Mrs. Laurens expressed herself to her brother as being ashamed of her daughter’s bad conduct, and determined to keep her in strict bounds hereafter. She scolded Pansy, and threatened to lock her in her room on bread and water if she ever spoke to that dangerous young man again. Poor Pansy could do nothing but tell her own side of the story. She had not been bold and forward. She had not known Norman Wylde was engaged to anybody, and she did not know that he was amusing himself only, when he made love to her in those bright summer days. When she found out that he was only flirting she had told him never to speak to her again. “Stick to that, little gal, and there won’t be no more trouble,” said Uncle Robbins approvingly. “Yes; don’t let him come near you again as long as you live,” added Mrs. Robbins sharply, and Pansy thought to herself that she never would. She was overwhelmed with shame and grief at this pitiless exposé of her futile love dream, and down in her little heart was a secret resentment, too, at the hardness of everybody. Why should they declare that she had been bold and forward? She knew that it was untrue, and their blame cut deep into the sensitive heart. Norman Wylde, too--how could he have been so cruel, so unkind? Her pillow was wet with tears every night as she strove through long, sleepless hours to banish from memory the false, sweet smiles and loving dark eyes that haunted her and made so hard the bitter task she was essaying. She was not among the dancers to-day, although she was the prettiest girl on board, and had many invitations from gallant young men. But she chose rather to sit leaning pensively over the handrail and gaze with grave blue eyes into the foamy depths of the water. Many eyes wandered to the pretty figure in the snowy-white dress and wide, daisy-trimmed straw hat; many wondered why she seemed so sad, but none guessed that she was thinking that she would like to be at rest under those softly lapping waves, with the story of her young life ended here and now. Ah, how suddenly her despondent mood was changed! A shadow came between her and the light--some one sat down beside her and facing her. She looked up, startled, and saw--Norman Wylde. Norman Wylde, pale and impassioned-looking, with a determined light in his splendid dark eyes. As she made a movement to rise, his strong hand closed over her weak little white ones, and forced her back into her seat. “Sit still,” he whispered hoarsely, desperately. “I must speak to you, and you shall listen.” She glanced about her with frightened eyes. No one was looking. The music was pulsing sweetly on the air, and the dancers were keeping time with flying feet. She looked up at him, pale with emotion. “You can have nothing to say to me that I wish to hear, Mr. Wylde, for I despise you,” she answered bitterly.