It never entered her mind to cavil at his choice or to resent it. No pang of jealousy had shot through her heart against the woman to whom his love had been clearly given. Only, when she had read his secret, had the feeling rushed over her that the love which she had nursed and cherished for so long, was imperishable and impossible of recall. Not that she wished or sought to recall it. Flora would have sooner died than part with the first true love of her life; it was to her a treasure that she prized beyond expression, priceless to her in value. He lays his right hand on her shoulder for a moment as he stands by her side, and she feels it tremble. “It is a day I shall never forget, Flora,” he says gently; “I have been very happy. It will be something for your old friend to look back upon, when you are far away.” “What do you mean Estcourt?” she inquires hastily. “But you are coming with us?” “No,” he answers decisively. “I have other work to do. I shall never rest till I have obtained for you the pardon that will extricate you from this outlawed life. I can be of use to you by remaining, I have some influence still in high quarters, and I could do you no good by going to America. Of course I should like to go; you know, Flora, I am never so happy as when I am with you, but I don’t mean to think of _Ego_ on this occasion.” The tears rise to her eyes. “I shall miss you, Estcourt, dear old Estcourt,” she says softly; and then her hand steals into his, and he feels the grateful pressure in its firm touch. The blood rushes to the young man’s face, for that touch thrills him through and through, though the ring in her voice tells him that affection, and affection only, not love, is there. “You’ll never miss me as I shall you,” he answers passionately. “Ah, Flora! you don’t know the dull, blank void that comes over me when you are not by; you don’t understand the lonely feeling that masters me, the yearning to see your dear face again. Of course, Flora, you cannot understand what I suffer, for I don’t believe you know what love means. I have often heard you called ‘the cold Lady Flora.’ I begin to believe you are rightly named.” It is her turn to flush now, but she turns her head away that he may not see the hot blood in her cheeks. Evie Ravensdale’s face is before her in imagination. She sees the dear, dark, dreamy eyes, the clear-cut features, the beautiful forehead around which the raven curls are clustering; she sees him as plainly as though he stood before her, for is not his presence burnt into her mind with the exactitude of reality? She loves him with all her heart, and power, and soul, and mind. No sacrifice for his sake would seem hard. To die that he might live would be a joy. If Flora Desmond does not know what love means, then who does?