At five o’clock of that afternoon, Mr. Morpeth presented himself at the door of the parlor attached to the apartments of the Belton sisters. Miss Belton, senior, was just coming out of the room. She received his inquiry after her sister’s health with a white face and a quivering lip. “I should think, Mr. Morpeth,” she began, “that you had gone far enough in playing with the feelings of a m–m–mere child, and that—oh! I have no words to express my _contempt_ for you!” And in a most unladylike rage Miss Pauline Belton swept down the hotel corridor. She had left the door open behind her. Morpeth heard a voice, weak, but cheery, addressing him from the far end of the parlor. “You’ve got her!” it said. “She’s crazy mad. She’ll make up to you to–night—see if she don’t.” Mr. Morpeth looked up and down the long corridor. It was empty. He pushed the door open, and entered. Flossy was lying on the sofa, pale, but bright–eyed. [Illustration] “You can get her,” she whispered, as he knelt down beside her. “Flossy,” he said, “don’t you know that that is all ended? Don’t you know that I love you and you only? Don’t you know that I haven’t thought about any one else since—since—oh, Flossy, don’t you—is it possible that you don’t understand?” Flossy stretched out two weak arms, and put them around Mr. Morpeth’s neck. “Why have I had you in training all Summer?” said she. “Did you think it was for Pauline?” [Illustration] ZOZO. [Illustration: “_‘Yes, Mother, you’d oughter’ve seen that place burn’._”] ZOZO. [Illustration] Through a thickly falling snow, on the outskirts of one of New York’s suburban towns, (a hamlet of some two hundred thousand population,) walked a man who had but one desire in the world ungratified. His name was Richard Brant, and he was a large, deep–chested, handsome man—a man’s man; hardly a woman’s man at all: and yet the sort of man that is likely to make a pretty serious matter of it if he loves a woman, or if a woman loves him. Mr. Richard Brant came from the West, the Western–born child of Eastern–born parents. He made his fortune before he was thirty–five, and for five years he had been trying to find out what he wanted to do with that fortune. He was a man of few tastes, of no vices, and of a straight–forward, go–ahead spirit that set him apart from the people who make affectation the spice of life. He wanted only one thing in the world, and that one thing money would not buy for him. So he was often puzzled as to how he might best spend his money; and he often spent it foolishly. As he walked through the suburban streets of the suburban city, this sharp Winter’s night, he was reflecting on the folly of spending money on a fur coat. He was wearing the coat—a magnificent affair of bearskin and sable. [Illustration]