well up. Soft murmurs of applause began to steal around the room. Betty
stood with Captain Yorke and Kitty directly under the lantern, beating
time with her fan.

"How graceful they are," said Yorke softly. "See, even their shadows on
the wall opposite are picturesque and wild. How distinct the faces
are!"

"Silhouettes!" burst in Kitty; "have you seen the pictures made by the
new artist who came from Albany? Some folks like to be done thus, but
for me I do not care for a black profile of my own face. They are cut
skillfully enough in paper, however."

Betty, wondering what had possessed Kitty to set off on an animated
description of silhouettes, looked up at the wall, and then her heart
almost stood still. That fine, high forehead, the curving lips, the
nose, with its clear-cut nostrils,--not even the disfiguring woolly wig,
stiff collar, and blackened face and hands could disguise them to her.
She gazed with sickening apprehension at the dancers; how often she had
seen Oliver dancing with Miranda when they were children together at
home, the performance usually taking place in the garret, for fear of
scoldings upon the sinfulness of dancing from Chloe, Miranda's mother;
oh, how did he dare do this here, where any moment might bring discovery
and death? Why, why, had she failed to see and recognize him! his
disguise was very perfect, and yet--

The applause rang out heartily as the dancers tripped faster and
faster; Betty wondered if her torture would ever end. Perhaps it had
only begun, for Oliver had said--