"I am here in accordance with your request, Miss Hurlhurst," he said, simply, bowing coldly over the white hand that would cling to his arm. "You are very kind," she said, sweetly, "to forget that unpleasant little episode that happened at the fête, and come to-night. I believe I should never have sent for you," she added, archly, smiling up into his face, "had it not been at the urgent request of your mother, Rex." Pluma hesitated. Rex bit his lip in annoyance, but he was too courteous to openly express his thoughts; he merely bowed again. He meant Pluma should understand all thoughts of love or tenderness must forever more be a dead letter between them. "My mother!" he repeated, wonderingly; "pardon me, I do not understand." For answer she drew his mother's letter from her bosom and placed it in his hands. He ran his eyes quickly over the page. The postscript seemed to enlighten him. "The course of true love never runs smooth," it ran, "and I beseech you, Pluma dear, if anything should ever happen, any shadow fall upon your love, I beseech you send for Rex and place this letter in his hands. It would not be unwomanly, Pluma, because I, his mother, so earnestly request it; for, on your love for each other hangs my hopes of happiness. Rex is impulsive and willful, but he will respect his mother's wishes." No thought of treachery ever crossed Rex's mind as he read the lines before him; he never once dreamed the ingeniously worded postscript had been so cleverly imitated and added by Pluma's own hand. It never occurred to him for an instant to doubt the sincerity of the words he read, when he knew how dearly his mother loved the proud, haughty heiress before him. "I heard you were going away, Rex," she said, softly, "and I--I could not let you go so, and break my own heart." "In one sense, I am glad you sent for me," said Rex, quietly ignoring her last remark. "I shall be much pleased to renew our friendship, Miss Pluma, for I need your friendship--nay, more, I need your sympathy and advice more than I can express. I have always endeavored to be frank with you, Pluma," he said, kindly. "I have never spoken words which might lead you to believe I loved you." He saw her face grow white under his earnest gaze and the white lace on her bosom rise and fall convulsively, yet she made him no answer. "Please permit me to tell you why, Pluma," he said, taking her hand and leading her to a sofa, taking a seat by her side. "I could not," he continued, "in justice to either you or myself; for I never knew what love was," he said, softly, "until the night of the fête." Again he paused; but, as no answer was vouchsafed him, he went on: "I never knew what love meant until I met Daisy--little Daisy Brooks."