that answered her saucy look with one of deep admiration. Then the face disappeared, and he was seen making his way behind the side scenes, earnestly looking for some one.

"You are late, signor." And the dainty foot of the pet of the public was tapped impatiently, as it was seldom she deigned to wait for any one.

"Yes, Rosa, my beautiful one!" The small gloved hand was raised to his lips. "My sister." "Yes, I know-la Signora Gátta." And the delicately curved lips laughed mockingly. "Signor Ward, your English names are so hard. Bah!" The pretty lips were puckered up very tight, as though the hard words hurt them.

"Don't, Rosa!" And the young man's face clouded. "You must love Margaret for my sake. Won't you, darling?" As the perfectly formed head was laid for one instant on his shoulder.

"Yes! yes! But la Signora Gátta,—how is she?" And the silvery laugh rang forth afresh.

"Margaret is very sick, wicked one!" The young man's laugh joined with, and echoed her own. "She will be better, Rosa, when she knows you! She must love you!" And the eyes were loving, confident, and full of hope that gazed at her seriously. "To-morrow morning! And then, Rosa Ward, forever."

"Oh, bah! Don't! don't!" The slight figure shuddered as she raised her hands in mock horror to her face, not heeding the pained look of her companion.

"Do you repent, Rosa?"

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No, no!" And seeing she was going too far, the loving look was called back to her eyes. "I will love all for you, signor." The actress-for she fully understood her part-raised her magni

ficent black eyes to the speaker's face. The Signorina Bertini was extravagant, and the Signor Ward was rich; though she loved Paolo Giordino, the tenor of the troupe to which she belonged, as she had never loved man before, she would marry Mr. Ward instead of being true to him, as Giordino was poor, and poverty was too dreadful to be thought of. "She would have to leave the stage, and she was triste; but she would be a great lady, and if she tired, and did not like her new life, she would come back again. Signor Ward might storm and fret, but what did she care when she was the lady?" And so the little game went on.

John Ward. It was not a pretty or poetical name, and no wonder the Italian's ears, used to softer sounds, did not relish it. Mr. Ward, a rich banker of New York, died four years before my story opens, leaving his son a princely fortune, and under the protection and guardianship of his sister Margaret. Mr. Ward had been a proud man; and Margaret Ward, who at the beginning of my story was thirty-five, ten years her brother's senior, inherited all her father's pride. So it was not strange that she frowned. on the young cantatrice, her brother's intended bride. All that a sister could do, had been done; but the young man grew only more obstinate, as he laughed at her prophecies of unhappiness, and rushed more blindly on to his destruction. "Be unhappy with his Rosa-impossible! And Margaret would learn to love her, too, in time; for who could resist her?" Spoiled from his youth up by a doting father, no wonder he listened coldly to his sister's warnings, and hurried more eagerly on.

His mother died while he was yet

JOHN WARD'S GOVERNESS.

CHAPTER I.

It was in the year 18-, and the last season of the beautiful but ill-fated Astor Place Opera House. The house that had been so poorly supported was this one evening full to overflowing, for a very popular opera was being performed. The enthusiasm was great, and the applause general, as the favorite cantatrice finished one of her most difficult roulades, and bowed smilingly in answer to her warm reception. She had been much admired the preceding winter, and the second week of Rosa Bertini's engagement was truly a brilliant ovation.

It was a glowing, living, beautiful scene-the animated faces that greeted her, and the small gloved hands that did their share in the genuine enthusiasm of their applause. The song so generally applauded was repeated, and the Signorina Bertini sent a happy, eager, and saucy glance to one of the stage boxes, as, bowing and smiling, she ran off the stage, her hands filled to overflowing with flowers.

A young man was leaning far out of the box, watching eagerly every movement, as she bowed low, holding the handsomest bouquet-the one which he had thrown-in one hand, to distinguish it from the rest. It was a striking face

that answered her saucy look with one of deep admiration. Then the face disappeared, and he was seen making his way behind the side scenes, earnestly looking for some one.

"You are late, signor." And the dainty foot of the pet of the public was tapped impatiently, as it was seldom she deigned to wait for any one.

"Yes, Rosa, my beautiful one!" The small gloved hand was raised to his lips. "My sister." "Yes, I know-la Signora Gátta." And the delicately curved lips laughed mockingly. "Signor Ward, your English names are so hard. Bah!" The pretty lips were puckered up very tight, as though the hard words hurt them.

"Don't, Rosa!" And the young man's face clouded. "You must love Margaret for my sake. Won't you, darling?" As the perfectly formed head was laid for one instant on his shoulder.

"Yes! yes! But la Signora Gátta,-how is she?" And the silvery laugh rang forth afresh.

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Margaret is very sick, wicked one!" The young man's laugh joined with, and echoed her own. "She will be better, Rosa, when she knows you! She must love you!" And the eyes were loving, confident, and full of hope that gazed at her seriously. "To-morrow morning! And then, Rosa Ward, forever."

"Oh, bah! Don't! don't!" The slight figure shuddered as she raised her hands in mock horror to her face, not heeding the pained look of her companion.

"Do you repent, Rosa?"

66

'No, no!" And seeing she was going too far, the loving look was called back to her eyes. "I will love all for you, signor." The actress-for she fully understood her part-raised her magni