Star passed her hand across her forehead and sighed heavily, as she began slowly to gather up the broken threads of memory again. “What was it, Starling?” Mr. Rosevelt questioned, with a troubled look at her white face; “did you have bad news in your letters?” “No, there were no ill-tidings in my letters,” she answered, avoiding his eye, and wishing to conceal, if possible, the cause of her swoon from him. “I read them through,” she added, “and was opening my papers, when I began to feel queerly. I believe I never fainted but once before in my life.” But she shuddered as she remembered how Josephine Richards had been the cause of that ill-turn also. She sat up and tried to collect herself. She still felt as if those icy bands were encircling her heart, and as if her brain was on fire; but she was anxious to get hold of that paper once more, and go away by herself. She did not mean that Jacob Rosevelt should ever know that she had seen the notice of her lover’s marriage; she meant to keep her secret locked close within her own breast, and not even let him suspect that she was still grieving for the man whose name had not been mentioned between them for over a year. “I am afraid you are going to be ill,” he said, noticing the great blue circles under her eyes with alarm. “No; do not be anxious about me, Uncle Jacob,” she returned, trying to smile. “I shall be all right again in a few minutes.” And she was, apparently. She called all her will to her aid; she drank a full glass of wine, and soon felt much stronger, but oh! still so wretched and heart-sick. She arose after awhile and began to move about the room, although both Mr. Rosevelt and Mrs. Blunt insisted that she was not able—that she ought to be still and rest all day. But that paper was still lying upon the floor, with that marked paragraph staring her in the face. She must get it and hide it, or they would learn all her trouble, and know how weak and foolish she was—how lacking in pride and self-respect to grieve thus after another woman’s husband; and her lips curled with scorn at her own folly, while all the time the pain at her heart was growing more bitter. Very quietly she gathered up her letters and papers, which had slipped to the floor when she fell. With trembling fingers she folded that fatal sheet into the smallest compass, and tucked it slyly into her pocket; then laying the others on the table beside Mr. Rosevelt, she said: “I do not think I will read any more now, Uncle Jacob; but perhaps you would like to look over these home papers. I will go and lie down for a little while, and try to sleep off my weakness.” He took her white face between his hands and looked anxiously into her eyes. “My dear, my dear,” he said, earnestly, “I hope you are not going to be sick; what should I do without you? You must take care of yourself for my sake, as well as for your own, my Star.” She smiled, and, taking one of the hands that held her face, touched her lips to it.