all in a false position. I knew you from
something my son said about you. I guessed at once that you must be
Leone Noel. I must repeat my congratulations; how hard you must have
worked."

Her eyes wandered over the magnificent face and figure, over the
faultless lines and graceful curves, over the artistic dress, and the
beautiful, picturesque head.

"You have done well," said the countess. "Years ago you thought me hard,
unfeeling, prejudiced, cruel, but it was kindness in the end. You have
achieved for yourself fame, which no one could have won for you. Better
to be as you are, queen of song, and so queen of half the world of
fashion, than the wife of a man whose family and friends would never
have received you, and who would soon have looked on you as an
incumbrance."

"Pray pardon me, Lady Lanswell, if I say that I have no wish whatever to
hear your views on the subject."

My lady's face flushed.

"I meant no offense," she said, "I merely wished to show you that I have
not been so much your enemy as you perhaps have thought me," and by the
sudden softening of my lady's face, and the sudden tremor of her voice,
Leone knew that she had some favor to ask.

"I think," she said, after a pause, "that in all truth, Madame Vanira,
you ought to be grateful to me. You would never have known the extent of
your own genius and power if you had not gone on the stage."

"The happiness of the stage resembles the happiness of real life about
as much as the tinsel crown of the mock queen resembles the regalia of
the sovereign," replied Leone. "It would be far better if your ladyship
would not mention the past."

"I only mention it because I wish you to see that I am not so much your
enemy as you have thought me to be."

"Nothing can ever change my opinion on that point," said Leone.

"You think I was your enemy?" said the countess, blandly.

"The most cruel and the most relentless enemy any young girl could
have," said Leone.

"I am sorry you think that," said my lady, kindly. "The more so as I
find you so happy and so prosperous."

"You cannot answer for my happiness," said Leone, briefly.

"I acted for the best," said the countess, with more meekness than Leone
had ever seen in her before.

"It was a miserable best," said Leone, her indignation fast rising,
despite her self-control. "A wretched best, and the results have not
been in any way so grand that you can boast of them."

"So far as you are concerned, Ma