“Perhaps not,” she answered, with downcast eyes; “but I hardly thought you would keep it in—in such a way; and—oh I Mr. Sherbrooke, I have lost that lovely little cameo that you gave to me.” She looked up at him now, and he noted the troubled, even pained expression that was in her eyes. “Lost it!” he repeated; and although he did not intend it, his face clouded, whether from disappointment or some other feeling she could not tell. She could not bear that he should know _how_ she had lost it, and she felt that she was guilty of no untruth when she explained its absence thus. “Yes,” she returned. “Please do not think that I did not prize it, for I did more than I can tell you, and I hope even yet to be able to recover it.” He did not reply, but his face had grown grave, almost severe, and she imagined there was something of constraint in his manner at parting with her. She felt that he was hurt by her seeming carelessness or indifference for his costly little gift, and bitter tears kept welling to her eyes all the way home. “I _will_ have it again. I will go to Josephine and demand it. She has no right to it, for it is mine; and if she will not give it to me, I will appeal to Mr. Richards,” she said, indignantly, to herself. “I could not bear to tell him how I lost it,” she thought, with rising color. “I do not wish him to know how I have been treated by my mother’s relatives, or how bitterly I have been disappointed in my hopes since coming to this country. But,” she added, with firmly compressed lips, “it will not be so much longer. In a little while I shall be independent of them all.” She little imagined how soon she would be independent of them, or how it would be achieved. This was Thursday—she had first met young Sherbrooke the previous Friday, and there had not been the slightest cloud to mar their intercourse until now, though they had met almost every day—and Star went home feeling somewhat sad and depressed. But the next morning her sadness disappeared when Mr. Rosevelt told her that he was feeling so strong and well that he would like a change, and he proposed to go to New York and call upon their young friend. He had given Star his address, and when she left for school on Friday morning, it was arranged that Mr. Rosevelt should go to town that afternoon and she would meet him at Mr. Sherbrooke’s studio after school and they would return together. It seemed, however, as if everything went wrong for our young friend that day. Her mind, usually so keen and active, refused to work with its accustomed vigor, and she was listless and almost inattentive, much to the surprise of Professor Roberts and her other teachers. Her thoughts were playing truant, and half the time were far away in that artist studio where Mr. Rosevelt was visiting.