, and hoping some one might think of sending for her, she had thrown herself into an easy-chair, back to the door, which was half-open.  There was a slight sound of a rapid, stealthy footstep, and, before she had time to look round, a twisted note was tossed into her lap.

Bluebell started to her feet.  Her heart gave one great jump, and her cheeks were blanched.

She rushed to the door.  Too late,—­the passage was empty.  After reading the note, she walked backwards and forwards, in an incoherent state of excitement, pondering its contents, and was returning to the deserted school-room, when she was met and stopped by Lord Bromley.

“Not dressed yet!” he exclaimed.  “Or is Gertrude going to dance in this pretty bridal array?”

“This dress is Miss Barrington’s.  Good-night, Lord Bromley,” said Bluebell, trying to pass.

“What! you poor child, are you sent to bed?  Come along with me.  I’ll make it right with Mrs. Barrington.”

“I cannot, indeed.  I am ill—­I am tired,” said Bluebell, desperately.

Lord Bromley’s eyes were fixed inquiringly upon her; but people were coming along the passage, and, escaping from him, she darted off.

No one was in the nursery.  Bluebell hastily changed her dress, wrapped herself in a dark cloak, and drew the hood over her head; then, descending the staircase, listened a moment at the foot.  No one seemed about.  She flew down a dark passage into the billiard-room, threw open the French window, and stepped out.  It was as dark as a summer’s night ever is, and a soft shower was falling; but Bluebell took no heed.  Avoiding the front of the house, she threaded her way by the back settlements.  A dog barked, and a poaching cat was marauding about.  The grass felt damp and clinging as she struck into what was called “The West Drive.”  It was not kept exactly in lawn order there.  A hundred yards further on was a summer-house, thatched inside and out with moss, from which, long ere she reached it, Harry Dutton emerged, and, folding her in his arms, drew her within its shelter.

In the meantime, the ball was in full swing; every now and then inquiries were made for the missing heir.  “Did not Mr. Dutton come to-night?  I wonder what has become of him!” Lord Bromley wondered too; but, before he had time to be really offended at his absence.  Mr. Dutton was observed valsing with Lady Geraldine.  The young sailor was no whit less interesting for his Crimean campaign, to which his wound lent an additional prestige; and it was astonishing what severe remarks were made on the unloveliness of the partner with whom he most frequently danced that night.