"I cannot think of anything at present, Colonel Carlyle, that would please me so well as a few years at a Parisian school such as you mentioned." "She is only too glad to have an opportunity of separating herself from me," he thinks, bitterly; but aloud he answers coldly, "So be it; I shall be happy to meet your wishes." CHAPTER XXI. It is barely midnight and the mirth and merriment are at their hight down-stairs. Bonnibel hears the sound of "The violin, flute and bassoon, And the dancers dancing in tune." through all her interview with Colonel Carlyle, but when it is ended she does not return to the ball-room. She leaves him with a cold good-night, and retires to her own room. Lucy, her maid, starts up drowsily from her easy-chair as she enters. "You here, Lucy?" she says. "I told you not to stay up for me. You should not break your rest staying up night after night like this." "Lor', Miss Bonnibel, I have had as comfortable a snooze in your arm-chair as if I had been tucked into my bed," Lucy answers good-naturedly. "Don't you go for to worry over me staying up. I kin stand it if you kin." Her mistress stands in the center of the room, her eyes shining, her white hands tearing at the diamond necklace about her throat. "Take it off, Lucy," she cries out impatiently. "It hurts me, it chokes me!" Lucy hastens to obey, but starts back as she sees the wild, white face of the hapless girl. "Oh, me!" she exclaims, "you look like a ghost, you are that white. Are you sick, Miss Bonnibel? Let me get you something to take--some wine, or something?" "No, no, I wish nothing," she answers, impatiently. "Only undress me, Lucy, and help me to bed. I am very tired--that is all." She sits quite still while Lucy removes the jewels that shine about her, the white satin slippers, the elegant dress, and brings the snowy night-dress instead. Then as the maid kneels down and buttons the delicate robe, Bonnibel, glancing down, sees her eyes full of tears and her full lip quivering. "Lucy," she says, in surprise, "what is it? What has grieved you?" Lucy starts as if frightened at being detected. "Forgive me, ma'am," she says; "it's for you I grieve. You are that changed that I can't bear it! Here I have been your maid since you was a little girl of twelve, and how happy you used to be before the master died--now for goin' on a year I've never seen a real smile on your face. Something troubles you all the time. Can't I help you? Can't I do something for you?" The humble, patient fidelity of the girl touches Bonnibel to the heart, it is so seldom that an honest, heartfelt word of kindness falls on her ears. Impulsively she bends and puts her lily white hand into the strong clasp of the girl sitting humbly at her feet, looking up at her with tear-filled eyes. "Lucy, my poor girl," she says, plaintively, "I believe you are the only true friend I have on earth!"