“You are young, dear, and may not know what it is to love a man. Jacqueline was young also, but from the moment she returned home to us from a visit she had been making in Boston, I perceived that something had entered her life that was destined to make a great change in her; and when a few weeks later, young Robert Holt from Boston, came to pay his respects to her in her father’s house, I knew, or thought I did, what that something was. We were sitting in this room I remember, when the servant-girl came in, and announced that Mr. Holt was in the parlor. Jacqueline was lying on the sofa, and her father was in his usual chair by the table. At the name, Holt, the girl rose as if it had suddenly thundered, or the lightning had flashed. I see her now. She was dressed in white—though it was early fall she still clung to her summer dresses—her dark hair was piled high, and caught here and there with old-fashioned gold pins, a splendid red rose burned on her bosom, and another flashed crimson as blood from her folded hands. “‘Holt?’ repeated the Colonel without turning his head, ‘I know no such man.’ “‘He said he wished to see Miss Jacqueline,’ simpered the servant. “‘Oh,’ returned the Colonel indifferently. He never showed surprise before the servants—and went on with his book, still without turning his head. “I thought if he had turned it, he would scarcely sit there reading so quietly; for Jacqueline who had not stirred from her alert and upright position, was looking at him in a way no father, least of all a father who loved his child as he did her, could have beheld without agitation. It was the glance of a tigress waiting for the sight of an inconsiderate move, in order to spring. It was wild unconstrainable joy, eying a possible check and madly defying it. I shuddered as I looked at her eye, and sickened as I perceived a huge drop of blood ooze from her white fingers, where they unconsciously clutched a thorn, and drop dark and disfiguring upon her virgin garments. At the indifferent exclamation of her father, her features relaxed, and she turned haughtily towards the girl, with a veiling of her secret delight that already bespoke the woman of the world. “‘Tell Mr. Holt that I will see him presently,’ said she, and was about to follow the girl from the room when I caught her by the sleeve. “‘You will have to change your dress,’ said I, and I pointed to the ominous blot disfiguring its otherwise spotless white. “She started and gave me a quick glance. “‘I have a skin like a spider’s web,” cried she. ‘I should never meddle with roses.’ But I noticed she did not toss the blossom away. “‘Who is this Mr. Holt?’ now asked the Colonel suddenly turning, the servant having left the room.