should I not thank you?" with an air of surprise. "Is it any reason
that I should not be polite since we are well acquainted?"

"No, to be sure not," with a slight laugh; "but, then--what flowers do
you prefer?"

"Make your own selection."

"I shall choose white then. Are you going in?"

"Yes; this is Jean's day to go to the doctor's, and I promised to go
with her," and with a little nod, she walked off and left him where he
had thrown himself on the grass at her feet.

That night, many a glass was turned towards their box for Roger Congreve
was too eligible not to be a perfect magnet of interest, and any lady
that he might choose to show a slight preference for, became, at once,
a target for glances and comments; so, for a while, Olive was conscious
of a dazzling battery of eyes and glasses; but Roger noticed, with some
wonder, that the fact did not seem to disturb her more than as though it
had been the commonest occurrence in her life. She looked exceedingly
well to-night, dressed entirely in black, with lillies-of-the-valley in
her hair, and fastened in the lace at her throat, while the pleasing
excitement brought a bright flash into her eyes, and more color than
usual into the lips that clearly showed their curved outline.

The evening's amusement began, and progressed pleasurably through the
first act, to which Olive listened attentively, saying with a little
sigh of regret when the curtain fell:

"How lovely it all is! Ernestine always wanted to go on the stage! It
must be delightful if one can?"

"Delightful, possibly; but a life of drudgery until one has worked to
the top, and even then, there are hardships," Roger answered, noting how
a look of sadness chased the gay smile from her lips when she spoke of
the absent sister. Somehow, the place seemed replete with memories of
Ernestine; the music which she had often played, the glitter of wealth
and fashion that she always loved and longed for, the very atmosphere of
gayety and excitement, such as she had always craved to draw breath in,
seemed to recall her now, as Olive, caring so little for it, sat in its
midst, and lost in memory. Roger regretted that any sadness should have
obtruded itself, and was relieved to see, that when the curtain rose on
the second act, that Olive soon became absorbed in the picturesque gypsy
scene and lovely music. The robbery of Florestein was being committed
with the usual success of brilliancy, and the gipsies were taking