Archibald Sherbrooke not only _hoped_ to see her again, he _did_ see her many times after that, for he contrived to be at the station on some pretext or other, or overtake her on the way thither, every day for nearly a week, and he was always greeted with a glad look and smile. Every day she grew more beautiful in his sight; every day his eyes told her so, and these chance (?) meetings grew very sweet to them both. “You must come out to Yonkers, some day, and see Mr. Rosevelt,” Star said, upon one of these occasions. “There, I declare, we have found so much else to talk about, that I have not even told you where I live,” she said, laughing. “And I am invited out to see _Mr. Rosevelt_, am I?” he asked, with a twinkle of mischief in his fine eyes. “Yes,” Star returned, demurely. “I know he will be very much pleased to see you—indeed, he said so when I told him of our meeting. He remembers how good to him you were after his rescue.” “Thanks. Then I shall certainly avail myself of your invitation, and go out to see Mr. Rosevelt some day very soon,” he said, with a grave bow; but his eyes told her that she would be the star to attract him thither. “You say _he_ remembers what transpired on the steamer. Do _you_ remember, too, Miss Star, how you told me at parting that I should always be your friend—that you would never forget me?” Star’s glorious eyes drooped, and the quick color rushing upward, stained all her fair face to those soft yellow curls on her forehead. “I have not forgotten,” she murmured, softly. “Neither have I, as perhaps this will prove to you,” said the young man, lifting a tiny locket which hung from his watch-chain, and, touching a spring, held it up before her. It contained nothing save a tress of shining hair, and Star knew in an instant to whom it had once belonged. Like a flash she remembered the cameo that he had given her as a souvenir, and a choking sensation came into her throat. She knew by the way he was looking at her—by the way he had asked her if she “remembered”—that he was wondering if she had kept his gift as he had treasured that lock of silken hair. There was not a piece of jewelry about her person, and he had remarked that fact the first time he met her there at the station. Every article of her toilet was as dainty as it was possible to make it with her limited resources, and she looked every inch a lady; but it was not usual in those days to see a young girl of her age without the glitter of gold or tinsel somewhere about her. “You have kept it all this time,” she said, scarce knowing what to say from embarrassment, while she wondered what she ought to tell him about the cameo. “Certainly I have kept it all this time. I urged you to give it to me, and you do not suppose I was going to cast it lightly aside, do you?”