At last the bell sounded with a vim, and the audience were all on the alert. The noise of more than usual stage preparations had whetted curiosity; and it had been whispered about that something superb was coming, in which Anson Gould would be a principal character—Anson Gould, the greatest catch of the season. No wonder there was a buzz and rustle, as if summer insects and summer winds were playing among forest-boughs in that portion of the room where young ladies most prevailed. As I have said, the bell sounded with a vim; the curtain swept back, and there was a picture worth seeing. Just a little scenery had been introduced into the background. An antique window, showing glimpses of a battlement beyond, and, poised on this battlement, with one foot strained back, ready for a spring, and her face turned back, with a gesture of passionate menace, stood one of the most beautiful girls that eyes ever dwelt upon. She was superb in her haughty poise; superb in that proud outburst of despair which had sent her out on that dizzy height, choosing destruction rather than dishonor. Her dark eyes, like those of a stag at bay, were bent on the kneeling Templar, whose face and form would have won the general attention from any one less gloriously beautiful than that girl. Young Savage started to his feet, and leaned forward, absorbed. His heart stood still for the moment, and a strange feeling of pain came upon him. By what right did that man gaze upon her with such passionate admiration. It was real; the wild love-light in those eyes knew no dissembling. Young Gould was his rival—yes, his rival! There was no use in attempting to deceive himself, he was in love—really in love—for the first time in his life—and with whom? He remembered that low garret—the old woman—the child; and that young creature bending with such sad, loving pity over them both. He remembered the pile of oyster-shells in the chimney-corner, and all the poverty-stricken appointments of the room with a strange thrill of passion. His love should lift her out of those depths. Gould should never have an opportunity of kneeling to her again—even in the seeming of a picture. But then his mother, his proud, aristocratic father—what of them? Mrs. Savage came up to her son where he stood, and laid one of her white hands on his arm. “Was there ever a success like that?” she said, looking back upon the tableau with enthusiasm. “It sweeps away that absurd scene with the old maid. How did that happen, Horace? Don’t tell me now, some of them may be listening. Oh! I see you admire this as I do. It is the great triumph of the evening.” “Mother,” said Horace Savage, rather abruptly, “why did you cast Gould in that piece?” “In order that you might stand with Georgiana, Horace. I thought you understood,” answered Mrs. Savage, a little surprised. “Yes, yes; I understand. It was very kind. See, they are clamoring for a second sight. I don’t wonder. How confoundedly handsome the fellow is!”