f flowers all around
the room.

The recesses thus garlanded in were lined with mirrors, in which the
crimson cushions of couch and chair, the splendid supper table, with all
its rich paraphernalia of frosted plate, sparkling glass, translucent
wines, and fruit in all its mellow gorgeousness of coloring were
reflected over and over again.

When that gay crowd came into the room, led by Olympia, every recess
seemed to fill with its own merry company, and in each that handsome
prima donna presided like a goddess; while the tall figure of a proud,
beautiful girl sat near, looking strangely wild and anxious as a loud,
bacchanalian spirit broke into the scene, and turned it into a revel.
Amid the gurgle of wine and the mellow crush of fruit, some one called
out:

"Fill up! fill up! A bumper to our new Queen of Song!"

With a half-suppressed shout and a waving of glasses, the party sprang
up, drops of amber and ruby wine rained down to the table from a
reckless overflow of the uplifted goblets.

Every recess gave back the picture with endless change of view; and then
the voice called out again:

"To-morrow night we will show her how England can receive American
genius and American beauty. Lady, we drink to you."

To-morrow night! Every vestige of color fled from that poor girl's face.
She attempted to rise, supported herself with one hand on the table a
moment, then in the midst of that riotous toast, sank back to her chair,
with her face turned imploringly on Hepworth Closs.

When the revellers had drained their glasses and turned to look for a
reward in the face they had pronounced divine, it had disappeared. Amid
the confusion, Hepworth had led Caroline from the room.

"It is too much for her," said Olympia, tossing half a dozen peaches on
the table in her search for the mellowest. "She is such a noble,
grateful creature, and has not yet learned how to receive homage."

"While our Olympia almost disdains it. Fill up for our goddess, The
Olympia!"

"Wait a minute!"

It was the young noble next the actress who spoke. He had taken some
grape-leaves from a crystal vase near him, and was weaving the smallest
amber-hued and purple clusters with them in a garland, with which he
crowned the goddess before her libation was poured out. She accepted the
homage, laughing almost boisterously, and when the grape-wreath was
settled in her golden hair, stood up, a Bacchante that Rubens would have
worshipped; for it made no