It only seemed to him that all these faults could be remedied by Liane by the influence of a true love. The glamour of a strong passion was upon him, blinding him to the truth that instantly became patent to Dean's mind. The artist, reading the shallow effusion, flung it down in keen disgust. "Heavens, what a disappointment! Such beauty and apparent sweetness united to shallowness and vanity!" he exclaimed. "It calls forth your pity?" Devereaux said. "It excites my scorn!" the artist replied hotly. "Remember her misfortunes--her bringing up by that wretched old relative in want and ignorance. Surely the influence of love will work every desirable change in the fair girl who loves you so fondly," argued Devereaux. Malcolm Dean was pacing the floor excitedly. "You could not change the shallow nature indicated by that letter, if you loved her to distraction," he exclaimed. "Mark how she confesses to deliberate coquetry to win you from your betrothed; how cold-bloodedly she gloats over her triumph. Why, my love is dead in an instant, Devereaux, slain by this glimpse at Liane Lester's real nature. Thank fortune, I did not find her at Stonecliff yesterday. I shall never seek her now, for my eyes are opened by that heartless letter. Why are you staring at me so reproachfully, Devereaux? You have even more cause to despise than I have." "And yet I cannot do it; Heaven help me, I love her still!" groaned the other, bowing his pale face upon his hands. "But, Devereaux; this is madness! She is not worth your love. Fling the poison from your heart as I do. Forget the light coquette. Return to your first love." "Never!" he cried; but in all his pain he could not help an unconscious joy that Liane could yet be won. He had not meant to turn Dean's heart against her, but the mischief was done now. Poor little girl! Would she hate him if she knew? The old pitying tenderness surged over him again, and he longed to take her in his arms and shield her from all the assaults of the cruel world. Vain and shallow she might be; coquette she might be, yet she had stormed the citadel of his heart and held it still against all intruders. "I am going now," the artist cried; turning on him restlessly. "This is good-by for months, Devereaux. I think I shall join some friends of mine who are going to winter in Italy, to study art, you know. Wish you would come with us." "I should like to, but my father is lately dead, you know, and Lieutenant Carrington, my sister's husband, is ordered to sea with his ship. I cannot leave Lyde alone, poor girl." "Then good-by, and thank you for showing me that letter. What if I had married her in ignorance?" with a shudder. "For Heaven's sake, Devereaux, be careful of getting into her toils again. Better go back to Miss Clarke, and make up your quarrel. Adieu," and with a hearty handclasp, he was gone, leaving his friend almost paralyzed with the remorseful thought: