“Mrs. Briggs has the soul of an artiste. She would make a perfect prima donna for the Grand Opera,” remarked one man to Molly.

“We are as surprised as anyone,” replied the young girl. “We never knew that Mrs. Briggs was musical until this evening. It is a delightful surprise.”

They carried her to the quiet, cool library away from the glaring lights and the excitement, and at her request left her there alone. Her thoughts were painful. Memory had returned in full save as to her name. She knit her brow in painful thought, finally leaning back among her cushions wearily, too puzzled for further thought. Presently a step paused beside her chair. She looked up into Livingston’s face.

“Are you feeling better?” he asked, gently taking in his slender wrist and counting the pulse-beats.

Instead of answering his question, she began abruptly: “Mr. Livingston, Reuel told me to trust you implicitly. Can you and will you tell me what has happened to me since last I sang the song I have sung here tonight? I try to recall the past, but all is confusion and mystery. It makes my head ache so to think.”

Livingston suddenly drew closer to her.

“Yes, Felice, there is a story in your life! I can save you.”

“Save me!” exclaimed the girl.

“Yes, and will! Listen to me.” In gentle accents lie recounted to her there in the stillness, with the pulsing music of the viols beating and throbbing in her ears like muffled drums, the story of Dianthe Lusk as we have told it here. At the close of the tale the white-faced girl turned to him in despair the more eloquent because of her quietness.

“Did Reuel know that I was a Negress?”

“No; no one recognized you but myself.”

She hid her face in her hands.

“Who ever suffered such torture as mine?” she cried, bitterly. “And there is no rest out of the grave!” she continued.

“Yes, there is rest and security in my love! Felice, Dianthe, I have learned to love you!”

She sprang from his touch as if stung.

He continued: “I love you better than all in the world. To possess you I am prepared to prove false to my friend—I am prepared to save you from the fate that must be yours if ever Reuel learns your origin.”

“You would have me give up all for you?” she asked with a shudder.

“Ay, from your husband—from the world! We will go where none can ever find us. If you refuse, I cannot aid you.”

“Pity me!”

She sank upon her knees at his feet.

“I give you a week to think it over. I can love, but cannot pity.”