Every pane of glass in the high and lofty windows was like a star, and every door-way and arch a constellation of stars; while every room and hall was a floral temple, filling the air around with the richest perfume. Guests, young, gay, and lovely, clad in their richest and most becoming robes, throng this modern palace to pay their compliments, congratulations, and adieus to its fair young mistress and heiress, who on the morrow is to leave her native land to travel among scenes new and strange in the olden world. It is Dora Dupont’s eighteenth birthday. As she stands in all her royal beauty at one end of the spacious drawing-room, clad in robes of glistening white, and receiving her guests with faultless grace, one cannot marvel at the words and looks of admiration and homage that fall from the lips and eyes of that brilliant assemblage. Yes, it is Dora Dupont! That “homely little squab,” to use Mr. Ellerton’s phraseology, had sprung up into a tall and graceful woman, beautiful as a dream, but in other respects the same laughing, happy Dora as of yore. The years had only added new graces, instead of robbing her of the old. There were the same sunny blue eyes, and golden brown hair, only perhaps with a deeper tint in their bright depths and silken sheen. The same rosebud mouth and laughing dimples. Her manners were as free and simple as when she ran skipping through the hall of the little white cottage to meet Robert Ellerton on that bright, fine morning, six years ago. No amount of city polishing could rob her of her freshness, and this alone added tenfold to her charms. But how came she here, surrounded by so much wealth and magnificence? Ah! Death had again breathed his icy breath upon her home, and laid low her fond and tender mother. But not to leave her friendless and alone, as she feared, for before her grief had had time to sere her heart, she was again surrounded by an atmosphere of tenderest love and care. Ere she could realize to the full extent her great loss, she was plunged into the lap of luxury, and into the arms of a doting, lonely old woman. The years passed quickly away after Robert Ellerton’s departure for Germany, despite the loneliness and dreariness which “Brightie” at first thought would follow. Then her mother suddenly sickened and died, and the poor girl thought she was desolate indeed—alone in a cold and heartless world. But the great Giver of Good did not so will it that this bright bird, so full of promise, should wither and droop before its bloom. One day an elegant barouche stopped before the little white cottage, and a woman, attired to the extent of fashion, stepped to the ground and entered. It was Mrs. Dupont’s maiden aunt, who had cast her off when she displeased her by marrying the poor doctor. She was sixty years of age, but looked scarce fifty.