The letter was in Nita's bosom. The sweetness and the thorn were in her heart. She wrung her slender hands together, as if in pain, then they fell apart, and a stifled cry came from her lips. The keen little tongue of the emerald serpent had pierced her rosy palm and the blood started. But the wound in the young girl's heart was deeper far. Everything around Nita--the moon, the flowers, the sea, breathed of love. What wonder that the same pulse throbbed at her heart! She leaned on the railing of a little fountain throwing diamond sprays into the air, and murmured plaintively: "If this had come to me only two weeks ago it would have opened the gates of heaven to me. To love--to be loved--that is the best of life. But I have lived to be almost eighteen, and never had this crowning joy--never until now, when it comes, alas, too late. Ah, would it be so very wrong to love him just a little while? I have just one year of life, for I have sworn to die ere the moment comes of giving myself to Miser Farnham's arms. One year--only year in this beautiful world! Oh, it is cruel, cruel! And life has been so hard to me; who could blame me for taking this joy that fate holds out to me, this draft of love whose dregs will be so bitter?" Hungry for love and happiness, the girl was faltering with a terrible temptation. For a week she had held it at bay. To-night Love stood sentinel at the door of her heart and proclaimed himself her master. That night in the old garden when she had believed Dorian Mountcastle dead, she had uttered prophetic words: "If you had lived, you would have lured my heart from me." Only time could prove whether it was for better or worse that he had lived, and that they had looked and loved. "I must go to him!" she cried suddenly, sweeping all irresolution aside. She gathered a lily from the marble basin of the fountain, fastened it in the bosom of her white gown, and turned toward the house. Coming into the graveled walk at the foot of the steps, Nita almost ran into the arms of a tall, middle-aged man, who lifted his hat with easy grace, exclaiming: "Beg pardon, Miss--Miss----" "Farnham," the young girl said quietly, and stood waiting. He bowed deeply, and resumed in his easy courteous manner: "My name is Donald Kayne, Miss Farnham, and I am in search of a missing friend of mine, Dorian Mountcastle. I set him ashore on this beach about two weeks ago, and on returning only yesterday from our little yachting excursion, I heard that he had not returned to New York, nor even been heard of there. I became uneasy and came down to-day to hunt him up, although now"--with an admiring glance--"his exile is no longer a mystery to me. I learned at the hotel of my friend's accident, and that he was your guest. I hastened without ceremony to call on him." "You are most welcome," she answered, in a low, musical voice. "Thank you; and is he better?"