The evening drew on, and he entered the ball room in a gloomy and dejected frame of mind. After a few words to his relatives, he took his stand among a group who were watching the dancers; and had scarcely done so, when he saw a young lady, simply, but very richly dressed, whose fine figure and powerfully expressive beauty arrested his eye at once. The indifference and listlessness with which he had entered vanished. He soon observed that she was not an object of attention to him alone; for near him stood a certain old beau, well known about town, and a young collegian, both following her with their eyes. The music ceased, and her partner led her to a seat at the farther side of the room. Glancing at his two neighbors, Morton saw that they were in the act of moving towards her; but he, being nearer, had the advantage. Gliding through the dissolving fragments of the dance, he stood by her side. "Miss Fanny Euston, I see two persons coming to ask you to dance. May I hope that you will reject them for an old friend's sake, and let me be your partner?" She raised her eyes with a perplexed look, which instantly changed to a bright gleam of recognition, and cordially took his proffered hand. "So," said Morton, "you have not forgotten me. And yet, as I see you, I hardly dare to take up again the broken thread of our old intimacy. I used to call you Fanny." "Call me Fanny still," she said, "if only for the memory of auld lang syne." "I hoped to have seen you before, but you have been away." "Yes, with my relations, and yours, at Baltimore. I have heard a great deal about you. Your story is the talk of the town. You might be the lion of the season; but I have not seen you at parties." "No, I have outlived my liking for such matters." "I cannot wonder at it. What horrors you have suffered! what dangers you have passed!" "I have weathered them, though." "You were more than four years in a dungeon." "Yes, but I gave them the slip." "You were led out to be shot by the soldiers." "They thought better of it, and saved their ammunition." "And yet I see," said Miss Euston, smiling, "that you still remain your former self. I remember telling you that, if you were sentenced to the rack, you would go to it with a gibe on your tongue, and speak of it afterwards as a pleasant diversion. But," she added, with a changed look, "you have not come off unscathed. Your face is darker and thinner than it used to be, and there are lines in it that were not there before." "Fortune fondled me till she grew tired of me; then turned at me, tooth and nail." "You banter with your lips, but your look belies your words. You have suffered greatly; you have suffered intensely." Morton looked grave in spite of himself. "Perhaps you are right. I have very little heart left for jesting." The eyes of his companion, as they met his, assumed a peculiar softness.