“Dr. Lacey’s sweetheart!” repeated Mabel.  “Who is Dr. Lacey’s sweetheart, pray?”

“Do not blush so, Mabel; we do not mean you,” said Lida Gibson, a bright-eyed, witty girl, with a sprinkling of malice in her nature.

“Of course you do not mean me,” said Mabel, laughingly.  “But come, cousin; what of her?” And the young girls drew nearer to each other, and waited anxiously for Florence’s story.

Little did they suspect that another individual, with flushed brow, compressed lip and beating heart was listening to hear tidings of her whom Florence had designated as his sweetheart.  Dr. Lacey had entered the gentlemen’s dressing room unobserved.  He heard the sound of merry voices on the balcony, and was about to step out and surprise the girls when he caught the sound of his own name coupled with that of Fanny Middleton.  His curiosity was aroused and he became a listener to the following conversation: 

“Come, Florence,” said Lida, “do not keep us in suspense any longer.  Tell us whether she is black or white, fat or lean, rich or poor.”

“But first,” said Mabel, “tell us how you know she is anything to Dr. Lacey.”

“That is what I don’t know,” said Florence.  “I am only speaking of what has been.”

“Well, then,” said Mabel, more gayly, “go on,”

“This Fanny Middleton,” said Florence, “looks just as you would imagine a bright angel to look.”

How Dr. Lacey blessed her for these words.

“But,” continued Florence, “there is a singularly sad expression on her marble face.”

“I never observed it,” thought Dr. Lacey.

“What makes her sad?” asked Lida.

“That is a mystery to me,” answered Florence.  “Report says that she loved a Mr. Wilmot, who was engaged to her sister.”

“Engaged to her sister!” repeated Mabel.  “How strange!  But won’t it make trouble?”

“It cannot,” said Florence.  “Mr. Wilmot is dead, and it is whispered that Fanny’s heart was buried with him.  I should not be surprised if it were so, for Fanny has the saddest face I ever saw.  It made me want to cry when I looked at her.  I should have pitied her more, however, had she not been so well cared for by a Mr. Stanton, of New York.”

Large drops of perspiration stood thickly on Dr. Lacey’s forehead, and his hands, convulsively clasped, were pressed against his heart; still he did not lose a syllable as Florence continued, “I did not blame her for liking Stanton, for he would break half your hearts and turn the rest of you crazy.”

“But the sister,” asked all the young ladies, “how was she affected to think Fanny loved her betrothed?”

“Oh, that sister!” said Florence.  “You ought to see her!  She is beautiful beyond anything I can describe.  She eclipsed everything and everybody.”

“And she is as agreeable as handsome?” asked Mabel, whose fears were aroused that Julia might be the rival, instead of Fanny.