It was nearly dark, for the sun had gone down and the heavy foliage of the surrounding trees made deep shadows all about her; the air was chill with the breath of the frost spirit—so different from the mild loveliness which had prevailed only forty-eight hours before—and the rustling leaves above her seemed mourning over the fate awaiting them, when its cold hand should sway their frail stems and lay them low. A feeling of unutterable woe overcame her—such a sense of loneliness and desolation that she could not bear it; and covering her face with her hands, she gave way to the flood of tears which would not be restrained. She had no idea how long she wept—time, place, everything was lost in the utter abandonment of her grief—until she was aroused, and a thrill of terror went tingling through all her nerves, as a hand fell suddenly yet lightly upon her shoulder. With a start, her hands dropped from her tear-stained face and she looked up, to find the grave, questioning eyes of her faithless lover looking down into her own. A low cry of surprise and dismay escaped him as he recognized her. “Star! My darling, what does this mean?” he asked, in astonishment. “How came you _here_, and why do I find you grieving thus? You look more like some stricken white dove than like my bright, beautiful star. I was coming to you to-morrow—I wanted to come to-day, but I could not. Tell me, dear, how is it I find you here in the grounds of Mr. Richards, where I am visiting?” and he would have gathered her into his arms, but by a quick movement she evaded him, and stepping back a few paces, she confronted him with a haughty uplifting of her small head, her face and eyes glowing with scorn and indignation. “To-morrow you would have come to me,” she repeated, with curling lips. “Pray, where would you have sought me?” “Here in Yonkers, at No. 56 —— street. I think that was the address you wrote on the card,” he said, apparently bewildered by her strange conduct, and regarding her with a troubled look. “I wanted to go there to-day, but there has been no opportunity,” he said again. “And to-morrow I was intending to ask Mr. Richards to direct me to the address which you gave me.” “Do you know the street and number of _this_ residence?” Star asked, sternly. “No. When it was arranged that I should come here to make a short visit, Mrs. Richards was so kind as to say that her carriage should meet me at the station, so that I do not even know the name of the street on which they live.” “Then to-morrow, when you should ask to be directed to the address which I gave you—if, indeed, you intended to ask for it—you would have been told that you would find me here in this place—this house. Mr. Richards’ residence is No. 56 —— street,” Star said, proudly and coldly. She had no faith in him; she believed he was acting a part.