With these words Van Vernet turns upon his heel, and strides away with the air of a man who can do all that he essays. "He is cool to the verge of impudence!" mutters Alan, as he gazes after the receding figure in the British uniform. "But I will act upon his advice; I _will_ watch Mrs. Warburton." It is some moments before he catches sight of her glimmering robes, and then he sees them receding, gliding swiftly, and, as he thinks, with a nervous, hurried movement unusual to his stately sister-in-law. She is going through the drawing-room, away from the dancers, and he hastens after, wondering a little as to her destination. From a flower-adorned recess, a fairy form springs out, interrupting the lady in the glimmering robes. "Mamma!" cries little Daisy, "oh Mamma, I have found Mother Goose--_real, live_ Mother Goose!" And she points with childish delight to a quaintly dressed personation of that old woman of nursery fame, who sits within the alcove, leaning upon her oaken staff, and peering out from beneath the broad frill of her cap, her gaze eagerly following the movements of the animated child. "Oh Mamma!" continues the little one, "can't I stay with Mother Goose? Millie says I must go to bed." At another time Leslie Warburton would have listened more attentively, have answered more thoughtfully, and have noted more closely the manner of guest that was thus absorbing the attention of the little one. Now she only says hurriedly: "Yes, yes, Daisy; you may stay a little longer,--only," with a hasty glance toward the alcove, "you must not trouble the lady too much." "The lady wants me, mamma." "Then go, dear." And Leslie gathers up her glimmering train and hastens on without once glancing backward. Pausing a few paces behind her, Alan Warburton has noted each word that has passed between the lady and the child. And now, as the little one bounds back to Mother Goose, who receives her with evident pleasure, he moves on, still following Leslie. She glides past the dancers, through the drawing rooms, across the music room, and then, giving a hasty glance at the few who linger there, she pulls aside a silken curtain, and looks into the library. The lights are toned to the softness of moonlight; there is silence there, and solitude. With a long, weary sigh, Leslie enters the library and lets the curtain fall behind her. Alan Warburton pauses, hesitates for a moment, and then, seeing that the little group of maskers near him seem wholly absorbed in their own merriment, he moves boldly forward, parts the curtain a little way, and peers within. He sees a woman wearing the garments of Sunlight and the face of despair. She has torn off her mask, and it lies on the floor at her feet. In her hand is a crumpled scrap of paper, and, as she holds it nearer the light and reads what is written thereon, a low moan escapes her lips.