“Why, let him come, of course! Daisie Bell, you’re a lucky girl. This Royall Sherwood is a millionaire, they tell me, and your face is pretty enough to win him, or any other man.” “Then I wish it had been the other man,” thought Daisie sadly, as she went to answer the note. “The other man” meant Dallas Bain, whose dark, manly beauty and earnest glance into her eyes had made a deep impression on her heart. His face was haunting her just as hers haunted him. It was a case of mutual attraction--of love at first sight. Heaven had made these two for each other, but adverse forces were busy driving them apart. Since Daisie had heard that Dallas was in love with the young widow, she tried to drive his handsome face from her thoughts, and since Dallas had been told that she was a simpering giggler he did not try to see her any more, and regretted that he had anonymously sent her a passionate love poem. Yet he could not have helped being glad if he could have seen how she read and reread it in blushing solitude, with an unerring conviction that he had sent it--her hero of the brilliant dark eyes and winning smile. But now, when told that he loved another, she cherished painful doubts. “I must be mistaken, since he did not care to know me, and went past when Mr. Sherwood came in. Oh, why do I care? I do not even know him, unless our souls spoke to each other in our glances when he passed me by. And, of course, he is in love with that lovely little Lutie Fleming. Yet I hoped--and was vain enough to fancy--that he sent me these sweet verses,” half sobbed the girl, yet still reading them over with a thrill at her heart. Sweet girl, though only once we met, That meeting I can ne’er forget; And though we never meet again, Remembrance will thy form retain. What though we never silence broke, Our eyes a sweeter language spoke; And soul’s interpreters, the eyes, Spurn cold restraints and scorn disguise. Now as on thee my memory ponders, Perchance to me thine also wanders; This for myself at least I’ll say: Thy form appears through night, through day. Awake, with it, my fancy teems; In sleep it smiles in fleeting dreams; The vision charms the hours away, And bids me curse Aurora’s ray For breaking slumbers of delight, Which make me wish for endless night. Since--oh, whate’er my future fate, Shall joy or woe my steps await, By hopeless love’s wild storm beset, Thy image I can ne’er forget! “Perhaps Mr. Sherwood sent the verses,” she sighed, in her sad disappointment; but on comparing them with his note she saw that the writing was distinctly different, leaving her still a little fluttering hope that Dallas Bain had indeed sent the poem, bitterly as she was piqued that he had not cared to make her acquaintance.