ucy, here's your old friend about to
leave; come and say good-by."

Miss Dashwood had stopped behind to adjust her shawl. I flew to her
assistance. "Adieu, Miss Dashwood, and forever!" said I, in a broken voice,
as I took her hand in mine. "This is not your domino," said I, eagerly, as
a blue silk one peeped from beneath her mantle; "and the sleeve, too,--did
you wear this?" She blushed slightly, and assented.

"I changed with the senhora, who wore mine all the evening."

"And Power, then, was not your partner?"

"I should think not,--for I never danced."

"Lucy, my love, are you ready? Come, be quick."

"Good-by, Mr. O'Malley, and _au revoir, n'est-ce pas?_"

I drew her glove from her hand as she spoke, and pressing my lips upon her
fingers, placed her within the carriage. "Adieu, and _au revoir!_" said I.
The carriage turned away, and a white glove was all that remained to me of
Lucy Dashwood!

The carriage had turned the angle of the road, and its retiring sounds were
growing gradually fainter, ere I recovered myself sufficiently to know
where I stood. One absorbing thought alone possessed me. Lucy was not lost
to me forever; Power was not my rival in that quarter,--that was enough for
me. I needed no more to nerve my arm and steel my heart. As I reflected
thus, the long loud blast of a trumpet broke upon the silence of the
night, and admonished me to depart. I hurried to my room to make my few
preparations for the road; but Mike had already anticipated everything
here, and all was in readiness.

But one thing now remained,--to make my adieu to the senhora. With this
intent, I descended a narrow winding stair which led from my dressing-room,
and opened by a little terrace upon the flower-garden beside her
apartments.

As I crossed the gravelled alley, I could not but think of the last time I
had been there. It was on the eve of departure for the Douro. I recalled
the few and fleeting moments of our leave-taking, and a thought flashed
upon me,--what if she cared for me! What if, half in coquetry, half in
reality, her heart was mixed up in those passages which daily association
gives rise to?

I could not altogether acquit myself of all desire to make her believe me
her admirer; nay, more, with the indolent _abandon_ of my country, I had
fallen into a thousand little schemes to cheat the long hours away, which,
having no other object than the happiness of the moment, might yet color
all her after-life with