But the summer breeze, as it sighed through the willows, had a mournful sound, and the river gliding by the green, flowery banks murmured low of mystery and tragedy and sorrow. “Cecil, I cannot marry you!” cried Violet, and she added, sadly: “You belong to Amber. You were betrothed to her when I came home!” He denied it with passionate vehemence: “I admired Miss Laurens very much, but I only called on her to pass away the time. I never spoke to her of love or marriage!” “Then you were a wretched flirt, Cecil Grant! for your attentions made me think you loved me, and all our friends predicted our speedy marriage!” cried an indignant voice, and there was Amber, magnificently beautiful in an elaborate white gown and gleaming, amber jewels. She had watched him from her window going down to the river and followed him, eager for an interview on this romantic spot. And this was her reward, to hear his avowal of love for her cousin and indifference for herself. Oh, how cruelly her proud and loving heart was stung by the serpent of jealousy coiling there! She could have slain the pair of lovers, so close together there beneath the shade of the golden willows. And she could not repress the bitter, reproachful words with which she startled them from their sweet love-dream. Cecil Grant sprang to his feet, crying, eagerly: “I beg your pardon, Miss Laurens, if I have indeed acted so imprudently as you assert. My only excuse is that I did not think. You had many admirers besides myself, and how could I guess that your choice had fallen on me? I am very, very sorry. Will you forgive me?” “Never! never!” she cried, bitterly, and with burning tears, as she rushed away, and left him alone with his fair young love, sweet Violet. They gazed a moment in each other’s eyes, then Cecil drew her to his breast and held her strained in a long embrace. “You are mine, Violet! mine forever!” he whispered, tenderly. “Never mind Amber. She will get over her disappointment and marry another.” But he did not know the fiery, burning heart of Amber Laurens. She had loved him with a passion that was intensified to madness by his loss. And as she fled wildly back to the house, she registered a burning oath that Cecil Grant should never find happiness with Violet Mead. “She must give him back to me, or I shall die of despair!” she cried, with burning tears, that almost blistered her beautiful cheeks. She had never thought that Violet was her equal in beauty, never believed that they could be rivals in love. The shock of her awakening was terribly intense. Reason seemed to totter on its throne. She had loved sweet Violet in a careless, cousinly fashion before, but now all her love turned to jealous hate. Pacing the floor of her sumptuous apartment, like a beautiful, angry tigress, she brooded over her bitter defeat, and wondered how she could punish her cousin for the triumph she had won.