While she rolled in wealth beyond Aladdin's dreams and sighed for true love, many who were blessed in this regard struggled for a daily pittance and groaned because their heart's devotion could not come between the object of their worship and cruel Want. Truly, this is a queer old world, and at times it seems unequally divided; but occasionally there is a shaking up all around that evens things up somewhat. Possessed of a sudden notion Cleo dressed for the street. When she went out it was with a laughing remark to Miss Becky, whom she intercepted upon the broad carpeted main stairway, to the effect that a number of little shopping duties had to be looked after. However, M'lle Cleo's ideas of the shopping district must have become a little mixed, for she sauntered in the direction of that quaint mass of stone and glass with its spire and numerous minarets known as St. Patrick's Cathedral. She looked through the iron fence at the flat slabs and few monuments commemorating illustrious Irish dead, she studied the architecture of the historic building, and cast many a curious glance at those who passed in to late mass or came out from the interior. Her object seemed doomed to disappointment, for the face she sought was not seen. Once she eyed a lady closely veiled, who came out in company with a military looking gentleman sporting a shaggy head of gray hair _à la_ Mark Twain, also a ferocious mustache waxed at the ends and giving the wearer the fierce appearance of King Humbert. As the couple passed Cleo she chanced to hear the lady make a casual remark, and two things struck the listener as singular. First it was pure Spanish she heard. Second, her voice was so very melodious it seemed to conjure up visions of rippling water, warbling birds and all those things of which poets love to rave. Cleo remembered--could she ever forget the pain that shot through her heart at the time--how Roderic had grown suddenly enthusiastic when he declared the voice of Senorita de Brabant as musical as the notes of a nightingale--she had doubtless sung for him many times those passionate serenades and love songs for which dark eyed daughters of old Spain have ever been famous. Cleo could imagine how those wonderful black orbs glowed with love's sacred fire when _he_ sat near, upon a soft divan, or bent over the gurgling fountain's basin. She felt sick at heart, but such a nature never reveals the pain that rankles within. Though suffering tortures such girls will laugh and seem as merry as the lightest hearted among their comrades. After that came the shopping, and yet Cleo was annoyed to find herself listening to every voice upon the street and in the stores. Surely there could not be another in all Dublin that so fully filled the brief but graphic description Roderic had given of a woman's tones sounding like the soft gurgling of water over the mossy stones in the primeval forest.