‘It shall be a talisman,’ she said to herself. ‘White gift from a white soul, pure and perfect as the giver. Yes, it shall be a charm. I will sin no more. I will think of him no more of whom to think is sin. I will shut him out of my heart. My love, I will forget you! My love, who held my hand that summer day, and read my fate there—an evil fate—yes, for is it not evil to love you? my love, who stole my heart with sweet low words and magical looks—looks and words that meant nothing to you, but all the world—more than the world—to me. Oh, I must find some way of forgetting you. I must teach myself to be proud. It is so mean, so degrading, to go on loving where I have never been loved. If he knew it, how he would despise me! I would die rather than he should know!’ Hard to face a new-born year in such a temper as this, with a heart heavily burdened by a fatal secret; all the world, to outward seeming, smiles and sunshine. For what care could such a girl as Daphne have, a girl who had no more need for the serious consideration of life than the lilies have? All without sunshine and turtle-doves; all within, darkness and scorpions. When she was dressed, save for the putting on of her warm winter gown, Daphne clasped the necklace round her throat. The pearls were not whiter or more perfectly shaped than the neck they clasped. ‘I must wear my talisman always,’ she thought, as she fastened the snap. ‘Let me be like the prince in the fairy tale, whose ring used to remind him by a sharp little stab when he was drifting into sin.’ She went downstairs in a somewhat more cheerful mood than that of her first awaking. There was comfort in the pearls. She kissed her sister lovingly, kneeling by her side as she thanked her for the New Year’s gift. There was an open jewel-case on the breakfast-table, and beside it a basket of summer flowers—a basket that had come straight from the sunny south, from the winterless flower-gardens on the shores of the Mediterranean. Daphne looked at the jewels first—a low thing in human nature, but inevitable. The case contained a sapphire cross, the stones large and lustrous, perfect in their deep azure, and set in the lightest, most delicate mounting—a cross which a princess might hold choicest amongst all her jewels. The flowers were roses, camellias, violets, and a curious thorny-stemmed orange-blossom. ‘Oh, Lina,’ cried Daphne; ‘orange-blossom with thorns! Isn’t that an evil omen?’ ‘I hope not, dear, but I like the other kind best. This is almost too spiky to put in a flower-glass. But wasn’t it good of Gerald to get these flowers sent over from Nice for a New Year’s greeting?’ ‘Oh, it was he who sent them?’ ‘Who else? There was a little note at the bottom of the basket; and see, this lovely camellia bud is labelled “For Daphne.”’ ‘“There’s rue for you,”’ quoted Daphne, with her half bitter smile. ‘Yes, it was very polite of him to remember my existence.’