How strange it seemed to Pansy to be going again, after the lapse of more than three years, to the Capitol Square to meet one whom she loved, but whom she must see in secret because a cruel fate kept them sundered in life, but one in heart. Then it was the father--now it was the child. While she was wondering how she was to get away from the lynx eyes of her husband’s niece, Juliette came in to say that she would like to have the phaëton for her own use that afternoon, if Mrs. Falconer was not going out. “One of my dearest friends, Miss Norwood, is just home from a long visit in New York, and I would like so much to take her for a drive,” she said. “Pray do so. I shall not need the phaëton this afternoon,” Pansy answered eagerly. “You are not going out yourself?” Juliette asked. “I don’t know. Should I do so, it will only be for a short walk.” Juliette thanked her and hastened away. “Colonel Falconer is busy with his lawyer, Juliette away, and the field clear. I will go and see my child,” she thought gladly. It was July, and the day was warm and sultry. Pansy dressed herself simply, in a plain white dress and leghorn hat, and, taking a large sun-shade in her hand, started for the Capitol Square. Her heart throbbed painfully as she walked slowly along the old familiar streets, thinking of those past days, so full of love and pain. It was only four o’clock when she reached the square, and the nurses and children were just beginning to come in. She looked everywhere, but there was no sign of Mrs. Meade and little Pet. “I am too early. I must sit down in some quiet, secluded spot and wait,” she thought, and sought a shady seat on the slope of the hill back of the Capitol building. “It was here we sat that day when Norman told me he was going to London,” she murmured sadly, and then she recoiled with a sudden cry: “Oh!” The quiet bench she sought was already occupied, and by Norman Wylde himself. She could scarcely repress a wild and passionate cry of pain and reproach. As it was, she dared not trust herself, and turned to flee. But Norman Wylde had been aroused from a deep abstraction by her low exclamation of dismay, and, starting up, he confronted her, coming out of such a mood that he for a moment fancied his lost love had come back from the other world to comfort his sad heart. A glad cry came from his lips: “Pansy!” That name arrested her footsteps. She paused, frightened, moveless. Had he recognized her? Would he tax her with her identity? “Pansy!” he repeated tenderly, and, although she trembled and grew faint at the passion in his voice, it came to her suddenly that she must make some defense for herself. She, the honored wife of the proud Colonel Falconer, must never own herself to be that Pansy Laurens whom the man before her had deceived and betrayed. She would be brave and proud for her husband’s sake, as well as for her own.