"Hughy's pretty good-looking, Ethie," said Meg, amiably; "and the best fellow in the world; but probably not of a calibre to interest a college girl. And Lord Strathay"--the name rolled slowly from her tongue, as if she were loth to let it go--"is a charming fellow. Just succeeded to the title. He's travelling with his cousin, the Hon. Stephen Allardyce Poultney. Nelly danced with him. And did she tell you that Mrs. Sloane Schuyler begged to have her presented? Sister to a Duchess, you know. We'll have Helen in London next. Nobody there to compare with her. Just what Strathay said, I do assure you." London! Men of title, and great ladies and the glitter of a court! Once I may have dreamed of power and place and the rustle of trailing robes, and being admired of all men and hated of all women, but now in my annoyance I longed to cry out: "Why can't you talk sense? Why babble of such silly things?" To make matters worse, Uncle came just in time to hear the General's last remark. "I do not think our Princess would leave us," he said, "even if-- 'at her feet were laid The sceptres of the earth exposed on heaps To choose where she would reign.'" It was scarcely to be borne. I knew he was thinking of John, and I caught myself looking down at my hand, praying that Ned might see that I no longer wore the opal ring. Then came Aunt Frank with a headache, looking ill enough, indeed; and I was glad to jump up and serve her some tea. "Milly has a headache, too," I said; and she looked from Milly's vexed, cold face to mine, almost peevishly replying:-- "Nothing ever seems to ail you, child." After all the weary waiting, Ned and I exchanged only a word. But the word was a delight and a comfort. More than once the Judge has suggested for me a short absence from the city to win a respite from the newspapers; and this morning, when he saw that the _Echo_ had smuggled an East Side girl into the ballroom last night to tell the Bowery, in Boweryese, how the other half lives, her descriptions of me so incensed him that he almost insisted upon Aunt's packing for Bermuda at once. Ned must have heard of that. "You will not go away?" he said when he took leave of me. "You know that Uncle--" "You will not?" "No." I couldn't speak steadily. The low, passionate entreaty told me that he had come to receive that pledge, and I gave it. Oh, now, now, I cannot be unhappy! I know that he has tried to stay away from me, and why he has not succeeded. Love has been too mighty for us both. Love has conquered us, and I--I shall never again be unhappy! BOOK IV. THE BRUISING OF THE WINGS. CHAPTER I. THE KISS THAT LIED. East Sixty-seventh Street, Feb. 25. He said he did not love me. It is not true. I saw love when he spoke, when he kissed my hands. He does love me, but he guards a man's honour.