She could almost pity now instead of spurning the wretched creature who, having dashed love's brimming cup from the thirsty lips of another, had been forced to drink its bitter lees herself. She moved back a pace, and said, quietly: "Rise. You are safe from vengeance of mine." "You will forgive me?" faltered the governess, gratefully. Cissy answered, coldly: "I did not say I would forgive you, for I do not think I ever can. But I will not betray your secret. To-morrow we may meet as strangers, who have no interest in each other." She moved toward the door, followed by protestations of undying gratitude to which she made no reply. It seemed to her that she could not breathe freely in the presence of this woman, to whom she owed all her misery. She fled to her own room to weep in solitude. CHAPTER XLV. "IF I WERE A KING I WOULD RAISE HER TO MY THRONE!" "As shines the moon in cloudless skies, She in her poor attire was seen, One praised her ankles, one her eyes, One her dark hair, and lovesome mien, So sweet a face, such angel grace, In all that land had never been; Cophetua swore a royal oath, 'This beggar maid shall be my queen!'" TENNYSON. But, leaving our interests in the Garden City temporarily, we must journey across the dark-blue sea, to follow the fortunes of our noble hero, Harry Hawthorne. As the intelligent reader has doubtless surmised already, he was the hero of the newspaper paragraph Mrs. Fitzgerald had read to her daughter, and he had crossed the seas to claim his own. Young blood is often too hot, and an angry quarrel with his old father had made the heir of a noble name and fine estate a voluntary exile from home under distant skies, where he was not too proud to earn his bread by honest toil. But all that was changed now. In the English county of Devonshire, at the grand old castle home of Raneleigh, the old lord lay dead, and my lord, his son, must lay aside his masquerading and come home to wear the honors and the title that were his by ancestral right. His two Chicago friends were charmed with his romance when he told it to them, one day on the steamer, just before they landed on the bonny shore of England. "I only borrowed the name of Jack Daly," he laughed. "The one that belongs to me is Harry Leland, and my title will be Lord Putnam." They congratulated him warmly. It was a romance in real life, they said, and Ralph Washburn declared he should weave it into a novel. "But you do not know the most romantic part of it yet," said the young man, with a sigh. He debated the question with himself a moment, then decided it could do no harm to confide in his two noble friends. So, sadly enough, he told them the story of the love affair that had brought him to Chicago, keeping back nothing.