"Oh, mamma, you said just now that a person may be high-toned even though poor, and it made me think of my lover Harry. If you should meet him, mamma, not knowing his obscure station, you would think him not less than princely. He has the bearing, the speech, and the heart of a gentleman--of one of nature's noblemen. Then why should you despise him for his poverty?" Mrs. Fitzgerald's fair brow clouded with annoyance at her daughter's words and she said, quickly: "I do not despise him for his poverty--I do not despise him at all. I said that you could not marry him because almost from your cradle you have been promised to another." "What nonsense!" said the girl, petulantly, to herself but she asked, with seeming calmness: "To whom, mamma?" "To a splendid young gentleman of wealth and rank in England." "How romantic! Tell me all about it, dear mamma!" cried Geraldine, anxious to know the worst. "You are laughing at me, Geraldine," her mother cried, doubtfully. "No, no, mamma; I was only smiling at my transformation. Such a little while ago I was simply a poor shop-girl in a New York dry-goods store, and engaged to marry a fireman, who was considered an exceedingly good match for me. Now I find myself a rich young heiress, betrothed to an English nobleman. It is quite startling." "I believe you regret your good fortune!" cried the lady. Geraldine answered with a burst of tears. For a few moments she sobbed vehemently; then calming herself, she sighed. "Dear mamma, I can never regret that I have found you, but I can never cease to deplore your hardness of heart that would part me from my heart's chosen one!" "Hardness of heart," echoed the mother, reproachfully. "Oh, mamma, you do not know how fondly I love him!" sobbed the daughter, and for a little while there was a painful silence. Mrs. Fitzgerald was a woman of strong will and high ambition. She could not forego her plans for Geraldine. So presently she said, soothingly: "My darling girl, I know you would not wish to have me break my plighted word. When I was in Europe, at the time when you were two years old, I spent two months at the home of a New York cousin of mine who had married a rich lord. They had a son seven years old--a bright, manly little lad--who fairly worshiped you; and one day his mother said, gayly: 'Leland, why don't you ask little Geraldine to be your wife when she grows up?' "The pretty blue-eyed boy laughed and knelt down by your side, repeating the question his mother had prompted, and you kissed him and lisped 'yes.'" "But I was only a baby, mamma. Of course, such a betrothal was not binding," remonstrated Geraldine, though she was touched at the pretty, childish betrothal.