"Who would think of being jealous of you, my dear Star? Why should I? He is no more--yes, he is--" and Edith buried her face again, while Star stroked her long silken tresses in loving admiration. "Ho, ho, Edith! I know," said Star, pointing a finger of jest at her, as she raised her face. "Do you guess my secret, Star?" "Why, dear girl, I cannot help but know it." "And you will keep it, Star?" "To my dying day. Does he know it?" "Oh, no, no; I have seen him only once. Do you think it right in me, Star?" "I don't know, Edith. How will you ever make it known to him?" "Oh, Star! I do not wish to; I do not wish to! He must find it out for himself. I know he is such a fine young man; for my father even praises him." "He may never know it, Edith," said Star, not yet knowing herself the secrets of love, as old as she was; albeit, she possessed a true sense of the great mystery of life; "and then what?" "I can only live in hope that he will, some day, see and know. Do you think it wrong in me, Star, to say these things?" "If it is from your heart, no." "Let me kiss you, Star? There!" Love comes to a pure woman veiled in mystery, and departs only when her spirit returns unto God who gave it. Were they all as pure as Edith, the temptations of our modern Edens would be as holy as the waters of Siloam's Pool. CHAPTER X. JOHN WINTHROPE'S SECOND PROMOTION. John Winthrope had a small cozy room by himself off the main office of Hiram Jarney. It was about the size of a twelve by sixteen rug, and so richly furnished that when he got into it, he felt as if he had been clandestinely concealed in a bandbox lined with rare and costly velvets. There were a green rugget on the floor, a miniature roll-top desk in one corner, glistening in its polish; a typewriting desk near a wide plate glass window; a cabinet for letter stationery; three leather-seated mahogany chairs, one at each desk, and another for company. The walls were green tinted, and around them John had hung some landscape pictures in chromo, mostly rural scenes; photographs of his parents; one of a mountain girl, his sister; one of a big young man, his brother; and those of two boyhood friends. Every morning at nine o'clock John came into this palatial private office. First, he perused the morning newspapers, then looked over the bundle of private letters that came to the head of the firm, and assorted them according to the postmark, or the nature he judged of the contents as near as he could make out from outside indications; after which he placed them in a letter tray, got ready his note book, and placed them all together orderly, to be picked up, at the ring of the bell, to be carried to the desk of Mr. Jarney, who arrived at the office, when in the city, every day punctually at ten.