As he spoke he drew from his capacious pocket a half-dozen letters, and as many papers, which he had just received from the American Legation, and half of which he gave into Star’s own hands. “This is from Grace, this from Mr. Appleton, and—this must be from Nattie Browning, to whom I gave up my position as a teacher,” she said, running the letters through her white fingers. She laid the papers, which, of course, were of minor importance, upon the table, and, sitting down in a low chair, carefully cut the ends of the envelopes, and was soon deep in the contents of her news from beyond the sea. It took her nearly an hour to read them all. Miss Meredith’s was full of chat and innocent gossip, just like that charming young lady’s own self, and contained a number of commissions and charges, not the least important of which was that Star must be sure to hunt up her brother Ralph, who wrote that he should spend nearly the whole of the month of December in or near London. Mr. Appleton’s letter was mostly on business, and regarding the book she had written, as well as another which he wanted her to write. It contained also a check, and Star always felt very proud whenever these bits of paper came made out to her. They gave her a feeling of independence and pleasure which no other money did. The third letter was an entertaining one from a classmate—a poor girl to whom she had, as she said, resigned a position as teacher upon finding herself the heiress to a million. After reading these she took up her papers in a listless way; she did not feel much in the mood for looking them over; they seemed tame and uninteresting after the letters. But all at once she noticed that one was not a home paper; it bore the London postmark, and was addressed in a hand she did not recognize. “It cannot be from Ralph Meredith,” she said to herself, “for he does not know that I am here. Besides, it is not his handwriting. I wonder who could have sent it?” She opened it with considerable curiosity, and yet with a feeling of foreboding at her heart. The Cheshire _Gazette_, she read, as she espied the heading, and then her eye glanced down over the columns underneath. Suddenly she started. There is a paragraph marked. Her eyes dilate—a look of horror comes into them; her lips grow pale, and she feels as if she is suffocating as she reads: “MARRIED.—At the country residence of Lady Sherbrooke, on the 10th instant, Sir Archibald Sherbrooke and Lord Carrol, of Carrolton, to Miss Josephine Richards, of New York, U. S. A., and heiress presumptive to the Thornton estates in Devonshire, etc.” Could it be true? The paper dropped from her nerveless hands. Was the deed really done at last, and Archibald Sherbrooke lost to her forever? She had not realized until that moment how much of hope had lived in her heart during all this time. But these dreadful words had suddenly cut it down, as the sharp sickle cuts down the tender grass.