dy's boudoir, and was all ablaze with light from a dozen gas jets.

In the center of the floor there stood a magnificently beautiful woman.

She was a blonde of the purest type, and Mona thought that Mary had made
a true statement when she had said that, though she was upward of forty,
she did not look a day over thirty, for she certainly was a very youthful
person in appearance.

Her skin was almost as fair as marble, with a flush on her round,
velvet-like cheeks that came and went as in the face of a young girl.
Her features were of Grecian type, her hair was a pale gold and arranged
in a way to give her a regal air; her eyes were a beautiful blue, her
lips a vivid scarlet, while her form was tall and slender, with perfect
ease and grace in every movement.

"How lovely she is!" thought Mona. "It does not seem possible that she
could have even an unkind thought in her heart. I can hardly believe that
she ever knew anything of my poor mother's wrongs."

Mrs. Montague was exquisitely dressed in a heavy silk of a delicate peach
ground, brocaded richly with flowers of a deeper shade. This was draped
over a plain peach-colored satin petticoat, and trimmed with a deep
flounce of finest point lace. The corsage was cut low, thus revealing
her beautiful neck, around which there was clasped a necklace of blazing
diamonds.

Her arms were bare to the shoulder, the dress having no sleeves save a
strap about two inches wide, into which a frill of costly point was
gathered. Long gloves of a delicate peach tint came above her elbow,
and between the top of each of these and the frill of lace there was
a diamond armlet to match the necklace.

Magnificent solitaires gleamed in her ears, and there was a star composed
of the same precious stones among the massive braids of her golden hair.

She was certainly a radiant vision, and Mona's quick glance took in every
detail of her dress while she was crossing the room to her side.

Mrs. Montague bent a keen look upon her as she approached, and she gave a
slight start as her eyes swept the delicately chiseled face of the girl.

"You are the new seamstress, Mary tells me. What is your name--what shall
I call you?" she questioned, abruptly.

"M--" Mona had almost betrayed herself before she remembered the need of
concealing her identity.

But quickly checking herself, she cried:

"Ruth Richards, madame; call me Ruth, if you please."

"Hum! Ruth Richards--that's rather pretty," rema