All this was long ago, and for seventeen years the grass had been growing over the neglected graves of Daisy Forrest and Charlie Fielding. The woman who bore his name, the mother of his children, had long ago fled from the little Southern village that had been the scene of such blighting scandal and bitter tragedy, and made her home many miles away from that hated spot, far enough, she hoped, to bring up her children out of all knowledge or hearing of the bitter past. Into her new home and her new life none of her old household accompanied her, save old Maria. Since her husband's death the cruel Civil War had swept over the land and freed the slaves that belonged to the heiress, whose gold had tempted Charlie Fielding to sin. Every one deserted their mistress gladly, none remaining but Maria, who had belonged to her husband. She remained, although not for love of her mistress. She could not desert Massa Charlie's children, she said. These two, Jewel and Flower, as their mother persisted in calling them, had grown up so beautiful and charming that no one could decide to which belonged the palm of greater beauty. Paris himself would have been in despair, and the golden apple must have been divided, or never awarded to either. Fancy a brunette of the most decided type with a beautiful, passionate face, a cloud of waving dark hair, and eyes of starry brightness. By her tall, queenly figure place one equally lovely, yet as different in her type as flowers from jewels, dawn from sunset, or day from night. An exquisite form, less tall and full than Jewel's, but perfectly proportioned, and with a fairy-like grace impossible to describe. Blue eyes of the brightest, rarest tint, and hair that fell to her waist in loose bright curls of that rich golden hue so dear to the artist's heart. Small, perfectly molded features and a dazzling complexion received a touch of piquancy from the delicate yet decided arch of the slender brows and the thick curling lashes both several degrees darker than her hair. Both girls had small hands and feet, and possessed every attribute of beauty. It was no wonder that strangers could not decide which was the lovelier, when their own mother was puzzled over the question. There were moments--few and far between--when Mrs. Fielding almost said to herself that it was Flower to whom she would award the palm of beauty. But these were the moments when she was softened by a memory of the love she had borne Charlie Fielding before that last hour when her hot jealousy and hate had made her curse him as he lay dead at her feet. But these softened moments were few and short. "I am mad, mad!" she would cry, coming out of these spells as though from an abhorred trance. "I ought to hate Flower Fielding--ought to hate my own child, because she has her father's face."