Ambitious, indeed, must be that girl not satisfied with this wonderful result of one single operation in matrimonial stocks. And yet Mell is not happy. She forgets to give heed to what Rube is saying; she forgets almost to answer him back; so full of regret is she for her own lost self. She had had a thousand longings to get out of her old self, and out of her old life, and now, on the threshold of a new existence, Mell finds herself with only one desire--just to get back where she came from. If only she could--oh! if only she could, most gladly would this lately crowned queen have relinquished the glories of empire, the spoils of captive hearts, the trophies of social triumphs, the high emprise of a brilliant future, only to be simple Mell once more. Ah, poor Mell! Not for sale now. Sold! CHAPTER V. PLAYERS ON A STAGE. Now, then, here is Thursday. Jerome had said: "You will be on hand without fail, Mell; and so will I, and so will something else." "But that something else," moaned the hapless Mell, bowed down and heart-stricken, "will never be on hand again in the meadow for me, nor anywhere else." Saddest of all, she had herself laid the axe to the root of her own happiness; she had baited her own hook and caught a big fish; she had provoked her own doom, and herself sealed it. Rube was not to blame. And Jerome--he had made out a good case. Had he loved her less he would, perhaps, have acted differently. She had digged a pitfall for her own occupation; and of all comfortless and stony places, such pitfalls as this make the hardest lying. Out in the narrow hall, on its own particular peg, hung Mell's white sun-bonnet. She took it down and put it on her head, and walked slowly to the top of the hill. With no intention of going to the meadow herself, her feelings demanded that she should find out if Jerome was there. He was, strolling moodily to and fro, in deep thought. He knows now. Rube has told him. He despises her to-day, and yesterday he had loved her. Look at him down there in the meadow! a beam from the sun, a breath from the hills, a part of the morning, the most glorious expression of nature in all nature's glory! Observe how he walks! Note how he stands still! Most men know how to walk, and most men know how to stand still, after a fashion; but not after Jerome's fashion. In motion, Jerome is a poem set a-going; standing still, he is grace doing nothing. He can lift one hand, and in that ordinary act sow the seed of a dozen beautiful fancies; he can wield such mastery over the physical forces of expression as has wondrous potency to sway the emotions of others. So she thought; so she stood, hidden herself from sight, but with the meadow in full view; and while so thinking, and so standing, drinking him in with every breath, feeding upon him with her eyes, devouring him with her soul, she, the affianced wife of another! Oh, wicked Mell!