Charley Bonair’s convalescence was so slow that every one became uneasy, not dreaming that he played a deceitful part in order to remain as long as he could beneath the same roof with Berry. Besides, as he said to himself, he could hold Rosalind off better that way. Though she came every day with his sisters to visit him, he frequently pretended to be too ill or nervous to receive them till at last his doctor rallied him soundly. “What game is it you are playing, Bonair? You were well enough two weeks ago.” Before Bonair left at last, the nurses permitted him to sit a half hour in Berry’s room watching her as she slept, with the dark silken lashes prone upon her snowy cheek, and the breath just stirring the white folds of her breast. The sight went to his heart, stirring it with profound emotion, so that he said to himself: “How can I dream of ever wedding any but this beautiful creature, my soul’s true mate? She must be mine alone; I must break with Rosalind!” CHAPTER XIX. THE OLD LOVE. “I must break with Rosalind! I can wed no other than sweet little Berry, my soul’s true mate!” Bonair cried passionately, again to his own heart, when he was back in his palatial home, leaving Berry at the lowly cottage of the zoo keeper. All the puerile questions of wealth and position that had held them apart became dross in his eyes, swept away in the torrent of a love that would no longer brook opposition to its restless force. Perhaps jealousy of Berry’s handsome lover, young Weston, added fuel to the fire of his love, but it began to burn with a consuming flame that destroyed everything in its path. A gifted poet has fitly portrayed the state of his mind: When the court of the mind is ruled by reason, I know it is wiser for us to part; But love is a spy who is plotting treason, In league with that warm, red rebel, the heart. They whisper to me that the king is cruel, That his reign is wicked, his law a sin, And every word they utter is fuel To the flame that smolders within. His dread of Rosalind’s grief and anger seemed to vanish before the new force of his passion for Berry, and he said to himself grimly that he must have it out with Rosalind, and be done with it. It was best to “be off with the old love” before he was “on with the new.” The opportunity came soon. His sister Marie privately lectured him on his indifference to his betrothed. “How can you be so cruel to poor Rose? You treat her like a stranger.” “Has she complained of me?” he asked evasively. “How can she help it? The dear girl is miserable at heart, although she bears up bravely. You know every one is caviling because the wedding day is not set. Why don’t you settle it once for all, Charley, dear?” Her coaxing arms were round his neck, her bright eyes beaming into his, and he sighed: “Girls are always dead set on weddings! I don’t see why! I think them great bores myself!”