When Julius Revington came to her side again he was astonished at the bright, charming wiles she put forth for his benefit. He knew that her moods were changeful as an April day. He had found a certain charm in the fact, although more clouds than sunshine had been meted out to him. But suddenly he found everything inexplicably changed. From a lovely, willful, capricious child, Irene was transformed into a beautiful, dignified, brilliant woman. She talked with charming ease and grace. Her laugh rang out like a chime of silver bells. No one had ever seen her so gay and sparkling before, nor one-half so beautiful. Her eyes sparkled beneath their drooping lashes with interest and animation. Her cheeks were flushed like the heart of a rose, the delicious dimples played hide and seek around her lovely lips. Her words, her looks, her gestures, were all full of grace and beauty. Julius Revington was enthralled by the newly developed charms of his betrothed. He believed that she had softened to him at last, and that her graciousness indicated a dawning love for himself. He was thrilled with joy at the thought, and gave free rein to the emotions of his heart. His eager adoration showed in his every glance. Meanwhile Guy Kenmore, seated across the room by the side of Mrs. Leslie, could not keep his eyes and his thoughts from the lovely girl who had so startled him out of his self-possession. Not a movement or word escaped his notice, although he was outwardly courteous and attentive to the lady he had called to see. But the pretty, graceful widow was gifted with keen perceptions. She did not fail to note her caller's wandering glance. She was not envious of her beautiful _protege_, but she could not repress a slight feeling of pique as she saw with what an effort he maintained his apparent interest in herself. At length she tapped him lightly on his shoulder and brought his wandering glances back to meet her own. "Forewarned is forearmed," she whispered, gaily. "Do not lose your heart to my beautiful _protege_, Mr. Kenmore. She is already betrothed." He started, and a dark-red flush mounted to his temples. "Your _protege_!" he exclaimed, catching eagerly at the word. "Yes," she replied. "She belongs to me, and her story is a most romantic one. Some time I will tell it you, and you shall tell me about that dead friend of yours whom Irene resembles." "Is her name Irene?" he inquired, and she did not fail to notice the uncontrollable start he gave. "Yes, it is Irene--Irene Berlin. Do you not think it a pretty name?" she asked. "Yes," he answered, "I like it very much, and it gives me a new interest in the owner. The name of my lost friend was Irene." "And if I am not mistaken my _protege_ is the friend whom you believed lost. I have stumbled on a romance and a mystery," thought the lady, shrewdly, to herself; but aloud she only said, with apparent unsuspiciousness: "That is quite a coincidence."