Kathleen was all in white--a simple form of mourning--and white flowers, set off by their own green leaves, were her only adorning. And Teddy Darrell? Well, the young swell "was gotten up regardless," as one of his friends remarked--"a golden youth" like himself. His evening dress was faultless, and his button-hole bouquet matched Kathleen's white flowers. His diamonds were magnificent, and his whole air was so hopeful and exuberant that when Ralph Chainey from the stage first caught sight of him his heart sunk with despair. He felt that "flirting Teddy" was a rival to be dreaded. "Why need she have come to torture me with the sight of all I have lost?" he thought, despairingly; but he went on splendidly with his part in the play. A stubborn pride came to his aid. She should not see how he was suffering, this lovely, scornful girl leaning back in her chair to look up into the handsome face so close to her own as attentive Teddy wielded the white ostrich feather fan. She scarcely seemed to see what went on upon the stage; she did not look across into the box where her step-mother and Alpine were staring in angry surprise. She looked only at Teddy Darrell; she smiled only at him. It was such a pronounced flirtation that the crowded house observed it and smiled indulgently at the handsome pair, declaring that it would certainly be a match. Whispers, too, were circulating among the people who had known Kathleen Carew in her life-time. Who was this girl with the face and smile of the dead heiress?--that luring face so subtly beautiful that no one had dreamed the world could hold a copy. Curiosity moved a gentleman, when the curtain fell, to go and ask Mrs. Carew about it. "I am as much amazed as you are," she replied. "Then you can not tell me who she is," he said, regretfully. "She is masquerading under the name of my dead step-daughter, and pretends to be resurrected from a trance, or something like that. We first heard about it yesterday," was Mrs. Carew's curt reply. "Then you have not seen her until to-night?" "No," nervously. "Shall you acknowledge her, Mrs. Carew?" "No. She is an impostor, and we will have nothing to do with the minx." "Speak for yourself, mamma," said Alpine, pertly. "I'm not sure she's an impostor, for it is Kathleen's face and her very gestures. I am going over to Mrs. Stone's box and find out the truth for myself, if Mr. Layne will take me." She rose, drawing the blue wrap about her white shoulders. Mrs. Carew stared aghast. "You will not, you _must_ not!" she exclaimed, angrily. Alpine bent down and whispered rapidly in her ear: "What does it matter? I have her money safe; she could not get it if she lived a thousand years, and I have my own plans. You must not interfere with them." When Alpine took that tone, her mother knew that protest was useless. "Do as you please," she muttered, angrily, and tossed her head as Alpine went out leaning on Mr. Layne's arm.