“Alone, Miss Trevalyn!” exclaimed Ray Challoner, advancing toward the palm-embowered nook in which she had seated herself. “Why, this is unprecedented. I did not suppose you ever enjoyed the luxury of being alone; such is the penalty of having admirers by the score,” bowing low before the beauty, adding: “I beg to remind you that this is our waltz, and it is my favorite music, ‘My Queen.’” Queenie Trevalyn arose graciously, her rosebud lips wreathed in the sweetest of smiles. She danced and laughed, the gayest of the gay, never for an instant did her thoughts revert to the heart that was enduring the agonies of death, for love of her, down upon the cold, white sands. Ay! There he lay, stunned almost unto death, never caring to arise and face the world again. All he wanted to do was to lie there until the tide would come in and bear him away from life and the love which he had found more cruel than death. With such a man love, with all the intensity of his grand soul, was only possible. It was not for such a one to worship lightly at a woman’s shrine. How long he lay there he never knew. It was in reality a few moments, but to him it seemed endless centuries. He was startled by the sound of familiar voices. “It is indeed Dinsmore, by all that is wonderful!” exclaimed a man who bent over him, while his companion said musingly: “What in the world could have happened to have felled him like this, and he strong as an ox!” “The best and quickest way to find out is to bring him to and see,” declared the other, kneeling beside the prostrate form and dashing salt water in the white face, then catching up his hands and beginning to chafe them vigorously. John Dinsmore opened his eyes slowly and gazed into the two anxious faces bending over him. “Are you ill, old fellow!” they both cried in a breath. “What in the name of goodness has happened that we find you like this?” His lips opened to say: “A beautiful woman has broken my heart, and I am lying here for the tide to come in to carry me out--to death,” but the words seemed to scorch his lips, he could not utter them. They helped him to his feet, still wondering. “I was stricken with a pain at my heart,” he said. “I shall be better soon.” “Let’s hope so, for we have brought the means with us to make you so, if anything on this round earth can. But by the way,” went on one of them, “you do not seem the least surprised to find the two chums, poor as church mice, whom you left behind you in broiling New York, apparently ‘doing’ fashionable Newport, though it is like catching sly old dog Time by the tip of his tail, coming here on the last evening, when the play is about over, and they are just going to ring down the curtain.” His two companions linked arms with him, one on either side, and drew him along the beach, each waiting for the other to unfold to John Dinsmore the amazing news which had brought them there. While they hesitated thus you shall learn their identity, reader.