And it was her wonderful resemblance to Flower that had wiled his heart from his breast. At times, when looking at her or listening to her musical voice, he could scarcely persuade himself that she was a stranger; she seemed so much like Flower, his lost bride, that he longed to clasp her in his arms, and say: "You must be Flower, who loved me so dearly once, and who was my adored little bride! Confess the truth, and own that you are only masquerading as the heiress of this proud nobleman!" If he had followed this wild impulse of his heart all would have been well. She would have been only too happy to find him again, and would gladly have resigned the proudest destiny for his dear sake. But his reason fought sternly against such folly and madness. He would say to himself, in bitter chiding: "I am a traitor to Jewel in thus cherishing a mad passion for one whom she instinctively dreaded from the first as a rival. Flower is dead, dead; and this girl, with her face and voice, is but a stranger. Oh, my little love, my blue-eyed Flower, if only I could call you back to my heart!" His passionate regret for her revived with tenfold force; she seemed to be always in his mind, mixed up strangely with the idea of Azalia Brooke, and people began to say that he had forgotten all the songs he ever knew but one, for when pressed to sing of late he always gave the same song--one that particularly irritated Jewel: "Thou art lost to me forever--I have lost thee, Isadore, Thy head will never rest on my loyal bosom more, Thy tender eyes will never more gaze fondly into mine, Nor thy arm around me lovingly and trustingly intwine. Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore! "My footsteps through the rooms resound all sadly and forlorn, The garish sun shines flauntingly upon the unswept floor; The mocking-bird still sits and sings a melancholy strain, For my heart is like a heavy cloud that overflows with rain. Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore!" Within a week after that scene in which Jewel had betrayed her angry jealousy of Azalia Brooke, he wished devoutly that he had never entangled himself in an engagement with the imperious brunette. Could he have followed the dictates of his heart he would not have lost an hour in wooing Azalia Brooke. She had told him that she was going soon. They had been in Boston more than a month, and Lord and Lady Ivon were getting anxious to resume their travels. They would go to Washington next to see an American Congress in session, and an American President. When he heard that she was going, he realized, by the terrible pain he felt, that he loved her with his whole soul, that when she was gone, the whole world would seem dark and cold and empty.