Maybelle might have won Beresford’s heart and become his bride, _if only_ he had not seen, as he lounged at the gate with Otho Maury, one May morning, that vision of a blue-eyed, golden-haired, cherry-lipped, dimpled-faced girl in dark blue flashing past the gate on a shining wheel, leaving in his heart a memory of the sweetest, sauciest, most adorable young face in the world. “Who is she?” he asked, hoarsely, of Otho; who replied, carelessly: “Miss Florence Fane, the carpenter’s daughter, nicknamed Fly-away Floy, by reason of her hoidenish ways and never did a girl deserve the title more.” It was that lovely face, dear reader, that brought the elements of tragedy into my story. CHAPTER II. “HEIRESS OF FATE.” Otho Maury’s tone was light and contemptuous, but at heart he was furious. He had a _penchant_ for Florence Fane himself, and dreaded a rival in this man whose face had paled at the sight of her, and whose voice had trembled as he asked her name--ay, whose very heart shone in his splendid eyes as he leaned over the gate watching the flying wheel and its graceful rider like one in a dream--a dream of love, for his pulse beat fast, his heart leaped wildly, his very soul was stirred within him in strange, delirious ecstasy. Maybelle came down the graveled walk to them, beautiful in a dainty white gown with purple lilacs at her slender waist. But St. George Beresford did not turn to meet her gaze, and Otho said, sneeringly: “Beresford has been struck dumb by the sight of a beauty on a bicycle.” “A beauty?” frowningly. “Yes. Little Fly-away Floy.” “Nonsense, _she_ is no beauty, only a mischievous little hoiden! Don’t let her turn your head, Mr. Beresford; she isn’t in _our_ set at all. Her father is a mechanic, and her mother a seamstress.” “Ah!” he exclaimed, carelessly, turning around and flashing her a bright, quizzical glance, in which he seemed to dismiss the thought of Florence Fane. He was very proud, and did not wish her to know that he had been fascinated by one so far below him in social position. But Maybelle had equivocated, and she hoped ardently that he would not find it out. A flavor of romance and mystery hung around Florence Fane’s origin. John Banks, the kind-hearted carpenter, had taken the sobbing child nine years ago from the side of her dead mother and carried her home to his childless wife, who, because Floy seemed to have no kith or kin, had taken her into her heart and called her daughter, and both lavished a world of tenderness on the seven-year-old child. But save in nobility of nature and a tender heart, she was no more like the homely pair than a restless humming-bird is like a toiling honey-bee. She was rarely, exquisitely beautiful, lovable after an imperious fashion, but willful and untamable in disposition, the result of spoiling by a too fond and overindulgent mother, who at the last had deserted her by fleeing from life’s pains and penalties by the forbidden path of suicide.