Her spirits were very light and gay now. It was only the day before that Ronald Valchester had wooed her to be his wife. He had told her how beautiful and gifted she was, and how fondly he loved her. And then Jaquelina had suddenly wakened to the truth that she had long ago given her heart into his keeping. "Lina, can you give your heart to me?" he had pleaded, and she had answered frankly, yet shyly, with her sweet face turned away: "I believe it has been yours a long--long time, Mr. Valchester, only I did not quite know it until now." Mr. Valchester was very demonstrative for awhile, considering that he was usually so quiet and grave. Before he left he had made his betrothed promise that, with her uncle's consent, the wedding should be in three months. "Because, darling, I am anxious to take you away from your uncongenial home and transplant my rosebud to a sunnier sphere of life," he said, kissing the dewy crimson lips ardently yet tenderly. The dark eyes looked at him shyly from under the white lids and the jetty fringe of her long curling lashes. "So I shall not have to seek a situation after all," she said, happily. "No, indeed," he answered with a shudder, "I could not bear to think of you, my tender flower, out in the cold world alone. The bleak frosts of adversity and sorrow would destroy you." He was mistaken. The time was coming when he was to learn what a brave heart and strong patience lay hidden beneath the fragile seeming of the lovely girl who held his heart. The summer breeze sighing softly over the grass and flowers, and lifting the dark, careless locks from his broad, white brow had no subtle voice to warn him of the long, dark shadow that was ever widening between him and the prize that seemed almost within his grasp. Walter Earle did not go home immediately after his rejection by Jaquelina. He had loved her with as much ardor as he was capable of, and he felt the pain of his disappointment deeply. He wandered homeward slowly through the green woods, and threw himself down by a purling brook to rest. It was twilight when he reached home. He looked in the parlor for Violet, but she was not there. His father and Ronald Valchester were discussing some political news, his mother was placidly crocheting lace on the sofa. He went on quietly up-stairs to Violet's own especial room, and tapped lightly on the door. "Come in," she said, and he turned the door-knob and entered. Violet was at the mirror, looping back her fair curls with roses and white jessamine. She looked very fair and sweet in her white evening dress and pearl and turquoise jewelry--a fact of which she was not unaware herself, for a smile of gratified vanity curved her rosy lips as she surveyed her own reflection in the full length mirror. "Ah, Miss Vanity," cried Walter, trying hard to be his natural, careless self. "How do you like yourself?" Violet turned around and swept him a gay little courtesy.