In those two weeks many things had transpired of interest to Kathleen. The Carews had gone abroad, and, although Kathleen knew it not, they had faded forever out of the life that they had done so much to wreck and ruin. Uncle Ben, as he still called himself, had not yet disclosed his identity to his daughter, but kept up his _incognito_ for reasons best known to himself. The grand Carew mansion remained closed and silent, and people said that Mrs. Carew and Miss Belmont intended to be absent for years. Ralph Chainey, under the magical influence of renewed hope, was fast recovering his health again. Kathleen and Helen had been to see him several times, and, although no tender words had been uttered between them, Ralph no longer feared and dreaded handsome Teddy. He fancied that all would come right between him and his darling. But Kathleen was very sad at heart. She had the greatest esteem and regard for her betrothed, and shrunk from telling him the unflattering truth that her heart belonged to another man. "He has been so good and kind to me, how can I grieve him so?" she thought. The ring of the door-bell startled her from her sad thoughts. Several letters were handed in. On one she recognized the writing of her cousin Chester. She broke the seal with eager impatience, and as she read on smiles began to dimple her scarlet lips. Helen, who was reading her own letters, was startled at a gay exclamation from her friend. "Oh, Helen! good news! Chester and Daisy are--engaged!" "But I thought it was you he loved, my dear." "Oh, a mere fancy! It is that dear, darling Daisy Lynn he loves. And she--there's a little note from her, too--she has forgotten or outlived that old love--gives her whole tender heart to Chester. Listen, Helen, how he writes me--apologetically, you know, fearing I may think him fickle." She read aloud, with a mischievous smile playing round her lips: "'Both born of beauty at one birth, She held o'er hearts a kindred sway, And wore the only form on earth That could have lured my heart away.'" Helen smiled in sympathy. "Poor boy! I'm glad he's to be made happy," she said. Then she nervously fingered a letter she held. "_Mine_ is from Loyal," she said, bashfully. "From Loyal? Oh, Helen, is he ever coming back to America? You cruel girl! why did you send him away?" "I did not know my own mind," the beautiful young girl answered, in a low voice, and then she added, softly: "You remember those sweet lines of Jean Ingelow? "'Thou didst set thy foot on the ship, and sail To the ice-fields and the snow; Thou wert sad, for thy love did not avail, And the end I could not know. How could I tell I should love thee to-day Whom that day I held not dear? How could I know I should love thee away, When I did not love thee anear?'"