On the night before the Goodwood races, there was a great ball at Marlborough House, to which Elizabeth and Darrell were commanded. Never had Elizabeth looked handsomer. A black evening gown showed off the perfections, the exquisite beauty, of her white shoulders and slender arms. The necklace around her milky white throat looked like moonlight and starlight combined. “You will make a sensation to–night, my girl,” said Darrell, kissing her. “If you like my looks, that is the main point,” replied Elizabeth. She habitually made him these pretty speeches, which was gratifying to Darrell, as the husband of a beauty. They went to the ball, which had a gayety unsurpassed in balls. It established Elizabeth’s place in society as one of the beauties of the season. She received vast attention from those London exquisites who claim to fix a woman’s place in beauty’s calendar. She was noticed, admired, and conversed with by royalty itself, and the Prince having thus set his mark of approval on her, Elizabeth’s title as a London beauty was settled beyond cavil. She enjoyed it thoroughly, of course; but the image of Pelham did not leave her mind. She would turn her head in the midst of the splendor and magnificence of the ball, wishing to herself, “Could I but see him now!” The ball lasted late, and it was not over until night had flown and the rosy dawn had come. Elizabeth was one of the few women sufficiently natural to look well after a night of dancing, and she looked as fresh as the dawn itself when she stepped into her carriage. Not so Darrell, who appeared so wearied that Elizabeth reproached herself at not having left earlier. “I didn’t wish to bring you away,” he said with his usual kindness of tone. “Nine years in the Punjaub entitles you to some indulgences, and besides I was proud of you. I like to see you happy and admired.” Elizabeth laid her head on his shoulder in the seclusion of the brougham, and Darrell, after a pause, said in a low voice: “This is the anniversary of the boy’s death. I wouldn’t speak of it before, Elizabeth, but I hadn’t forgotten it.” “And I,” said Elizabeth, her heart suddenly turning to the dead child, sleeping under the cypress trees in the military cemetery at Embira, “had not forgotten it, but I hoped that you had, dearest.” They talked together for a little while of their lost darling, as the parents of dead children do, and then Darrell suddenly grew quiet. Elizabeth thought he was asleep, and would not move for fear she might disturb him. When she reached their own door, she raised her head from his shoulder. Darrell was dead. * * * * *