“But there is some excuse for her just now,” continued the colonel, who could not overcome at once the habit of long years of affection. “We must consider the petulance of affliction, so natural in one reared selfishly and luxuriously, as Juliette has been. Then, too, the poor girl has had a love trouble that has helped to sour her temper.” “A love trouble?” Pansy questioned, in a thick voice, without looking up. “Yes; she was engaged several years ago to a Mr. Wylde, of Richmond--a fine young man in every respect, handsome, rich, and of fine family. Juliette adored him, and was very jealous, so that when he engaged in a flirtation with a designing little beauty of the lower classes Juliette would take no excuses, but dismissed him in bitter anger. He went abroad, leaving her to repent her harshness, and to try to mourn her haste; for love soon conquered pride, and she would give the world now to win him back. I had reason, a year ago, to believe that they had made up their quarrel and would soon be married, but I was mistaken, and Juliette no doubt is still pining for her lost lover.” Pansy made no comment, for her husband’s words still rang in her ears: “‘A designing little beauty of the lower classes.’ Oh, what if he knew! what if he knew!” she thought, in terror that held her lips dumb. Colonel Falconer took up a package of newspapers, and drew out one--the Richmond _Dispatch_. “Ah, this, too, is from Juliette. No doubt it contains the notice of her mother’s death,” he said. His surmise was correct. It recorded the death of Mrs. Ives, at the age of fifty-four, for she had been his elder by several years. He placed the paper, as he had done the letter, before Pansy’s eyes; and she read and reread the words announcing her enemy’s death, but in a dull, mechanical way, without any triumph in the fact that those cruel lips would never utter any falsehoods against her again. She felt half dazed by the suddenness with which the past had risen before her just as she began to hope and believe that it was buried forever. Her dull eyes traveled soberly up and down the short list of married and dead, and suddenly a wild gleam came into them. A familiar name had caught her attention. She read: On the 6th instant, at the residence of her mother, on Church Hill, Rosa Laurens, aged nine years and seven days, of diphtheria. Funeral private. It was Pansy’s youngest sister--the baby, as she was always called in the family. A wave of passionate grief overflowed Pansy’s heart and forced a cry of despair from her white lips. Then she slipped from her chair and lay in a long swoon upon the floor. When reason returned she was lying upon her bed, with her maid chafing her cold hands anxiously, and her husband bending over her with frightened eyes. “Oh, Pansy, what a shock you have given me!” he exclaimed; and as everything rushed quickly over her she realized that she must hide her troubles under a mask of smiles.