“I do not think that I should soon forget if you had rejected me. I fancy it would have been a very serious matter to me,” Florian Gay replied, quite gravely; but his betrothed only laughed at him. “Nonsense! You would have been courting another girl next day, Florian.” “It is more likely that I should have put an end to my life, for I seem to live only in you, my darling, and if I were to lose you now after you had promised yourself to me, I could not answer for myself. I should commit some desperate deed, I am sure!” he exclaimed, with such sudden fire and passion that she started with alarm and queenly displeasure. “I don’t like stage ranting, please, Florian, and I can’t abide jealousy. You are to keep our engagement secret, and not to interfere with my flirtations, as you promised, or everything will be over between us,” Viola said, resolutely, heedless of the jealous frown that lowered upon his handsome brow, and with no comprehension of his feelings, playing with fire like a thoughtless child. A very madness of jealousy throbbed in the young man’s heart, but it was sternly hidden out of sight as he cried, eagerly: “I will obey your wishes, Viola; but won’t you tell me when you will be willing to marry me?” “Oh, not for ages yet, Florian. Remember, I am not nineteen yet, and have only been out in society a year. My judgment is scarcely formed now, and perhaps,” with an arch, sidelong glance from her dazzling eyes, “I may yet see another man I could like better and throw you over for his sake.” “Woe be unto him at that hour!” the distracted lover muttered grimly between his teeth; but Viola did not overhear. She did not, in fact, apprehend any change in her constancy to Florian. She had simply been teasing him to test her power, and now she said, with a sudden, sweet smile: “Poor auntie will wake up presently over there in her corner and think it is time to have this sitting over, yet you have hardly begun. Please go on.” Florian took up the brush obediently, but his hand was unsteady with the hot throbbings of his jealous heart. He longed to kiss her now that she had granted him that sweet, tender smile, but she seldom permitted a caress, she was so proudly coy. “Ah, Viola, how hard it is to paint you! Such beauty can not be transferred to canvas!” he sighed. “I am getting out of heart with my work, and the poet’s lines, ‘In an Atelier,’ often occur to me. “‘Ah, dearest, I am sick at heart, It is so little I can do-- I talk my jargon--live for art-- I’d much prefer to live for you! How dull and lifeless colors are! You smile, and all my picture lies. I wish that I could crush a star To make a pigment for your eyes.’” Viola laughed and rose. “Well, I can not stay any longer today, because auntie and I are going to the White House reception now. Will you come with us, Florian?” “Delighted I am sure, but an engagement prevents.” “Can’t you break it?”