She watched him as he approached nearer and nearer, so handsome, so graceful, so winning, one of his white hands carelessly resting on the spirited animal's proudly arched, glossy neck, and with the other raising his hat from his brown curls in true courtly cavalier fashion to her, as he saw her standing there, apparently awaiting him on the rose-covered terrace. He looked so handsome and lovable Pluma might have forgotten her grievance had she not at that moment espied, fastened to the lapel of his coat, a cluster of golden-hearted daisies. That sight froze the light in her dark, passionate eyes and the welcome that trembled on her scarlet lips. He leaped lightly from the saddle, and came quickly forward to meet her, and then drew back with a start. "What is the matter, Pluma?" he asked, in wonder. "Nothing," she replied, keeping her eyes fastened as if fascinated on the offending daisies he wore on his breast. "I left you an hour ago smiling and happy. I find you white and worn. There are strange lights in your eyes like the slumbrous fire of a volcano; even your voice seems to have lost its tenderness. What is it, Pluma?" She raised her dark, proud face to his. There was a strange story written on it, but he could not tell what it was. "It--it is nothing. The day is warm, and I am tired, that is all." "You are not like the same Pluma who kissed me when I was going away," he persisted. "Since I left this house something has come between you and me. What is it, Pluma?" She looked up to him with a proud gesture that was infinitely charming. "Is anything likely to come between us?" she asked. "No; not that I know of," he answered, growing more and more puzzled. "Then why imagine it?" she asked. "Because you are so changed, Pluma," he said. "I shall never perhaps know the cause of your strange manner toward me, but I shall always feel sure it is something which concerns myself. You look at me as though you were questioning me," he said. "I wish you would tell me what is on your mind?" "I do not suppose it could make the least difference," she answered, passionately. "Yes, I will tell you, what you must have been blind not to notice long ago. Have you not noticed how every one watches us with a peculiar smile on their lips as we come among them; and how their voices sink to a whisper lest we should overhear what they say? What is commented upon by my very guests, and the people all about us? Listen, then, it is this: Rex Lyon does not love the woman he has asked to be his wife. The frosts of Iceland could not be colder than his manner toward her. They say, too, that I have given you the truest and deepest love of my heart, and have received nothing in return. Tell me that it is all false, my darling. You do care for me, do you not, Rex? Tell me," she implored.