But it was noticeable that Mr. Rosevelt did most of the eating, for our lovers were in altogether too exalted a state for such commonplace realities as bread and butter, or even for anything so tempting as peaches and cream. When Mr. Rosevelt’s hunger was appeased, he asked Star to play something before they left. There was a piano in the room, and he was extremely fond of music. “I want our friend here to know what a talented little musician we have,” he said, with a fond glance at his favorite. Star was only too willing to comply with his request, glad of anything to relieve the awkward consciousness which had pervaded her all through tea, and sitting down to the instrument, she played several pieces. Archibald Sherbrooke was astonished at the proficiency which she displayed, and the appreciative silence which prevailed upon the veranda outside the open windows, told that her power had swayed a larger audience than she had thought of having. “She is mine; I have won her, this talented, beautiful, pure-hearted girl,” Archibald Sherbrooke said, exultantly, to himself, as he closed the piano for her, and pressed the hand that hung invitingly near him. They repaired to the boat-landing soon after, for it was nearly time for their departure. When the steamer arrived, Archibald found a sheltered seat for Mr. Rosevelt, and then drawing Star a little apart, wrapped her shawl carefully about her and sat down beside her, her hand clasped in his under cover of its soft folds. “He will not mind, and I want you to myself,” he whispered. “I cannot see you to-morrow, love, for it will be Sunday, but Monday or Tuesday I shall come to you. I cannot wait longer.” Star glanced at him somewhat anxiously. She knew what that coming would entail upon her—sneers and taunts, and perhaps more unkindness than she had ever yet received from Mrs. Richards or Josephine. Mr. Richards, she felt assured, would be more considerate of her feelings; yet, under any circumstances, this visit of her lover would be a very trying one. Ah! _how_ trying, Heaven only knew. She thought perhaps she ought to tell him something of her life during the last year, that he might not be wholly unprepared when he should present his suit for what she feared would be a very disagreeable interview. But she was so supremely happy sitting there by his side in the glorious moonlight, and knowing that she was so tenderly beloved, that she could not bear to mar it by so much as a word or thought of what she had suffered in the past, or might have to endure in the future, until he should come for her to claim her as his wife. No, she would not tell him; she would wait until after he had been presented to her guardians. There would be time enough then, and it would be just as well. But it was a fatal mistake. Had she told him then, all the pain and anguish, all the misery and hopelessness which she afterward experienced would have been spared her; but how could she know?