of young ladies--all fashioned, he thought,
after one model--it was refreshing to meet her. Her ideas were so
original.

Lord Airlie joined the little dinner party, and then Lionel Dacre read
the secret which Beatrice hardly owned even to herself.

"I shall not be shipwrecked on that rock," he said to himself. "When
Beatrice Earle speaks to me her eyes meet mine; she smiles, and does
not seem afraid of me; but when Lord Airlie speaks she turns from him,
and her beautiful eyes droop. She evidently cares more for him than
for all the world besides."

But after a time the fair, spirituelle loveliness of Lillian stole into
his heart. There was a marked difference between the two sisters.
Beatrice took one by storm, so to speak; her magnificent beauty and
queenly grace dazzled and charmed one. With Lillian it was different.
Eclipsed at first sight by her more brilliant sister, her fair beauty
grew upon one by degrees. The sweet face, the thoughtful brow, the deep
dreamy eyes, the golden ripples of hair, the ethereal expression on the
calm features, seemed gradually to reveal their charm. Many who at
first overlooked Lillian, thinking only of her brilliant sister, ended
by believing her to be the more beautiful of the two.

They stood together that evening, the two sisters, in the presence of
Lord Airlie and Lionel Dacre. Beatrice had been singing, and the air
seemed still to vibrate with the music of her passionate voice.

"You sing like a siren," said Mr. Dacre; he felt no diffidence in
offering so old a compliment to his kins-woman.

"No," replied Beatrice; "I may sing well--in fact, I believe I do. My
heart is full of music, and it overflows on my lips; but I am no siren,
Mr. Dacre. No one ever heard of a siren with dusky hair and dark brows
like mine."

"I should have said you sing like an enchantress," interposed Lord
Airlie, hoping that he was apter in his compliments.

"You have been equally wrong, my lord," she replied, but she did not
laugh at him as she had done at Lionel. "If I were an enchantress,"
she continued, "I should just wave my wand, and that vase of flowers
would come to me; as it is, I must go to it. Who can have arranged
those flowers? They have been troubling me for the last half hour."
She crossed the room, and took from a small side table an exquisite
vase filled with blossoms.

"See," she cried, turning to Lionel, "white heath, white roses, white
lilies, intermixed with these pal