But rave as they would, Irene's conquest was potent to everyone but herself. She who had never had a lover in the course of her brief, secluded life, was innocent of coquetry and unversed in the arts of love. She accepted Revington's attentions kindly, and congratulated herself that she had won another friend. But though she was patient and gentle the beau could not congratulate himself on any rapid progress in her favor. She was strangely sad and grave. The red lips had no smiles for him though they answered him gently when he spoke. The blue eyes did not look at him, though he tried all his arts to win them to meet his gaze. They wandered strainingly across the sea, as if seeking something lost to sight. The lids, with their heavy golden lashes, had a pathetic droop as if unshed tears weighed them down. The lips quivered now and then as if with mute sobs. A story was written on her face--a story of sorrow and pain that clouded somewhat its spring time loveliness as clouds overshade an April sky. Revington, who was poetical, thought of some applicable lines, and bending over her softly repeated them: "It is raining, little flower; Be glad of rain---- Too much sun would wither thee---- 'Twill shine again. The clouds are very black, 'tis true, But just behind them shines the blue. "Art thou weary, tender heart? Be glad of pain---- In sorrow sweetest things will grow, As flowers in rain. God watches and thou wilt have sun When clouds their perfect work have done." The sweet words touched her. She had not known before that the sorrow at her heart was reflected on her face. She looked at him then a little wistfully. "Do I indeed look so sad?" she asked. "Far too sad for one so young," he answered. "I wish I could teach you to smile." She did smile then, but the smile was sadder than tears. "Ah, you should have known me even a week ago," she said, impulsively. "I had never known a real sorrow then. But now, unless I could forget, I do not think I could ever again be glad." She thought of the old gray head that she had so loved lying low in the dark grave; of Elaine, her mother, who had left her to perish in the dark waves after she had followed her almost to the brink, and a fountain of sorrow, of bitterness, and of shame welled up within her heart. Revington looking keenly at her, wondered what the sorrow had been that had shadowed her brow and heart. "I will find it out if I can," he said to himself, "and I will teach her to forget if I can." He little dreamed how vain a task he had set himself. As the summer days glided softly past, and the white-sailed yacht flew over the blue ocean waves blithely as a bird, Irene began to understand the drift of his attentions. "Revington is making love to you, my dear," Mrs. Leslie had said, laughing, and thus her young eyes were opened.