But she did not have the heart to carry out her threat, for Mrs. Fitzgerald was kind in spite of her reserve, lavishing beautiful gowns and jewels upon her, as if to make up to her for her heart-loneliness. Dressmakers and milliners had _carte blanche_, and Geraldine had an outfit fine enough for a young princess. These beautiful gowns, these flashing jewels, and the luxury of her home would have made the lovely girl very happy, but for the cruel separation from her lover. Without him there was a blank in everything. "Where I am the halls are gilded, Stored with pictures bright and rare; Strains of deep, melodious music Float upon the perfumed air. Slowly, heavily, and sadly Time with weary wings must flee, Marked by pain and toil and sorrow, Where I fain must be." One day a sudden thought came into her mind. "Why not have Cissy come and make me a visit?" She spoke to her mother about it the same day, asking timidly for the privilege of inviting Cissy to spend a month with her in Chicago. Mrs. Fitzgerald readily acquiesced, and gave Geraldine a liberal check for her friend's traveling expenses. Geraldine flew to her room to write to her friend, and she did not fail to inquire of Cissy what had become of Harry Hawthorne. "Tell him I have written to him and received no reply," she added, naively, in her keen anxiety. She felt a little happier when the letter had been dispatched to Cissy. It would be a comfort to have her old friend with her, in spite of the fact that many of her mother's rich, fashionable friends had called and offered their friendship in affectionate terms. But they were strange and new to Geraldine, and they could not make her happy yet. The transplanted flower had not taken root in this new, rich soil. It pined for its old habitation. It was strange to be a greenhouse exotic instead of a fresh wild-flower nodding to its mates beneath the free blue sky. "But if I only had those I love with me, I should be supremely happy," she sighed, wistfully. "There is no friend like an old friend, Whose life-path mates our own, Whose dawn and noon, whose even and end Have known that we have known. It may be when we read her face We note a trace of care; 'Tis well that friends in life's last grace Share sighs as smiles they share." More than a week had passed since Clifford Standish's visit, and they saw and heard no more of him. Both mother and daughter supposed that he had passed out of their lives forever. But the handsome governess, Miss Erroll, might have told them a different story had she dared. She had received several letters from him, and she knew from them that the actor was weaving a spider's web to entrap poor Geraldine. But she dared not speak, dared not warn the beautiful unconscious victim. She was in the villain's power, through his knowledge of her past, and her terror for her own safety commanded her silence.