He had snapped his white fingers in the face of the world that called his marriage a _mésalliance_, and carried everything by storm. For his sake, society--cultured Boston society--had received his wife, the lovely young Southern girl, with her shy ways and neglected education, and for a time all went well. So no one could answer the question why did she kill herself, but that was because Vincent Carew was too proud to admit the ubiquitous reporter inside his aristocratic portals. If one of these curious mortals had secured admittance to the house and questioned the servants, they would have told him what they suspected and discussed in whispers among themselves--that madame was madly jealous of the teacher her husband had employed to finish her very imperfect education. "She is a snake in the grass, that pretty widow, and she makes my mistress unhappy," said the housekeeper, the first month that Mrs. Belmont came, and her opinion was adopted by all the other servants. They all hated the stately young widow in her black garments, and when the grewsome tragedy of Mrs. Carew's death darkened the sunlight in that luxurious home, they whispered to each other that it was Mrs. Belmont who had worked their mistress such bitter woe that she could not bear her life. If indeed she had schemed for anything like this, Mrs. Belmont had succeeded in her designs. Zaidee Carew, with her own dimpled, white hand, had cut the Gordian knot of life, and in a few more days a stately funeral _cortège_ moved away from Vincent Carew's doors to the cemetery where his dead wife, in all her youthful beauty, was laid to rest beneath the grass and flowers. CHAPTER II. AFTER SIXTEEN YEARS. An exquisite face--patrician in style; Note the lashes, how black, and their sweep-- The arch of the brows, and the proud lip's smile, The flash of the eyes dark and deep. Away from the forehead in waves the hair Flows with the glisten of bronze; Glorious in volume, the frame from where The face of an houri dawns. AMELIA V. PURDY. "I never saw such a forgetful girl as you, Kathleen Carew. Here you sit dreaming, instead of dressing for 'Prince Karl' to-night. Are you going to the theater, then, or not?" "Of course I am going, Alpine. I did not know it was so late. What, you are dressed already? How sweet you look! That blue crêpe de Chine is awfully becoming to you. Well, then, please ring the bell for my maid, won't you? I'll be ready in ten minutes." "You'd better. Mamma will be furious if you keep her waiting," Alpine Belmont answered, crossly, as she touched the bell. Then she looked back curiously at the graceful, indolent figure in the easy-chair, leaning back with white hands clasped on top of the bronze-gold head. "Kathleen, what were you thinking about so intently when I came in? I had to speak twice before you heard me."