"It has all come true," she thought, turning from the circle around her, and looking wistfully out over the waves that came swelling against the shore, like some wild heart beating against the bars of life. "It has all come true--yet how little I dreamed that she could read the future that lies folded, like the leaves of a book, from first sight. How little I thought that a shadow could ever fall between me and happiness! Yet in a few short months her wild prediction has been fulfilled. I have drank deeply of sorrow's cup. I have been a young man's bride; now they say I am an old man's darling. All--all has been fulfilled save the shame and disgrace with which she threatened me. But that can never come, never, _never_!" and a look of pride came over the fair face, and the round throat was curved defiantly. Colonel Carlyle was quite happy and proud at first over the sensation created by his beautiful girl-wife. He liked to see how much people admired her. It pleased him to note the admiring glances that followed her slightest movement. She belonged to him, and all the admiration she excited was a tribute to his taste and his pride. For a whole week he was as pleased and happy as a man could be, but a shadow fell upon him with the coming of Felise. He grew morbidly jealous. Jealous, and without a shadow of reason, for Bonnibel was like the chaste and lovely moon--she shone coldly and alike upon all. But the colonel became a changed man--everyone noticed it, and many said that the old man was growing jealous of his beautiful darling. But no one could tell how it came about, not even Felise Herbert, who, when questioned by her mother, refused to admit that the faintest, most insidious hint from her lips had been dropped like poison into the cup of perfect happiness from which the doting old husband was fondly drinking. One morning a note lay on his dressing-table--a little note scrawled in a disguised hand--he took it up and read it, then put it down again and stood gazing blankly at it as if it were the death-warrant of his happiness. It was very short, but every word was stamped indelibly on his memory. "Your wife," it ran, "wears a little opal ring on the third finger of her right hand. She prizes it more than all the costly jewels you have lavished upon her. It was the gift of a former lover whom she still adores. Ask her to cease wearing the ring, or even to show you the inscription inside, and you will see who has the warmest place in her heart." Could this be true? Was this a friend who warned him, he thought. He remembered the pretty little ring perfectly. The jealous pang that had been tearing at his heart for days grew sharper than ever. He knew his wife did not love him yet, but he had fondly hoped to win her heart in time. If what the writer of that anonymous letter said was true, then it was vain to hope any longer. "A former lover whom she still adored." Oh! God, could that be true?