St George was the soul of white-handed honor. He burned Maybelle’s letter to ashes, and no soul ever heard from him that she had stooped from her pedestal of womanly reticence to write such words. And he wrote back, courteously: “I am sorry that you have misunderstood me, but your brother was right. I never had any serious intentions toward you, and thought it understood on both sides that we were engaged in a very harmless flirtation. Need I remind you that I never sought you, and that my brief visit at your home was as your brother’s friend, and at his repeated solicitation? “I thank you for the regard you have expressed for me, but I hope you will withdraw it and bestow the treasure of your love on one more able to reciprocate the gift. It may be best for me to own that my heart is irrevocably given elsewhere, and that I shall soon lead a bride to the altar.” And so with cruel kindness St. George strove to pluck the thorn of love from Maybelle’s heart. “For love is often a thorny flower, It breaks, and we bleed and smart; The blossom falls at the fairest, And the thorn runs into the heart.” The thorn had pierced deep in Maybelle’s heart, and it almost drove her mad, that letter. She sought Otho with it, and confessed the failure of her scheme. “He despises me. I can never--never win him. And I think I hate him now. I would like to wound his heart as he has wounded mine!” she groaned, in her misery. “Let him go. There are others as well worth winning,” he said, angrily. “But how am I to win them?” she cried, bitterly. “Listen, Otho: do you know that papa will surely fail next week? The panic has ruined him, and we shall be beggars. Mamma told me all to-day, and she said she had hoped I would have caught a rich husband before now. I could not tell her how hard I have tried and failed. And how cruel it will be to be poor! I would rather die!” Otho looked at her closely. He had a pale, nervous look, and his eyes gleamed with a sullen fire. Leaning close to her, he whispered: “I have a plan to get money, Maybelle. Would you be willing to help me?” “What could I do?” “You would have to run a terrible risk, be sure of that. But my nerves are strong as steel, and yours, too, are they not?” “Yes--yes; I am no baby. Tell me your plan, Otho. “There is no danger for us, I am sure,” he repeated reassuringly to himself; then in low, whispered words he told her his story. CHAPTER XLIV. BUT ONE CHANCE IN A HUNDRED. But we must turn our attention from other interests for awhile to follow the fortunes of our unhappy heroine, lovely Floy. How sadly her fortunes had altered since we first saw her flashing through the streets of Mount Vernon on her bicycle, a vision of beauty, light of heart, and careless as a joyous little humming-bird! Love and sorrow had come to her as it comes to many, hand in hand, saddening her heart and changing her life.