The ball was a brilliant affair, and everybody was in excellent spirits, especially the ladies.  Ralph danced incessantly, twirled his soft mustache, and uttered amiable platitudes.  It was toward midnight, just as the company was moving out to supper, that he caught the glance of a pair of dark-blue eyes, which suddenly drove the blood to his cheeks and hastened the beating of his heart.  But when he looked once more the dark-blue eyes were gone, and his unruly heart went on hammering against his side.  He laid his hand on his breast and glanced furtively at his fair neighbor, but she looked happy and unconcerned, for the flavor of the ice cream was delicious.  It seemed an endless meal, but, when it was done, Ralph rose, led his partner back to the ballroom, and hastily excused himself.  His glance wandered round the wide hall, seeking the well-remembered eyes once more, and, at length, finding them in a remote corner, half hid behind a moving wall of promenaders.  In another moment he was at Bertha’s side.

“You must have been purposely hiding yourself, Miss Bertha,” said he, when the usual greetings were exchanged.  “I have not caught a glimpse of you all this evening, until a few moments ago.”

“But I have seen you all the while,” answered the girl, frankly.  “I knew you at once as I entered the hall.”

“If I had but known that you were here,” resumed Ralph, as it were invisibly expanding with an agreeable sense of dignity, “I assure you, you would have been the very first one I should have sought.”

She raised her large grave eyes to his, as if questioning his sincerity; but she made no answer.

“Good gracious!” thought Ralph.  “She takes things terribly in earnest.”

“You look so serious, Miss Bertha,” said he, after a moment’s pause.  “I remember you as a bright-eyed, flaxen-haired little girl, who threw her German exercise-book to me across the yard, and whose merry laughter still rings pleasantly in my memory.  I confess I don’t find it quite easy to identify this grave young lady with my merry friend of three years ago.”

“In other words, you are disappointed at not finding me the same as I used to be.”

“No, not exactly that; but—­”

Ralph paused and looked puzzled.  There was something in the earnestness of her manner which made a facetious compliment seem grossly inappropriate, and in the moment no other escape suggested itself.

“But what?” demanded Bertha, mercilessly.

“Have you ever lost an old friend?” asked he, abruptly.

“Yes; how so?”

“Then,” answered he, while his features lighted up with a happy inspiration—­“then you will appreciate my situation.  I fondly cherished my old picture of you in my memory.  Now I have lost it, and I can not help regretting the loss.  I do not mean, however, to imply that this new acquaintance—­this second edition of yourself, so to speak—­will prove less interesting.”