mirror--and there she read the answer. She would possess the power to rule and sway the hearts of all men,--if she cared! But now it had so happened that she did _not_ care. Smouldering in her soul like the last spent ashes of a once fierce fire, there was just one passion left--the strong desire of vengeance on all the forces that had spoilt and embittered her natural woman’s life. She was no longer capable of loving, but she knew she could hate! A woman seldom loves deeply and truly more than once in her life--she stakes her all on the one chance and hope of happiness, and the man who takes advantage of that love and ruthlessly betrays it may well beware. His every moment of existence is fraught with danger, for there is no destructive power more active and intense than love transformed to hate through falsehood and injustice. And Diana admitted to herself, albeit reluctantly, that she could hate deeply and purposefully. She hated herself for the fact that it was so,--but she was too honest not to acknowledge it. Her spirit had been wounded and maltreated by all on whom she had set her affections,--and as her way of life had been innocent and harmless, she resented the unfairness of her fate. Wrong or right, she longed to retaliate in some way on the petty slights, the meannesses, the hypocrisies and neglect of those who had assisted in spoiling her youth and misjudging her character, and though she was willing to “love her enemies” in a broad and general sense, she was not ready to condone the easy callousness and cruelty of the persons and circumstances which had robbed her of the natural satisfaction and peace of happy womanhood. For a long time she sat at the open window, lost in a reverie--till she saw the sun beginning to sink in a splendid panoply of crimson and gold, with streaming clouds of fleecy white and pale amber spreading from east to west, from north to south, like the unfurling flags of some great fairy’s victorious army, and then a sudden thrill ran through her blood which made her heart beat and her face grow pale--it was close upon the destined hour when--ah!--she would not stop to think of the “when” or the “where”--instinctively she knelt down, and with folded hands said her prayers simply as a child, though with more than a child’s fervour. She had scarcely breathed the last “Amen,” when a light tap came on her door, and on her calling “Come in”--Vasho entered, carrying a small parcel with a note from Dimitrius. Handing it to her, he signified by his usual expressive signs that he would wait outside for the answer. As soon as he had retired, she opened the note and read as follows: