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MRS. GREEN'S ball was the party of the season.
Five hundred invitations were sent out, all of them
to people unexceptionable for wealth, or fashion, or some
sort of high distinction, political, literary, or artistic. Smith
had received carte blanche to prepare the most luxurious
and elegant supper possible. Mrs. Green was resplendent
with diamonds; and the house was so brilliantly illuminated,
that the winows of carriages traversing that part
of Beacon Street glittered as if touched by the noonday
sun. A crowd collected on the Common, listening to the
band of music, and watching the windows of the princely
mansion, to obtain glimpses through its lace curtains of
graceful figures revolving in the dance, like a vision of
fairy-land seen through a veil of mist.

In that brilliant assemblage, Mrs. King was the centre
of attraction. She was still a Rose Royal, as Gerald Fitzgerald
had called her twenty-three years before. A very
close observer would have noticed that time had slightly
touched her head; but the general effect of the wavy hair
was as dark and glossy as ever. She had grown somewhat
stouter, but that only rendered her tall figure more majestic.
It still seemed as if the fluid Art, whose harmonies
were always flowing through her soul, had fashioned her
form and was swaying all its motions; and to this natural
gracefulness was now added that peculiar stylishness of
manner, which can be acquired only by familiar intercourse
with elegant society. There was nothing foreign in her

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accent, but the modulations of her voice were so musical,
that English, as she spoke it, seemed all vowels and liquid
consonants. She had been heralded as La Señorita, and
her dress was appropriately Spanish. It was of cherry-colored
satin, profusely trimmed with black lace. A mantilla
of very rich transparent black lace was thrown over
her head, and fastened on one side with a cluster of red
fuchsias, the golden stamens of which were tipped with small
diamonds. The lace trimming on the corsage was looped
up with a diamond star, and her massive gold bracelets
were clasped with diamonds.

Mr. Green received her with great empressement; evidently
considering her the “bright particular star” of the
evening. She accepted her distinguished position with the
quietude of one accustomed to homage. With a slight bow
she gave Mr. Green the desired promise to open the ball
with him, and then turned to answer another gentleman,
who wished to obtain her for the second dance. She would
have observed her host a little more curiously, had she
been aware that he once proposed to place her darling
Floracita at the head of that stylish mansion.

Mrs. King's peculiar style of beauty and rich foreign
dress attracted universal attention; but still greater admiration
was excited by her dancing, which was the very soul
of music taking form in motion; and as the tremulous
diamond drops of the fuchsias kept time with her graceful
movements, they sparkled among the waving folds of her
black lace mantilla, like fire-flies in a dark night. She was,
of course, the prevailing topic of conversation; and when
Mr. Green was not dancing, he was called upon to repeat,
again and again, the account of her wonderful début in the
opera at Rome. In the midst of one of these recitals, Mrs.

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Fitzgerald and her son entered; and a group soon gathered
round that lady, to listen to the same story from her lips.
It was familiar to her son; but he listened to it with
quickened interest, while he gazed at the beautiful opera-singer
winding about so gracefully in the evolutions of the
dance.

Mr. King was in the same set with his lady, and had
just touched her hand, as the partners crossed over, when
he noticed a sudden flush on her countenance, succeeded
by deadly pallor. Following the direction her eye had
taken, he saw a slender, elegant young man, who, with
some variation in the fashion of dress, seemed the veritable
Gerald Fitzgerald to whom he had been introduced in the
flowery parlor so many years ago. His first feeling was
pain, that this vision of her first lover had power to excite
such lively emotion in his wife; but his second thought
was, “He recalls her first-born son.”

Young Fitzgerald eagerly sought out Mr. Green, and
said: “Please introduce me the instant this dance is ended,
that I may ask her for the next. There will be so many
trying to engage her, you know.”

He was introduced accordingly. The lady politely acceded
to his request, and the quick flush on her face was
attributed by all, except Mr. King, to the heat produced
by dancing.

When her young partner took her hand to lead her to
the next dance, she stole a glance toward her husband, and
he saw that her soul was troubled. The handsome couple
were “the observed of all observers”: and the youth was
so entirely absorbed with his mature partner, that not a
little jealousy was excited in the minds of young ladies.
When he led her to a seat, she declined the numerous

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invitations that crowded upon her, saying she should dance no
more that evening. Young Fitzgerald at once professed a
disinclination to dance, and begged that, when she was sufficiently
rested, she would allow him to lead her to the
piano, that he might hear her sing something from Norma,
by which she had so delighted his mother, in Rome.

“Your son seems to be entirely devoted to the queen of
the evening,” said Mr. Green to his cousin.

“How can you wonder at it?” replied Mrs. Fitzgerald.
“She is such a superb creature!”

“What was her character in Rome?” inquired a lady
who had joined the group.

“Her stay there was very short,” answered Mrs. Fitzgerald.
“Her manners were said to be unexceptionable.
The gentlemen were quite vexed because she made herself
so inaccessible.”

The conversation was interrupted by La Campaneo's
voice, singing, “Ah, bello a me ritorno.” The orchestra
hushed at once, and the dancing was suspended, while the
company gathered round the piano, curious to hear the remarkable
singer. Mrs. Fitzgerald had long ceased to allude
to what was once her favorite topic,—the wonderful
resemblance between La Señorita's voice and a mysterious
voice she had once heard on her husband's plantation. But
she grew somewhat pale as she listened; for the tones recalled
that adventure in her bridal home at Magnolia Lawn,
and the fair moonlight vision was followed by dismal spectres
of succeeding years. Ah, if all the secret histories
and sad memories assembled in a ball-room should be at
once revealed, what a judgment night it would be!

Mrs. King had politely complied with the request to
sing, because she was aware that her host and the company

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would be disappointed if she refused; but it was known
only to her own soul how much the effort cost her. She
bowed rather languidly to the profuse compliments which
followed her performance, and used her fan as if she felt
oppressed.

“Fall back!” said one of the gentlemen, in a low voice.
“There is too great a crowd round her.”

The hint was immediately obeyed, and a servant was
requested to bring iced lemonade. She soon breathed
more freely, and tried to rally her spirits to talk with Mr.
Green and others concerning European reminiscences.
Mrs. Fitzgerald drew near, and signified to her cousin a
wish to be introduced; for it would have mortified her
vanity, when she afterward retailed the gossip of the ball-room,
if she had been obliged to acknowledge that she was
not presented to la belle lionne.

“If you are not too much fatigued,” said she, “I hope
you will allow my son to sing a duet with you. He would
esteem it such an honor! I assure you he has a fine voice,
and he is thought to sing with great expression, especially
`M' odi! Ah, m' odi!' ”

The young gentleman modestly disclaimed the compliment
to his musical powers, but eagerly urged his mother's
request. As he bent near the cantatrice, waiting for her
reply, her watchful husband again noticed a quick flush
suffusing her face, succeeded by deadly pallor. Gently
moving young Fitzgerald aside, he said in a low tone,
“Are you not well, my dear?”

She raised her eyes to his with a look of distress, and
replied: “No, I am not well. Please order the carriage.”

He took her arm within his, and as they made their way

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through the crowd she bowed gracefully to the right and
left, in answer to the lamentations occasioned by her departure.
Young Fitzgerald followed to the hall door to
offer, in the name of Mrs. Green, a beautiful bouquet, enclosed
within an arum lily of silver filigree. She bowed
her thanks, and, drawing from it a delicate tea-rose, presented
it to him. He wore it as a trophy the remainder
of the evening; and none of the young ladies who teased
him for it succeeded in obtaining it.

When Mr. and Mrs. King were in the carriage, he took
her hand tenderly, and said, “My dear, that young man
recalled to mind your infant son, who died with poor
Tulee.”

With a heavy sigh she answered, “Yes, I am thinking
of that poor little baby.”

He held her hand clasped in his; but deeming it most
kind not to intrude into the sanctum of that sad and tender
memory, he remained silent. She spoke no other
word as they rode toward their hotel. She was seeing a
vision of those two babes, lying side by side, on that dreadful
night when her tortured soul was for a while filled with
bitter hatred for the man she had loved so truly.

Mrs. Fitzgerald and her son were the earliest among
the callers the next day. Mrs. King happened to rest her
hand lightly on the back of a chair, while she exchanged
salutations with them, and her husband noticed that the
lace of her hanging sleeve trembled violently.

“You took everybody by storm last evening, Mrs. King,
just as you did when you first appeared as Norma,” said
the loquacious Mrs. Fitzgerald. “As for you, Mr. King,
I don't know but you would have received a hundred challenges,
if gentlemen had known you were going to carry

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off the prize. So sly of you, too! For I always heard
you were entirely indifferent to ladies.”

“Ah, well, the world don't always know what it's talking
about,” rejoined Mr. King, smiling. Further remarks
were interrupted by the entrance of a young girl, whom
he took by the hand, and introduced as “My daughter
Eulalia.”

Nature is very capricious in the varieties she produces
by mixing flowers with each other. Sometimes the different
tints of each are blended in a new color, compounded
of both; sometimes the color of one is delicately shaded
into the other; sometimes one color is marked in distinct
stripes or rings upon the other; and sometimes the separate
hues are mottled and clouded. Nature had indulged
in one of her freaks in the production of Eulalia, a maiden
of fifteen summers, the only surviving child of Mr. and
Mrs. King. She inherited her mother's tall, flexile form,
and her long dark eyelashes, eyebrows, and hair; but she
had her father's large blue eyes, and his rose-and-white
complexion. The combination was peculiar, and very
handsome; especially the serene eyes, which looked out
from their dark surroundings like clear blue water deeply
shaded by shrubbery around its edges. Her manners were
a little shy, for her parents had wisely forborne an early introduction
to society. But she entered pleasantly enough
into some small talk with Fitzgerald about the skating parties
of the winter, and a new polka that he thought she
would like to practise.

Callers began to arrive rapidly. There was a line
of carriages at the door, and still it lengthened. Mrs.
King received them all with graceful courtesy, and endeavored
to say something pleasing to each; but in the

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midst of it all, she never lost sight of Gerald and Eulalia.
After a short time she beckoned to her daughter
with a slight motion of her fan, and spoke a few words to
her aside. The young girl left the room, and did not return
to it. Fitzgerald, after interchanging some brief
remarks with Mr. King about the classes at Cambridge,
approached the cantatrice, and said in lowered tones: “I
tried to call early with the hope of hearing you sing. But
I was detained by business for grandfather; and even if you
were graciously inclined to gratify my presumptuous wish,
you will not be released from company this morning. May
I say, Au revoir?”

“Certainly,” she replied, looking up at him with an expression
in her beautiful eyes that produced a glow of
gratified vanity. He bowed good morning, with the smiling
conviction that he was a great favorite with the distinguished
lady.

When the last caller had retired, Mrs. King, after exchanging
some general observations with her husband
concerning her impressions of Boston and its people, seated
herself at the window, with a number of Harper's Weekly
in her hand; but the paper soon dropped on her lap, and
she seemed gazing into infinity. The people passing and
repassing were invisible to her. She was away in that
lonely island home, with two dark-haired babies lying near
her, side by side.

Her husband looked at her over his newspaper, now and
then; and observing her intense abstraction, he stepped
softly across the room, and, laying his hand gently upon
her head, said: “Rosa, dear, do memories trouble you so
much that you regret having returned to America?”

Without change of posture, she answered: “It matters

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not where we are. We must always carry ourselves with
us.” Then, as if reproaching herself for so cold a response
to his kind inquiry, she looked up at him, and, kissing his
hand, said: “Dear Alfred! Good angel of my life! I
do not deserve such a heart as yours.”

