They paced back and forth in the fine, clear moonlight, their rich robes shining in the night: the fragrance of flowers all about them; the sound of the river in their ears. A hand of ice seemed to clutch Laurel's heart in its fierce grasp. She could find no words in which to answer. "You have heard that we were old friends, St. Leon and I--they have surely told you that, dear," went on Maud Merivale's sweet, insidious voice. "Beatrix, in the olden times, we were more than that--we were lovers." "Lovers!" echoed Laurel's low, sad voice. "We were lovers," repeated Mrs. Merivale, in a tone of triumph. "But we were both very young, and--well, old Midas Merivale was even richer than St. Leon. My parents were poor, and so they parted me from my young lover and sold me to that old man for his sordid gold." There was a plaintive quiver in the cooing voice, and Laurel's heart suddenly went out to the lovely victim in tender sympathy. "After my marriage I did not see St. Leon for years," continued the sweet tones. "But they told me he had changed--that he had grown hard, cynical, cold--that he cared nothing for women save to rail at them. But I am free at last--and you see for yourself that he unbends to me as to none other. The old love still burns in his heart. I shall win him back, Beatrix, and this time no one shall come between us!" "Maud," called a strong, sweet voice, coming down the marble steps. "I am here, St. Leon," she answered back, gladly. "This pretty Beatrix here promised me some roses all sweet with moonlight and dew, but she has not given me one. You shall give them to me, St. Leon." He came out to them, his handsome dark head bare in the moonlight, a smile in his eyes and on his lips--subtly sweet and dangerous as he sometimes willed it to be. "Miss Gordon, will you go into the house with the count and my mother?" he said, looking straight into the girl's dark eyes. "I will find the roses 'all sweet with moonlight and dew.'" Laurel bowed silently and turned away. She did not turn her head, but she knew that the widow had taken St. Leon's arm and was walking across the velvety greensward with him. The echo of firm tones and happy laughter floated back to her. She did not go back to the count and Mrs. Le Roy as she had been bidden at once. She sat down at the foot of the marble steps and laid her hot brow wearily down on the cold white stone. "Their words hurt me here," she murmured, pressing her small hand on her beating heart. "But I cannot understand why it should be so. Why should their love pain me? I care nothing for either of them. They are nothing to me. But, oh! this terrible pain at my heart--what does it mean?" The slight form shivered and trembled, the beautiful face was deathly white in the moonlight. She rested there silently a long time, looking down with sharpened mental vision into her own heart. And suddenly a moan of intense self-scorn and bitter despair trembled over the beautiful girlish lips.