He turned his grave eyes on her face, and answered: “The characters of both Carl Bernicci and his bride are so repulsive to me, my darling, that I do not think I should care to put them in a novel. There seemed to be nothing good in either, unless it was in the man’s desperate love, that drove him at last to suicide. There is always an element of greatness in a strong love, I think.” “Yes, it seems so to me,” she answered, the while her heart made a silent, pathetic moan. “He has a kind word for that wretch whom remorse over my mother’s death, no doubt, drove to suicide; but he has not a single gentle thought of me. But, alas! he does not know the story aright. If he knew all, he could not help but pity me.” Bayard Lorraine continued thoughtfully: “If I could have any sympathy for either of those two, it would be for the man. He, poor fellow, seems to have done nothing bad except his one great fault of deceiving her in order to win her hand. He permitted her to leave him and defy him, when he might have enforced her obedience. No doubt he hoped to win her heart by his gentle endurance of her shrewish scorn. At least, he paid for his fault with his life; but she, how hard and unforgiving she must have been! One finds it hard to think of a simple, pretty little working girl having such ambitious thoughts in her curly head. Why, I knew one once who was as fair as a flower, and, I believe, as innocent and true as a little child; indeed, I fancy she was as sweet and good in her humble way as even you could be, my little darling.” Fair looked up with a quick gleam of interest. “Tell me about her, Bayard,” she exclaimed curiously. Something like a shade of embarrassment came across his broad white brow. “You wouldn’t be jealous, Fair?” he asked uneasily; and she retorted: “You don’t mean to tell me you were in love with her--a poor working girl?” “My darling, I do not quite like your tone,” he answered gravely, and a slight flush rose to his brow as he continued: “The girl I spoke of, although only a working girl, was, I am sure, as well worthy my love as one of the daughters of the rich. She was gentle, good, and industrious, and also very beautiful. Indeed, Fair, the girl actually resembled you so much that when I first met you I was startled by the wonderful likeness.” A roguish smile began to dawn in the wide brown eyes, and she exclaimed, with a pretty pout: “I thought I was your first love, but this does not look like it, sir.” Seeing that no shadow of jealousy came into the clear eyes, he continued, more seriously: