More than a year had passed since that dark and rainy morn on the shores of France, when Xenie had wandered up and down on the "sea-beat shore" seeking her lost sister--a year that had brought its inevitable changes, and dulled the first sharp edge of grief--so that to-night she was to throw off her mourning robes and reappear in society for the first time at a ball given by her aunt, Mrs. Egerton. Yet, after that first moment of exultant triumph at her mother's praise, a faint, intangible shadow settled over Mrs. St. John's brilliant face. The scarlet lips took a graver curve upon their honeyed sweetness, the dark, curling lashes drooped low, until they shaded the peachy cheek. The white-gloved hand that held the rare bouquet drooped wearily at her side. "Mamma," she said, abruptly, "I wish I had not promised to go." "What has come over you, Xenie? I thought you had looked forward to this night with real pleasure." "I did--I do, mamma, and yet for the moment my heart grew sad. I was thinking of poor little Lora." A hot tear splashed down upon her cheek, and Mrs. Carroll sighed heavily, while her grave, sad face grew sadder and graver still. She put her hand upon her heart. "Oh, that we might have her back!" she breathed, in a voice that was almost a moan of pain. "The carriage is waiting, madam," said Finette, appearing at the door. "Well, I am ready," said Mrs. St. John, listlessly. "My cloak, Finette." The maid came forward and threw the elegant wrap about her shoulders, and leaving a light kiss on her mother's lips, Mrs. St. John swept out of the dressing-room and down to the carriage that waited to take her to the brilliant _fete_ that Mrs. Egerton had planned in her especial honor. Mrs. Carroll bent her steps to the nursery. Ninon, the little French nurse, sat beside the hearth sewing on a bit of fancy work, and the soft glow of firelight and gaslight shining upon her made her look like a quaint, pretty picture in her neat costume and dark prettiness. The nursery was a dainty, airy, white-hung chamber. It had been a smoking-room in Mr. St. John's time. His widow had converted it into a nursery. In a beautiful rosewood, lace-draped crib lay the spurious heir to the millionaire's wealth--a beautiful, rosy healthy boy, sleeping softly and sweetly in innocent unconsciousness of the terrible fraud that had been perpetrated in his name. For Mrs. St. John's daring scheme had succeeded. Lora's child had been foisted upon the law and the world as the millionaire's legal heir, and Howard Templeton's heritage had passed into the hands of the child's guardian, Mrs. St. John, his pretended mother. But, alas! in the hour of her triumph, when the golden fruit of her wild revenge was within her grasp, its sweetness had palled upon her, its taste had been bitter to her lips. It was but Dead Sea fruit, after all.