Mechanically the girl took the paper from her; the startling headlines on the first column on which her eyes fell told her of the wonderful news: A fortune estimated at over three millions of dollars had come to John Dinsmore, the author, through the death of a relative, a London banker of note. Without waiting for her daughter to read the column through, Mrs. Trevalyn cried, excitedly: “You must recall him, Queenie; indeed you must, my love!” “It is too late now, mother,” answered Miss Trevalyn, bitterly. “He has gone, left the hotel and Newport last night, so I heard some one remark at the breakfast table this morning.” Mrs. Trevalyn went promptly into hysterics, and then fainted outright. Queenie uttered no moan, not even a cry. “Poor mamma,” she groaned, “it would be almost better if life ended for her here and now, rather than live to face the future before us!” In that moment Queenie Trevalyn knew the truth, whatever of love her shallow heart had been capable of feeling, had gone out to the man whose heart the cold hand of her ambition had thrust from her forever. And she had turned from him in such scorn and anger--that was the crudest remembrance of all! But for that she might have recalled him; for the heir of such a fortune could not long hide himself in obscurity. But would he ever forgive her for casting him aside so lightly? “He loved me--and with such a man, to love once is to love forever!” she told herself, and this thought buoyed up her flagging spirits. “Yes, I will reclaim him,” she ruminated, pressing her hands closely together over her throbbing heart. “He will never know about Ray Challoner, or his proposal. I will tell him a young girl’s ‘no’ always yields to ‘yes,’ if the wooer is persistent. Yes, I will win him back, and thus avert the poverty that stares us in the face. Of course he has gone directly back to New York, to the address mentioned in this newspaper article.” And to this address Queenie Trevalyn sent the following telegram: “Love has conquered pride and anger, and I would call you back again.” “That will bring him back to Newport by the next train,” she told herself, sitting down by the window to peruse the wonderful newspaper account for the twentieth time. Strangely enough, no mention was made in the article of the condition attached to the will, that he must wed the girl of his uncle’s choosing. Meanwhile, Mrs. Trevalyn seemed to grow alarmingly worse, much to the annoyance of the hotel management. By some means they learned of the failure of the lady’s husband in New York, and their suave courtesy to the late magnate’s wife and daughter changed into positive brusqueness, as they declared to Miss Trevalyn that she would have to remove her mother at once from the Ocean House to some private boarding house, as it was imperative that they should close the hotel by noon.