“Those good little girls like Berry are just the ones to be deceived and ruined by designing men, child. But put it out of your thoughts, love, do. We cannot alter the world nor mankind, and all I can say to you is that it’s better not to brood over imaginary troubles. Bonair shall marry you, darling, never fear.” CHAPTER VIII. LOVED AND HATED. “Time put his sickles in among the days,” and the weeks slipped away and brought winter weather. But long before the first snow, Charley Bonair had gone away from New Market, ostensibly for a yachting trip with some of his bachelor friends, leaving Rosalind piqued and angry. For when she had asked him point-blank how long he wanted to wait before the wedding, he had answered debonairly, that she might take all the time she wanted. He guessed that both were young enough to wait a while. Anyhow, he wanted to have this bachelor trip with the boys before he thrust his neck into the matrimonial noose! Rosalind, secretly furious at his indifference, was on the point of telling him to go and stay forever, but she bit the tip of her rosy tongue, keeping back the sharp retort, and half sobbed instead: “Oh, Charley, I shall miss you so!” “I should hate to think that you were lonely, dear, but I don’t believe you will be, for Lucile and Marie intend to have you with them in California for the winter months, after Christmas. Will you go?” “Gladly, if you will promise to join us there when you come back.” “It’s a bargain,” he answered, laughing, but none of her entreaties could prevail on him to fix the date of his return. He did not really know, he said. It would depend on the other fellows. Meanwhile she was to enjoy herself in her own way; he would not find fault nor get jealous! When he had gone away, she loved and hated him by turns, and she was more than ever sure that Berry Vining had stolen his heart. “Oh, if I could find her, and were quite, quite sure of her guilt, I would wreak a bitter vengeance,” she murmured angrily, to the silent walls of her luxurious chamber. She would have given anything to know the whereabouts of the girl she believed to be her rival. It nearly maddened her to think that Charley might be seeing her daily, basking in her smiles, laughing with her, perhaps, over the deferred wedding. Her hatred of the young girl grew each day, until it became a passion for revenge. “My day will come! Let her look to herself, that day!” she vowed bitterly. She went one day to the cottage on pretense of getting a cloth suit pressed, and with pretended sympathy, asked Mrs. Vining if she had ever had any news of the missing girl. Mrs. Vining wept as she declared that she had never heard any news of her daughter. “She may be dead and buried for aught I know to the contrary, Miss Montague.” “Perhaps she has eloped with a lover,” cried Rosalind, but the old woman frowned, and answered quickly: