ould have said,
that her heart was not quite at ease; for every now and then, as the
night wore on, her eyes gave less attention to those who spoke with her,
and her thoughts were evidently turning inwards with trouble. The supper
was over--the tastefully decorated table was deserted--and the guests
were again assembled in the ball-room. Fond partners that might never
dance with each other again, stood side by side--hand locked in
hand--and waited for the rising swell of the tender music, to which they
were to dance their last waltz. Beatrice stood up with her cousin Count
Zichy, and deadly pale she looked. The Count and all others thought she
had a headach, and would have had her sit down; but she persisted, with
a faint smile, in doing the last honours.

Just at this very moment a manly young officer, whose dress denoted that
he had been on duty, and was ready again to mount and go forward, came
in to make a report to the colonel.

As the first bars of the music were heard, he stood aside, his cap in
his hand, and looked on. Already, however, a young brother officer had
run from his partner's side, to renew to him, with all extravagance of
gratitude, his thanks for having, by an exchange of duty, enabled him to
enjoy a last, long parting with the girl he loved. The dance went
forward, and Julius Alvinzi leaned cheerfully upon his sabre. Suddenly
Count Zichy and his fair cousin broke out from the large circle, and
setting to him, he was led off to the waltz movement before he had time
to ungird his sword. This, however, even as he danced, he gracefully
effected; and afterwards for one tour of waltzing, Beatrice Adony was
the partner of Julius Alvinzi, quitting for the time her own.

This is a custom, in Germany, so common, and seemed so natural and so
kind a courtesy to Julius, under the particular circumstances of his
late and short appearance at the ball, that neither himself, nor any one
in the room, attached to it any other character than that of a pretty
and gentle compliment. But if the ear of Julius had been quickened by
the faintest spark of sympathy, he might have heard the very heart of
Beatrice beat.

"You are tired," said Julius, as the music suddenly ceased.

"Rather so," she replied.

He led her, faint, pale, and trembling, to a seat. Some colour returned
to her cheek as she sat down; and, with an open and cheerful air, she
put out her hand to him, and said, "Farewell, Captain Alvinzi; all
honour,