He came in, with a little bouquet done up in silver paper. Three perfect roses of palest yellow—were there ever flowers more beautiful, even in the fairy land of my dreams? I lifted my face to kiss him for his gift, and there was a wistful look in the eyes that met mine. "Am I turned out well?" I asked, anxiously. "Admirably," he answered, with a slight quiver in his voice. "What a long time it is since I saw you in festal array! Pin the flowers just there—a little higher—that's right. My darling, how thin your hands are—the rings are loose;—there is something unsubstantial and spirit-like about you altogether!" I had seen that the change wrought in me by trial and anxiety was more visible now than at ordinary times; and he saw it too, and was deeply moved. Nurse had noiselessly departed, and for a few moments he hung over me, with fond, regretful murmurs, forgetting all else save our love, and the sorrows that had knit us so closely together. A little while ago, I had silently lamented the loss of my early bloom: now I did not care about it in the least. These sorrowful caresses, these loving, whispered words, were ample compensation for the charms that had fled. A little later we were rattling towards Curzon Street in a hansom, and overhead the clear evening sky was smiling down upon the restless streets. Both were silent; my husband's face still wore its wistful look, but I felt such a depth of content within me that I was sorry when the short drive came to an end. Marian Bailey received us in a faded old drawing-room, made bright with choice flowers; and Mrs. Baldock greeted us with old-fashioned courtesy. Presently two other guests were announced; first, a Mr. Hartley, who proved to be a distant cousin of Marian's; and then—Miss Lorimer. Well-trained as he was in all the ways of society, I saw a slight change pass over my husband's face. It was gone in an instant; and, in his turn, he moved from his station near the window to shake hands with a tall, stately woman. Her golden hair shone as the light touched it, and there was something imposing and sumptuous about her beauty which made me long to go and hide myself. For was not this the very Ida Lorimer who had once been Ronald's chosen love? There she stood, untouched by poverty and pain, unchanged by any of those daily trials which had stolen my youth away. And as Ronald's head bent towards her, and his eyes seemed to speak the old language that they had spoken to hers long ago, the keen fangs of jealousy began to rend my heart once more.