The exquisite boudoir in white and gold harmonized well with the delicately beautiful woman whose pallor was softened by the faint rose hues of her gown overlaid with rich, creamy laces. Reclining on a pale-hued divan, with that fitful color coming and going in her cheek, with a streaming light of expectant joy in her wide, dark eyes, she was, indeed, a charming picture--one to thrill a man’s heart to the core. “Will he come?” she asked herself in painful uncertainty, as her mind reverted rapidly over eighteen years to the bleak November day whereon they had quarreled and parted. Oh, how they had loved and hated in a breath, both so young, so hasty, so inexperienced, that they scarcely knew what a harvest of woe they were sowing when they turned their backs on each other. They had sown, and, alas, they had reaped--and the harvest was a plenteous crop of tears that tasted bitter on their lips. I am tired to-night, and I miss you, And long for you, love, through tears; And it seems but to-day that I saw you go-- You, who have been gone for years. And I feel as I sit here thinking That the hand of a dead old June Has reached out hold of my loose heartstrings, And is drawing them up in tune. I am tired, and that old sorrow Sweeps down on the bed of my soul, As a turbulent river might suddenly break Away from a dam’s control. It beareth a wreck on its bosom, A wreck with a snow-white sail, And the hand on my heartstrings thrums away, But they only respond with a wail. She had taken a daring step--she had called him back whom in anger she had forsaken years ago. Now, she began to be frightened at her own boldness. “He will not come, he will laugh me to scorn!” she sighed, and dropped her pallid face down on her arms. She had given her orders that if a gentleman named Dalrymple called he should be shown to her boudoir at once. With her face bowed on her arms, she did not hear footsteps falling on the thick velvet carpet, obeying the low directions of the servant who said respectfully, as he drew back the portières: “You will find Mrs. Dalrymple there.” Leon Dalrymple, tall, pale, handsome still, in spite of years and sorrow, advanced softly across the room, his heart beating with loud, suffocating throbs. He had been thinking of their parting in the shabby room amid pinching poverty that she despised, more than eighteen years ago. Now they were meeting again, surrounded by all the luxury wealth can bestow, but how valueless it had been in exchange for what it had cost. He saw before him a beautiful form with the dark head bowed on the folded arms as if in grief, and he stood waiting, hesitating, but she did not look up at him. He coughed, timidly, to arouse her, and exclaimed hoarsely: “Ver--Mrs. Dalrymple!” A start of surprise, and she lifted her pale, excited face, and saw him standing before her--her old love, her discarded husband--older, graver, sadder by eighteen long years.