he was, and for the first time looked up in his face.

"You have not been dancing, Mr. Ray?"

"No, Miss Marion; and it was a piece of selfishness in me to ask this. I
have not danced since coming back from the Cheyenne, and yet--I could
not go without one. Shall we try?"

Will he ever forget her as she looked that night? How gloriously deep
and soft and tender were her eyes, how wavy and rippling her hair, how
exquisite the delicate tints of her complexion, how rich, how lovely the
warmth of her parted lips! Her dress seemed as airy, as fair as her own
quiet grace. For the life of him he could not describe it, but it was
the first time he had seen her in evening attire, and Marion Sanford's
neck and shoulders and arms were perfect,--fair and white and round and
lovelier than an angel's, thought Ray, as his glowing eyes looked down
in rapture upon her. She had glanced up in his face as he spoke, but his
eyes met hers with such uncontrollable worship in their gaze that she
could not face them. His arm twined lightly about her waist, and without
a further word they swung away in the long, gliding measure that seemed
so perfectly in accord with the spirit of the dreamy music. She danced
lightly as a fairy; "guided," as he would have said, "with the faintest
touch of the rein," and he forgot the stiffness of the wounded thigh,
and everything else but that, to the music of all others he fancied most
(surely the leader had an unusual fit of inspiration that night), he was
dancing at last with the girl whose beauty enthralled his every sense,
whose loyalty to him in all his troubles had won his undying gratitude,
and whom he loved, humbly 'tis true, yet thrillingly, passionately. He
never saw that all over the ball-room curious eyes were watching
eagerly. Hers were downcast, while his were fixed almost in adoration on
her face. Sweeter, softer, dreamier rose and fell the exquisite strains.
Will he ever forget the "Immortellen"? Soft ripples of her hair were
drifting close to his lips. Their delicate fragrance stole over his
senses like a spell. He felt the light pressure of her tiny hand upon
his arm, and envied the dead gold of his shoulder-knot, when once, as
they reversed and a quick turn was necessary to avoid collision with a
bulkier couple, her flushing cheek had rested one instant upon it. He
could not speak; a lump rose in his throat and his heart beat wildly.
What could it mean? what could it mean? this strange thing