He would never forget that night when his beautiful love had so gently forbidden him to hope to win her and bade him return to Cora. Prayers and entreaties were of no avail; she put them gently aside, saying: “Even if I loved you, how could I be happy with you when you had broken another’s heart for my sake?” True as truth herself, she could not contemplate such treachery calmly, even though Cora had treated her so cruelly that many would have held it a fair revenge. He took her little hand in spite of her protest, and held it, and it fluttered like a little, white bird in his clasp. He looked full into her eyes, and, oh, how soft and dark they were, as if full of unshed tears. “Answer me one question,” he said: “If I had been free to woo you, if there had been no Cora who held my promise, could you have given me your love?” In the beautiful moonlight he saw her bosom heave with emotion, and she faltered sadly: “You must pardon me for not answering that question.” Then she tore her hand away, and fled from him in the wildest haste. He saw her no more till next morning in the rush of leaving. He went up to her, saying: “We shall be landing presently. Shall I take you to your friends, Jessie?” She looked up at him very pale and constrained. “My--my--friends are very plain, humble people--not at all in your set, Mr. Laurier.” “No matter how humble, I would like to see you safely to them,” he said. “It will not be necessary, I thank you. Mrs. de Vries has lent me the money for a cab, and I shall know where to go, as I have only been away from New York two years,” she replied quietly. “You will at least allow me to see you safely on shore, and to find you a cab?” “I shall be very grateful,” with a gentle smile. After that, in the rush and confusion, he could say no more, but he stayed by her side and waited through all the excitement of the merry adieus, noting how popular she had become in the few days on the _Scythia_, so that every one wished to touch her hand and wish her a happy future. At last he was leading her down the gangplank, saying to her with a mournful attempt at cheerfulness that the fire on the _Atlanta_ had saved them the bother of having their luggage examined and paying customhouse duties. A cab was found much sooner than he desired, and he stood by it, holding her hand very tight, longing to never let it go. “Are we never to meet again?” he asked mournfully, and she answered, very low: “We must, I fear, for our social circles may one day be the same--but not yet--not until--after you--are--married!” She almost gasped as she uttered the last words, and tottered into the taxi, sinking heavily into the seat. “Where to, lady?” asked the chauffeur, and she whispered a reply that Frank did not hear. The door banged, the machine started, and he stood gazing after the taxi with his heart in his eyes as lonely in that gay, bustling throng as though stranded on a desert shore.