“Call me Frank. You always did when you were a child, sweet Nina.” “Frank,” repeated the soft voice of Nina. “What were you going to say?” “Oh, I have forgotten.” “Nina, when I went away you begged some of my hair—have you it yet?” “Why, Mr. Bev—, Frank, I mean, how _do_ you think I could keep a little lock of hair thirteen long years?” “Then you have lost it, or thrown it by; yet I remember, you _said_ you would keep it forever.” “I did not say I had thrown it away, or lost it, for I have done neither. I had it imprisoned right away in this little locket, and have worn it around my neck ever since, for fear of breaking the promise I made.” “That was the only reason of your wearing it?” “Certainly, if I except a strong childish liking I had for ‘Frank.’” “Your hair has grown darker, dear Nina. See! I have worn this bright tress upon my heart ever since you gave it to me. I would, dearest Nina, its owner would make _her_ home there. Nina—” Just then the door opened and Agnes entered. Thirteen years had trodden lightly over her head. She was scarce altered from the bright Agnes of his first love-dream. The inmates of the cottage had warmly welcomed Frank, after his long absence. Since his return he had gradually gone more and more often to the cottage, until he had almost become its inmate. The charm _now_ was not Agnes, or rather it _was_ Agnes—a _second_ Agnes. Francis could hardly persuade himself that the gentle, playful Nina, was not the Agnes he once loved so madly. The wild, unsettled years that had passed; the thirteen restless years of wandering through foreign lands in search of happiness—of oblivion, seemed like a troubled dream to him. He lived again in the present—in the sunshine of Nina’s warm, brown eyes. He was happy in the present, with the sunny-hearted Nina beside him, playing for him, singing for him, laughing for him. Frank told her he was going to have her laugh set to music by the fairies, and have it sung by the brightest birds of Eden. The afternoon was warm and dreamy; a soft haze shrouded the air; the softest breeze floated through the thick summer foliage. Nina was mounted upon her coal-black Zephyr—a most _zepherial_ little piece of horse-flesh, fleet as the wind. Frank was by her side. “Which way to-day, dear Nina?” “Which ever way Zephyr takes.” Zephyr took the road to Beverly Park. The Hall had been refitted, and looked itself again. The two rode through the park and grounds, viewing the improvements that had been made, alighting at length before the great door of the Hall. “Stay, sweet Nina; there is one spot I wish to show you, you never have seen it. It was not completed till yesterday.”