"But it shall be my turn to-morrow," he vowed to himself, turning away with a jealous pang, and pretending not to see Dolly Dorr, who had lingered purposely in his way, hoping he would see her home. Disappointed in her little scheme, she rather crossly accepted the offer of a dapper dry-goods clerk, and went off on his arm, laughing with forced gayety as she passed Devereaux, to let him see that she did not care. Devereaux did not even hear the laughter of the piqued little flirt. He could think of nothing but his keen disappointment over Liane. He returned to his hotel in the sulks. After all his pleasant anticipations, his disappointment was keen and bitter. "How can I wait until to-morrow?" he muttered, throwing himself down disconsolately into a chair. Suddenly a messenger entered with a telegram, and, tearing it hastily open, he read: Come at once. Father has had a stroke of apoplexy. LYDE. Lyde was his only sister, married a year before, and a leader in society. He could fancy how helpless she would be at this juncture--the pretty, petted girl. Filial grief and affection drove even the thought of Liane temporarily from his mind. Calling in a man to pack his effects, he left on the earliest train for his home in Boston. But as the train rushed on through the night and darkness, Liane blended with his troubled thoughts, and he resolved that he would write to her at the earliest opportunity. He would not leave the field clear for his enamored rival. He realized, too, that the clever and handsome artist would be a dangerous rival; still, he felt sure that Liane had some preference for himself. On this he based his hopes for Malcolm Dean's failure. "She will not forget that night upon the beach, and the opportune service I did her. Her grateful little heart will not turn from me," he thought hopefully. Malcolm Dean was the only one he could think of as likely to come between him and Liane. He had not an apprehension as to Roma Clarke's baleful jealousy. And yet he should have remembered the hate that had flashed from her eyes and hissed in her voice when she taxed him with voting for Liane. Again, she had nearly fainted when he was excusing himself to speak to her successful rival. And even now, while the fast-flying train bore him swiftly from Stonecliff, Roma paced her chamber floor like one distraught, wringing her hands and alternately bewailing her fate and vowing vengeance. Before Roma's angry eyes seemed to move constantly the vision of her rival in her exquisite beauty. Liane, in her girlish white gown, with the fragrant pink roses at her slender waist--Liane, the humble sewing girl she had despised, but who had now become her hated rival. Jesse Devereaux admired her; thought her the loveliest girl in the world. Perhaps, even, he was in love with her. That was why he had taken so gladly the dismissal she had so rashly given.