He had never seen such a melancholy expression in
her eyes since the day she first encouraged him to hope
for her affection. He made no direct allusion to the subject
of her thoughts, for the painful history of her early
love was a theme they mutually avoided; but he sought,
by the most assiduous tenderness, to chase away the
gloomy phantoms that were taking possession of her soul.
In answer to his urgent entreaty that she would express
to him unreservedly any wish she might form, she said,
as if thinking aloud: “Of course they buried poor Tulee
among the negroes; but perhaps they buried the baby
with Mr. and Mrs. Duroy, and inscribed something about
him on the gravestone.”

“It is hardly probable,” he replied; “but if it would give
you satisfaction to search, we will go to New Orleans.”

“Thank you,” rejoined she; “and I should like it very
much if you could leave orders to engage lodgings for the
summer somewhere distant from Boston, that we might
go and take possession as soon as we return.”

He promised compliance with her wishes; but the thought
flitted through his mind, “Can it be possible the young
man fascinates her, that she wants to fly from him?”

“I am going to Eulalia now,” said she, with one of her
sweet smiles. “It will be pleasanter for the dear child
when we get out of this whirl of society, which so much dis
turbs our domestic companionship.”

As she kissed her hand to him at the door, he thought to

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himself, “Whatever this inward struggle may be, she will
remain true to her pure and noble character.”

Mrs. Fitzgerald, meanwhile, quite unconscious that the
flowery surface she had witnessed covered such agitated
depths, hastened to keep her promise of describing the
party to Mrs. Delano and her daughter.

“I assure you,” said she, “La Señorita looked quite as
handsome in the ball-room as she did on the stage. She is
stouter than she was then, but not so `fat and forty' as I
am. Large proportions suit her stately figure. As for her
dress, I wish you could have seen it. It was splendid, and
wonderfully becoming to her rich complexion. It was
completely Spanish, from the mantilla on her head to the
black satin slippers with red bows and brilliants. She was
all cherry-colored satin, black lace, and diamonds.”

“How I should like to have seen her!” exclaimed Mrs.
Blumenthal, whose fancy was at once taken by the bright
color and strong contrast of the costume.

But Mrs. Delano remarked: “I should think her style
of dress rather too prononcé and theatrical; too suggestive
of Fanny Elsler and the Bolero.”

“Doubtless it would be so for you or I,” rejoined Mrs.
Fitzgerald. “Mother used to say you had a poet lover,
who called you the twilight cloud, violet dissolving into
lilac. And when I was a young lady, some of my admirers
compared me to the new moon, which must, of course,
appear in azure and silver. But I assure you Mrs. King's
conspicuous dress was extremely becoming to her style of
face and figure. I wish I had counted how many gentlemen
quoted, `She walks in beauty like the night.' It became
really ridiculous at last. Gerald and I called upon
her this morning, and we found her handsome in the

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parlor by daylight, which is a trying test to the forties, you
know. We were introduced to their only daughter, Eulalia,—
a very peculiar-looking young miss, with sky-blue
eyes and black eyelashes, like some of the Cireassian
beauties I have read off. Gerald thinks her almost as
handsome as her mother. What a fortune that girl will
be! But I have promised ever so many people to tell
them about the party; so I must bid you good by.”

When the door closed after her, Flora remarked, “I
never heard of anybody but my Mamita who was named
Eulalia.”

“Eulalia was a Spanish saint,” responded Mrs. Delano;
“and her name is so very musical that it would naturally
please the ear of La Señorita.”

“My curiosity is considerably excited to see this stylish
lady,” said Flora.

“We will wait a little, till the first rush of visitors has
somewhat subsided, and then we will call,” rejoined Mrs.
Delano.

They called three days after, and were informed that
Mr. and Mrs. King had gone to New Orleans.

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