t the Duchess's grandest receptions, had they been unable
to discover a single face they knew. Sir Robert was even more appalled
by this discovery than his daughters were. He put up his glass and
peered more and more wistfully into the crowd. "Don't know a soul," he
repeated at intervals. Poor Sir Robert! he had not thought it possible
that such an event could happen to him within the four seas. Accordingly
the Dorsets clung, somewhat scared, to Mrs. Copperhead's side, and
Ursula along with them, who looked at the crowd still more wistfully
than Sir Robert did, and thought how nice it would be to know somebody.
Unfortunately the Miss Dorsets were not attractive in personal
appearance. Clarence Copperhead, though he was not indifferent to a
baronet, was yet not sufficiently devoted to the aristocracy to do more
than dance once, as was his bounden duty, with each of the sisters. "It
seems so strange not to know any one," these ladies said. "Isn't it?"
said Clarence. "_I_ don't know a soul." But then he went off and danced
with Phoebe Beecham, and the Miss Dorsets stood by Mrs. Copperhead,
almost concealing behind them the slight little snow-white figure of
little Ursula May.

Clarence was a very well-behaved young man on the whole. He knew his
duty, and did it with a steady industry, working off his dances in the
spirit of his navvy forefather. But he returned between each duty dance
to the young lady in black, who was always distinguishable among so many
young ladies in white, and pink, and green, and blue. The Miss Dorsets
and Ursula looked with interest and something like envy at that young
lady in black. She had so many partners that she scarcely knew how to
manage them all, and the son of the house returned to her side with a
pertinacity that could not pass unremarked. "Why should one girl have so
much and another girl so little?" Ursula said to herself; but, to be
sure, she knew nobody, and the young lady in black knew everybody. On
the whole, however, it became evident to Ursula that a ball was not
always a scene of unmixed delight.

"It is very kind of you to remember what old friends we are," said
Phoebe. "But, Mr. Clarence, don't be more good to me than you ought to
be. I see your mother looking for you, and Mr. Copperhead might not like
it. Another time, perhaps, we shall be able to talk of old days."

"There is no time like the present," said the young man, who liked his
own way. I do not mean to say that it