The laughing brown eyes grew soft with repentance as he returned, coaxingly: “Indeed, I meant to come to Mount Vernon, but--I went South the first of November with my folks, and didn’t return until--well, _recently_. So now--will you forgive me?” Would she not forgive the deceitful wretch anything, charming Maybelle, who secretly adored him? She knew that he had only remained South five weeks, but she flashed him a melting glance, and murmured, sweetly: “I’ll forgive you, sir, on only one condition--that you come in the early spring.” “Only too glad to promise--so good of you to permit me,” cooed the _jeunesse dorée_; and so the flirtation was resumed, although not very spiritedly on his part. He was five-and-twenty, and several years in the social swim had made him shy of pretty anglers for rich catches. They met at balls, operas, and receptions--they drove together a few times, he made several short calls, and sent her flowers and books, but his frank nonchalance through it all was not encouraging. It was froth on a light wave, and even the keen attention of Mrs. Vere de Vere could detect no latent earnestness. “He does not seem to mean anything in particular,” she confided candidly to the girl on the last day of her stay; and Maybelle laughed and answered that she did not care--she had only been flirting with him. But that night her pillow was wet with tears because of his careless farewell when he heard she was going. But she could not banish his image from her warm heart. Her love, as well as her pride, was enlisted, and a little spark of hope kept alive in her heart the longing that he would keep his promise to come in the spring. But it is more than probable that he would have audaciously forgotten again, only her brother Otho sought his acquaintance and attached himself to him, with the result that he “bagged the game”--that is, he brought St. George Beresford to Mount Vernon in May, when the handsome home on Prospect Avenue, Chester Hill, was looking its best among its trees and flowers. Oh, how shyly happy Maybelle was at his coming! The love in her heart made her dusky beauty more dazzling than ever before. Joy lent a deeper, fuller cadence to her musical voice. Hope shone again like a brilliant star in her languishing dark eyes, with their heavy, black-fringed lashes. St. George Beresford suddenly found her winning on him in a subtle fashion and told himself that really she was growing more charming with each day and hour. This tenderness and admiration might have ripened into passion for Maybelle, if only---- Ah! those words, _if only_--so short, so simple, yet so fraught with meaning!