Quadrille follows quadrille, the waltz succeeds the schottish, the scene presents one bewildering maze of flaunting gossamers and girating bodies, now floating sylph-like into the foreground, then whirling seductively into the shadowy vista, where the joyous laugh dies out in the din of voices.  The excitement has seized upon the head and heart of the young,—­the child who stood trembling between the first and second downward step finds her reeling brain a captive in this snare set to seal her ruin.

Now the music ceases, the lusty-tongued call-master stands surveying what he is pleased to call the oriental splendor of this grotesque assembly.  He doesn’t know who wouldn’t patronize such a house!  It suddenly forms in platoon, and marshalled by slightly-colored masters of ceremony, promenades in an oblong figure.

Here, leaning modestly on the arm of a tall figure in military uniform, and advancing slowly up the hall, is a girl of some sixteen summers.  Her finely-rounded form is in harmony with the ravishing vivacity of her face, which is beautifully oval.  Seen by the glaring gaslight her complexion is singularly clear and pale.  But that freshness which had gained her many an admirer, and which gave such a charm to the roundness of early youth, we look for in vain.  And yet there is a softness and delicacy about her well-cut and womanly features-a child-like sweetness in her smile-a glow of thoughtfulness in those great, flashing black eyes-an expression of melancholy in which at short intervals we read her thoughts-an incessant playing of those long dark eyelashes, that clothes her charms with an irresistible, a soul-inspiring seductiveness.  Her dress, of moire antique, is chasteness itself; her bust exquisite symmetry; it heaves as softly as if touched by some gentle zephyr.  From an Haidean brow falls and floats undulating over her marble-like shoulders, the massive folds of her glossy black hair.  Nature had indeed been lavish of her gifts on this fair creature, to whose charms no painter could give a touch more fascinating.  This girl, whose elastic step and erect carriage contrasts strangely with the languid forms about her, is Anna Bonard, the neglected, the betrayed.  There passes and repasses her, now contemplating her with a curious stare, then muttering inaudibly, a man of portly figure, in mask and cowl.  He touches with a delicate hand his watch-guard, we see two sharp, lecherous eyes peering through the domino; he folds his arms and pauses a few seconds, as if to survey the metal of her companion, then crosses and recrosses her path.  Presently his singular demeanor attracts her attention, a curl of sarcasm is seen on her lip, her brow darkens, her dark orbs flash as of fire,—­all the heart-burnings of a soul stung with shame are seen to quicken and make ghastly those features that but a moment before shone lambent as summer lightning.  He pauses as with a look of withering scorn she scans him from head to foot, raises covertly her left hand,