"It would sound rather commonplace in the telling," he responded, "as I am not good at story-telling. Well, to begin with, this friend of mine loves a fair and beautiful young girl who is very poor. A wealthy suitor, a dissipated _roue_, had gained the consent of her father to marry her, before my friend met and knew her and learned to love her. Now, he can not, dare not speak, for, although he believes in his heart that she loves him best, he knows she is bound in honor to another; and to make the matter still more pitiful, he is betrothed to a girl he is soon to marry, though his _fiancee_ has no portion of his great heart. Thus, by the strange decrees of fate, which man can not always comprehend the wisdom of, four people will be wedded unhappily." As Sally listened with the utmost intentness, she jumped to the conclusion that the "friend" whose picture Jay Gardiner had drawn so pathetically was himself, and she heard with the greatest alarm of the love he bore another. But she kept down her emotions with a will of iron. It would never do to let him know she thought him unfaithful, and it was a startling revelation to her to learn that she had a rival. She soon came to a conclusion. "It is indeed a strangely mixed up affair," she answered. "It seems to me everything rests in the hands of this young girl, as she could have either lover. Couldn't I go to her in the interest of your friend, and do my best to urge her to marry him instead of the other one." "But supposing the young girl that he--my friend--is betrothed to refuses to give him up, what then?" "I might see her," replied Sally, "and talk with her." "It is hard for him to marry her, when every throb of his heart is for another," answered Jay Gardiner, despondently. "Who is this young girl who is so beautiful that she has won the love of both these lovers?" she asked in a low, hard voice. "Bernardine---- Ah! I should not tell you that," he responded, recollecting himself. But he had uttered, alas! the one fatal word--Bernardine. CHAPTER XXIII. "I can never rest night or day until I have seen this Bernardine and swept her from my path!" she cried. She made up her mind that she would not tell her mother or Louisa just yet. It would worry her mother to discover that she had a rival, while Louisa--well, she was so envious of her, as it was, she might exult in the knowledge. But how should she discover who this beautiful Bernardine was of whom he spoke with so much feeling? Suddenly she stopped short and brought her two hands together, crying, excitedly: