you are not
expected to take part in it; you must sit in some secluded nook
where you will be quite unobserved."

Pluma could not help but smile at the ardent delight depicted in
Daisy's face.

"I am afraid I can not stay," she said, doubtfully, glancing down in
dismay at the pink-and-white muslin she wore. "Every one would be sure
to laugh at me who saw me. Then I would wish I had not stayed."

"Suppose I should give you one to wear--that white mull, for
instance--how would you like it? None of the guests would see you,"
replied Pluma.

There was a wistful look in Daisy's eyes, as though she would fain
believe what she heard was really true.

"Would you really?" asked Daisy, wonderingly. "You, whom people call
so haughty and so proud--you would really let me wear one of your
dresses? I do not know how to tell you how much I am pleased!" she
said, eagerly.

Pluma Hurlhurst laughed. Such rapture was new to her.

The night which drew its mantle over the smiling earth was a perfect
one. Myriads of stars shone like jewels in the blue sky, and not a
cloud obscured the face of the clear full moon. Hurlhurst Plantation
was ablaze with colored lamps that threw out soft rainbow tints in all
directions as far as the eye could reach. The interior of Whitestone
Hall was simply dazzling in its rich rose bloom, its lights, its
fountains, and rippling music from adjoining ferneries.

In an elegant apartment of the Hall Basil Hurlhurst, the recluse
invalid, lay upon his couch, trying to shut out the mirth and gayety
that floated up to him from below. As the sound of Pluma's voice
sounded upon his ear he turned his face to the wall with a bitter
groan. "She is so like--" he muttered, grimly. "Ah! the pleasant
voices of our youth turn into lashes which scourge us in our old age.
'Like mother, like child.'"

The lawn fete was a grand success; the _elite_ of the whole country
round were gathered together to welcome the beautiful, peerless
hostess of Whitestone Hall. Pluma moved among her guests like a queen,
yet in all that vast throng her eyes eagerly sought one face. "Where
was Rex?" was the question which constantly perplexed her. After the
first waltz he had suddenly disappeared. Only the evening before
handsome Rex Lyon had held her jeweled hand long at parting,
whispering, in his graceful, charming way, he had something to tell
her on the morrow. "Why did he hold himself so strangely aloof?" Pluma
asked herself, in bitte