She knew that no daughter was ever more tenderly beloved than she was by this grand old man, whose deathless affection had been given to her grandmother. “No, I shall not be sick, Uncle Jacob; do not worry,” she returned, trying to speak lightly. “Many people frequently faint, and get entirely over it in an hour. I shall be as well as ever in a little while, and all right for the reception at the American Legation this evening.” “I do not believe you will be able to go,” he said, doubtfully. “You must not expose yourself.” “Oh, I would not miss it on any account,” Star answered, quickly. “Let me run away now for a nap, and I will show you how fresh I shall be when the hour arrives.” She was anxious to get away from his questioning eyes, and, gently releasing herself from him, she sought her own room and locked herself in. All day long she battled there with her tortured heart; all day long she fought with the love which she still bore Archie Sherbrooke, for it rose up stronger by a hundred-fold now that she had discovered that he was innocent of any wrong toward her, and realized her own cruel injustice to him. If she had but opened and read more of that paper, she would have learned her error; but the moment she found herself alone, she took it from her pocket and threw it upon the glowing coals in the grate, and watched it while it burned to ashes. She was determined that Mr. Rosevelt should never see it. All day long she lay upon her bed, and thought bitterly of Josephine as the proud and happy wife of Lord Carrol—as the mistress of his elegant home, the sharer of his position and title. Oh! it was too cruel, when she had loved him so; when she knew that she could have made him so happy, while Josephine had only sought to win him from selfish and ambitious motives. She knew now that she had never despised him—never scorned him, as she told him that night at Mr. Richards’. She knew that never for a moment had she swerved in the least degree from her allegiance to him; that her heart had been true and loyal to him, even when she had thought most bitterly of him; and she knew, too—this was the worst of all to contemplate—that she should go on loving him as long as she lived. Five days they had been married. The wedding had occurred the tenth of December, and it was now the fifteenth. It almost seemed as if she would have given as many years of her life to have saved him from such a fate as she believed would be his with that vain and heartless girl for his life-long companion. Of course it would do no good to grieve over that now; but her own future looked like a weary journey, marked only by the mile-stones of duty, without a stage of happiness to cheer her along the way. She had known nothing of the Richardses coming abroad; that notice of Josephine’s marriage had been the first intimation that she had had of it.