bitter, “it would seem like the irony of fate to have her child thrown thus into my power.  But if she is Mona Montague why does she call herself Ruth Richards? what can be her object?  Can it be possible,” she added, with a startled look, “that she has been told her history, and she has engaged herself to me with the purpose of trying to obtain the proofs of it?  Is she deep enough for that? or has she been advised to adopt such a course?  She seems to be very frank and innocent, intent only upon doing her work well and pleasing me.  Yet, if she should get hold of any of those proofs, she could make a great deal of trouble for me.  I believe I shall have to destroy them, although I always feel as if a ghost were haunting me whenever I touch them.  I shall never be satisfied until I learn Ruth’s history.  I’ll attack her about the Palmers; if she is Mona Montague—­the girl that Ray Palmer loves—­she certainly will betray herself if I take her unawares; although she did not appear to know Mr. Palmer, last evening.”

Mona returned at this moment, and Mrs. Montague’s musings were cut short.

The young girl had recovered her self-control, and was as calm and collected as usual; even more so, for she had told herself that she must be more on her guard or she would betray her identity.

Mrs. Montague appeared to have forgotten all about their recent conversation, and chatted sociably about various topics for a while.  But suddenly she asked: 

“Did you observe the new arrival last night, Ruth?”

“Do you mean that portly gentleman, who is slightly bald, and with whom you went out for refreshments?” Mona inquired, lifting a frank, inquiring look to her companion, though her heart beat fast at this reference to Ray’s father.

“Yes; he is very fine-looking, don’t you think so?”

“Perhaps so—­rather,” replied Mona, reflectively.

“That is ‘rather’ doubtful praise, I am afraid,” observed Mrs. Montague, with a light laugh.  “I think he is a very handsome old gentleman, and he is certainly a decidedly entertaining companion.  You know who he is, I suppose.”

“I do not think that I heard anybody address him by name while I was in the drawing-room; of course; I was not introduced to any one,” Mona evasively answered.

“His name is Palmer,” Mrs. Montague remarked, as she bent a searching look upon the young girl.

But Mona had herself well in hand now, and she made no sign that the name was a familiar one to her.

“He has a son who is strikingly good looking, too,” Mrs. Montague continued.  “I met them both at a reception in New York a little while ago, and was greatly attracted to them, though just now the young man is rather unhappy—­in fact, he is wearing the willow for some girl whom he imagines he loves.”

Mrs. Montague paused to note the effect of this conversation, but Mona had finished fastening the buckle on the slipper, and quietly taken up some other work, though her pulses were beating like trip-hammers.