Steeling her heart and her nerves as well as she could, she turned toward him, saying coldly: “It is quite true, Mr. Wylde, that my name is Pansy, but as you and I have never met but once before to-day, it seems to me that I should be Mrs. Falconer to you.” Norman Wylde could only stare for a moment with bewildered eyes at the lovely speaker, and mutter helplessly: “Mrs. Falconer!” “Yes,” she replied coldly, and suddenly he struck his hand against his forehead, exclaiming: “I am a fool, a madman! Madam, pardon me. I--I--was mistaken.” Then, seeing that she lingered, he added, with an imploring gesture: “Will you not sit down here for one moment and let me explain?” She knew quite well that she ought not to stay, but she could not turn from him. She sank down on the rustic bench and waited with throbbing pulses for an explanation. What would he say--what could he say? He sat down beside her, pale with emotion, but so splendidly handsome in his cool summer suit and spotless linen that her heart throbbed madly, and she thought: “Oh, my false love! How grandly handsome, how winning you are! It is no wonder that I lost my heart to you, innocent child that I was! Oh, would that you had been true and good, as well as fascinating.” But no one who saw how coldly and proudly her blue eyes looked at him would have thought that such passionate thoughts thrilled her heart. He himself believed that she was bitterly angry, and he hastened to say deprecatingly: “Mrs. Falconer, you are so startlingly like one I used to know that when you appeared before me I did not remember you as Mrs. Falconer, and I called you by that name unwittingly. No offense to you was intended. I did not know that you were called Pansy.” “Yes, that is my name. I was Pansy Wilcox when Colonel Falconer married me. And so you say that I resemble some one you used to know, Mr. Wylde? How strange!” Pansy said, trying to draw him into some reminiscences of the past, womanlike, wishing to know whether he remembered her with love or remorse. He sighed heavily, and answered: “Yes, you are the image of one I loved and lost. Do you remember the night I came to your house, Mrs. Falconer? I came very near calling you Pansy then--I was so startled at the first sight of your face. But while you were singing I recovered myself so that I could greet you calmly. It was different just now, for I was thinking of that other Pansy, and you came upon me so suddenly that I had no time for thought, and I called you by her name.” “It was some one you loved?” Pansy said, in a low, soft voice. “Loved!” exclaimed Norman Wylde hoarsely, and his dark eyes seemed to burn into her soul as he added: “Love is hardly the word. I worshiped, adored my little Pansy.” “Did she die?” asked Pansy gently. “Yes, she died,” he replied hoarsely; then, pausing abruptly: “Has not Juliette Ives told you all about it?” he asked. “No.” “It is a wonder,” he muttered.