Her only object had been to oblige Kitty McKenzie and avoid dancing with the guests.

“I had a relative who gave me lessons for a while,” she said, in reply to Mrs. Montague’s query.

“For a while!” repeated that lady, who had not been unobservant of the flush.  “You finger the piano as if you had been accustomed to diligent practice all your life, and you must have had the best of instruction, too.”

“I am very fond of music, and it was never any task to me to practice,” Mona remarked.  Then she added, to change the topic:  “Shall I baste this ruffle in the full width, or shall I set it down a trifle?”

Mrs. Montague smiled at the tact of her pretty companion, in thus attempting to draw her attention to her own affairs.

A good many things had convinced her of late that her seamstress had not been reared in poverty, and certain suspicions, that had startled her when she first saw her, were beginning to force themselves again upon her.

“You can set it down a trifle,” she replied; then she asked, persistently returning to the previous question:  “Why do you not give music lessons, since you play so well, instead of sewing for your living?  I should suppose it would be a much more congenial occupation.”

“There are so many music teachers, and one needs a reputation in order to obtain pupils; besides, people would doubtless regard me as too young to have had much experience in teaching.  There, I have finished this—­is there anything else I can do for you?” and Mona laid the dress she had been at work upon on a chair, and stood awaiting further orders.

“Yes; the buckle on this slipper needs to be more securely fastened.  It is true that there are legions of music teachers.  Was this relative of yours a teacher?”

“Oh, no; he simply bore the expense of my instruction.”

“I suppose he cannot be living, or you would not be sewing for me,” Mrs. Montague remarked, with another searching glance.

“No,” was the brief reply, and hot tears rushed to Mona’s eyes, blinding her so that she could hardly see where to put her needle.

She then made some remark to the effect that she needed some stronger silk, and left the room to hide the grief which she found so hard to control.

“Aha! this relative must be the friend for whom she is in mourning—­he cannot have been dead very long, for the girl is unable to speak of him without tears,” muttered Mrs. Montague, thoughtfully, a heavy frown settling on her brow.  “There is some mystery about her which I am bound to ferret out; she is exceedingly reticent about herself—­I wonder if my suspicions can be correct?” she continued, her face settling into hard, revengeful lines.  “She certainly looks enough like that girl to be her child.  If I were sure, I would not spare her; I would crush her, for the hate that I bore her mother, notwithstanding she is so useful to me.  Ha, ha!” and the laugh was exceedingly