She must see him there daily with Cora, and she knew that her presence would only make him more unhappy, and hinder the return of his heart to the girl to whom it was plighted. Besides, she knew that she was not brave enough, or strong enough, to bear the pain of seeing him daily with his betrothed--perhaps to be compelled by the narrow conventionalities of society to be a guest at his wedding. Fondly as she longed to meet her mother and convey to her the dying messages of her father, she determined to postpone that meeting till after Frank and Cora were married and gone. Her mind ran over her few humble friends in New York, suggesting the Widow Doyle as the most available one with whom to stay during the short interval that must elapse between now and the marriage. In this secluded suburban cottage she had no fear that Frank Laurier could trace her even should he make an attempt. So to Widow Doyle she went, and was fortunate to find the good woman at home, receiving a hearty welcome, and most sincere sympathy, when the sorrowful tale of her father’s loss was told. “Poor dear, you will have to stay with me and be my daughter,” she said, with a tenderness that brought tears to Jessie’s eyes. “I will never forget your kindness--but I have a relative to whose care I shall go shortly. In the meantime, I will accept your hospitality most gratefully,” she cried, not caring to disclose her relationship to Mrs. Dalrymple until she should have been accepted as a daughter by the lady. How could she tell but that the proud, rich lady might deny her claim, might denounce her as an impostor! What proof could she offer save her dead father’s word? And would that suffice for the proud, rich woman of whom she had dreamed such beautiful things, but who might not in any way come up to her ideal mother. The future looked very gloomy to Jessie as she sat resting in the little easy-chair in Mrs. Doyle’s sitting room. She realized that unless Mrs. Dalrymple accepted her as a daughter she would be thrown on the world penniless, and obliged to make her own way. She had remembered that her father, by a strange whim, carried the whole of his fortune, consisting of magnificent uncut gems, in a belt of leather around his waist. But she knew that she had a talent that, if exercised, would provide her a living. It was her voice, whose power and sweetness equaled those of the most world famous prima donnas. The professors who had cultivated that charming voice had told her she could secure a position on the operatic stage any time she chose. But Jessie cared nothing for fame. At the present moment, so young, so fair, so tender, all that her heart craved was love. And the pain of her disappointment took all the zest out of life. She spent a quiet, lonely day with her humble hostess, whom she entertained by a recital of the way she had spent her time since leaving New York.