the depth of feeling in her violet eyes, that involuntarily fixed the attention of the observer, and awoke in his breast an interest for which he could scarcely account. She was magnificently attired in a tunic dress of light-blue satin, with a rich embroidery of silver—and costly pearls were clasped about her throat, her rounded arms, and gleamed amid the heavy masses of her braided hair. The young men did not speak until she had crossed the room and was hidden from their sight by the intervening crowd; then drawing a long breath, the stranger asked of his companion—“Frank, in the name of all that’s beautiful, who is that lovely creature?” “That,” said Frank Stanley, “that is Miss Munro, our belle and heiress.” “Miss Munro!” exclaimed the other, while his color was considerably heightened, “is that Miss Munro?” “Why yes. What is there so surprising about it? Do you know her?” “No,” was the reply, “but I have often heard of her.” Then after a pause, he added, “Can you present me?” “Certainly, if you wish it,” rejoined his friend, and they crossed the apartment. “Miss Munro, permit me to present to you my friend, Mr. Gordon.” There was a low bow on the part of the gentleman, a courteous salutation on that of the lady, and after a few commonplace remarks, Elizabeth Munro was led to the dance by Frederick Gordon. “The handsomest couple in the room by all odds,” said Frank Stanley. “I should not wonder if that should be a match yet. Gordon is half in love already, and if he undertakes to win her and does not succeed, I don’t know who can.” And with these words he turned away to join a group of friends who were chatting merrily at a little distance. Arthur Talmadge, the young artist addressed, gazed upon the dancers sadly and earnestly for a few moments, and then murmuring—“Stanley is right—if he cannot win her who can?” he hurried from the ball-room. Nobly gifted, but poor and proud, he felt that he had nothing in common with that gay throng, and he bent his steps toward his own cheerless room. And Frank Stanley and Arthur Talmadge were not the only ones who arrived at the same conclusion. One by one the admirers of Miss Munro—and their name was legion—dropped off until the field was left entirely to Frederick Gordon.