“Your pretty locks as well as my own might turn gray ere we could see our way clear to marry. On the whole, I think it would be cruel to keep you bound by an engagement which might last half a lifetime. I love you, Queenie, but I will not be selfish. I release you from the betrothal we entered into last night, though Heaven knows how bitter it is to say those words--I set you free! You will meet some other man whom you will learn to love, I dare say, and will rejoice then that we were both so sensible as to part when we realized that the stern decree of fate was against us.” The young girl stood looking at him with a fixed, steady gaze; she saw him now as he was, in all his falseness and baseness. “Good-by,” she said, mechanically, turning away from him. “Let us part as friends, Queenie,” he entreated; but she turned on him such a look of utter contempt, that whatever else he was intending to say to her died upon his lips unuttered. “Friends,” she retorted; “I scorn you too much to hold you as a friend! From this hour we are enemies, Mr. Challoner--enemies to the death! You have insulted my pride, and mark me, the day will come when you will bitterly rue it!” “I could never be an enemy to a fair young girl, let her do what she might, think of me as she may,” he returned, with mock gallantry; “and as for your revenge upon me, surely the withdrawing of your sunny face and smile from my dull existence will be a revenge cruel enough to satisfy the one most thirsty after vengeance!” With one last look, the strangeness of which he never forgot, she turned, and with head proudly erect, walked with haughty step down the length of the cool, shady veranda, and disappeared through the arched doorway. Raymond Challoner gazed after her with a strange expression on his usually placid countenance, as he remarked to himself: “It’s a very disagreeable procedure. I hope she won’t do anything desperate. Those high-spirited girls are apt to kill themselves, or something else equally as terrible. She’s tremendously in love with me, poor little girl; and it’s flattering, but not at all pleasant under the circumstances.” Queenie Trevalyn walked straight up to her own room with the same proud, measured step. Her mother, with a newspaper in her hand, was awaiting her in some trepidation. Her keen instinct told her as soon as she beheld her daughter’s marble-white face that in this instance surely the course of true love had not run smooth. Had it been as she feared, had the young man not received the story of her father’s failure kindly? Without waiting for her mother to speak, Queenie announced, briefly: “It’s all over between us, mamma; you are right, and I was wrong. It was my fortune that Raymond Challoner wanted, not me! So we parted!” A shriek from her mother interrupted the recital of what took place. “And it was for him that you threw over Mr. John Dinsmore!” groaned Mrs. Trevalyn, adding: “Just read that, Queenie! Oh, oh, oh!”