"I don't mind owning to the truth, Devereaux. Yes, I lost my heart irretrievably that night to lovely Liane Lester, and I made up my mind to overlook the difference in our position and woo her for my own. But I had to go to Philadelphia the next day, and I was detained there some time getting my design ready for the magazine, and this was followed by a spell of illness. At length, all impatience, I returned to Stonecliff two days ago to seek the fair girl who had charmed me so. Fancy my dismay when I found her gone, and no clue to her whereabouts!" Again Devereaux's heart thumped furiously. "You loved her very much?" he asked hoarsely. "I adored her. She was to me the incarnation of simple beauty and purity." "And had you any token of her preference in return?" "None. She was too shy and bashful to give me the sign the coquette might have deemed befitting. She hid her heart beneath the drooping fringe of her dark, curling lashes. Yet I dared to hope, and there was one thing in my favor: I did not have a rival." "You are mistaken!" "How?" "I was your rival!" "You, Devereaux!" They almost glared at each other, and Devereaux said hoarsely: "I was in love with Miss Lester before you ever saw her face!" "After all, that is not strange. Who could see her and not love her? But was your suit successful?" "No." "Rejected?" Devereaux flushed, then answered frankly: "Yes." Malcolm Dean could not conceal his joyful surprise. "I cannot comprehend her rejection of your suit. I should have thought you irresistible." Devereaux struggled a moment with natural pride and selfishness, then answered: "She preferred you." "Me? How should you know?" "By her own confession to me." Malcolm Dean was frankly staggered by his friend's statement. His blue eyes gleamed with joy and his bosom heaved with pride. "You have made me very happy, but how very, very strange that she should have made such a confession to you," he cried, in wonder. Again Devereaux had a short, sharp struggle with his better self and his natural jealousy of the more fortunate lover of Liane, then his pity for the girl triumphed over every selfish instinct, and he said: "She was very frank with me--the frankness of innocence that saw no harm in the confidence. On the same principle I see no harm in confiding in you, Dean;" and he impulsively drew from his breast Liane's letter. Had he dreamed of the fatal consequences, he would have withheld his eager hand. There is love and love--love that has shallow roots and love that cannot be dragged up from its firm foundations. "Read!" said Devereaux, generously placing in his rival's hand Liane's letter. For himself he could have forgiven all her faults of innocence and ignorance could she but have returned his love. It did not occur to his mind that the artist could be in any way different; that the ill spelling and the puerile mind evinced by the letter would inspire him with keen disgust.