"You have not heard from him?" he exclaimed, in surprise. "Not a word," she sighed, then added, quickly: "But I don't think he meant to break his engagement. Perhaps there was a fire, and he had to go." "Very likely--but, then, he should have sent you an apology early this morning." "Do you think so? Oh, I suppose he will come and explain in person," said Geraldine, with assumed indifference. Another customer bustled up to claim her attention, and he bowed himself away, secretly exultant over the fact that she was utterly ignorant of Harry Hawthorne's fate. "There is no one to come and tell her, and even if it gets into the papers, she is not likely to read it. A poor working-girl has little time for reading," he reflected. Again his evil genius favored him. When he went for his call on Geraldine that evening, he found a messenger-boy in the street with a letter for her from the Bellevue Hospital. He took the letter from the boy, and gave him a quarter. "I am going in to see Miss Harding now. I will deliver the letter," he said, affably, and the boy, who was in a hurry to get home to his supper, thanked him for the service, and turned away, rejoicingly. The triumphant actor hid the letter in his breast, congratulating himself on having so easily obtained possession of it. "I am very fortunate, for had the fickle little beauty received it, all would have been explained between them." Geraldine came to the door to receive him, and he saw at once how much she had changed toward him by the simple fact that she had not adorned herself in her best gown, as usual, but wore her simple shop-gown of black serge. She did not care whether she looked fair to him or not, and he quickly realized it, for he was an adept in reading the complex nature of woman. But he hid his chagrin, saying, admiringly: "Perhaps you do not realize how pretty and demure you look in that black gown." "Thank you," Geraldine said, listlessly, as she sank into a chair opposite, and tried to seem friendly and interested. CHAPTER VIII. "A GIRL HAS A RIGHT TO CHANGE HER MIND." "Reprove me not that still I change With every passing hour, For glorious nature gives me leave, In wave and cloud and flower. And you and all the world would do-- It all but dared--the same; True to myself--if false to you Why should I reck your blame?" It made Clifford Standish secretly furious to see how near he had come to losing the charming little beauty on whom he had set his burning heart, and of whom he had felt so sure but a few days ago. Her pale and pensive looks, her drooping eyes, her pathetic red mouth, all told that her heart was far away, and in his heart he cursed himself for inviting her to go on that fateful excursion to Newburgh, by which he had almost lost her forever. But he had one chance now to retrieve his misstep, and he set about improving it.