He penciled his address on a card, and laid it on the marble mantel. She watched him mutely as he turned toward her, thinking gravely to herself what a great, grand, kingly nature was marred by the jealous passion that laid waste the fair garden of this man's soul. "Hear me now, Grace, and understand that what I wrote you in my parting note is still my wish. You will remain in our home with our little boy; command my banker for unlimited sums, and be as happy as you can. Do not, I beg of you, seek to see me again." "No," she answers, slowly and proudly; "the next time, _you will seek me_!" "Indeed, I hope so," he gravely answers, "so do not worry, and think as kindly of me as you can until we meet again." "Until we meet again," she murmurs, under her breath. "Until we meet again," he repeats, with a lingering look, and a deep, low bow. She makes a pained, impatient gesture. He turns and goes out, humming with a cruel lightness that breaks her heart, the sad refrain of an old song: "It may be for years, and it may be forever." CHAPTER XII. "FATE HAS DONE ITS WORST." "I touch this flower of silken leaf my earlier days that knew, Its soft leaves wound me with a grief whose balsam never grew." --EMERSON. Four o'clock striking in Mrs. Conway's parlor, and our three friends variously disposed therein; Mrs. Conway trifling with some light affair of fancy work, in bright-colored Berlin wool; Bruce with the daily paper; Lulu, a trifle restless, and sitting before the piano, striking low, wandering chords and symphonies, turning now and then an impatient glance at the newspaper that diverts the gentleman's attention from her. Women are invariably jealous of newspapers. "What a nice thing it is to be interested in politics," she says, petulantly, at last. He is deeply immersed in a synopsis of the speech of Senator Winans, having missed it the preceding day by being absorbed in contemplation of the Senator's wife; but he looks up to retort, lightly: "What a nice thing it is to be a belle and take on airs." She pouts, with a toss of her small head, then smiles. "Meaning me?" she queries. "Meaning you," he answers, glancing at the white fingers that go straying over the keys, waking a low accompaniment, to which she sings, softly: "Violets, roses, Sweet-scented posies, Who'll buy my roses, All scattered with dew?" "Meaning the mammoth bouquet that came this morning with the captain's compliments?" he interrupts her to ask, with a glimmer of fun in his dark eye. She breaks off, laughing, half-blushing, and saucily retorting: "Indeed, no. Were I ever so avaricious a flower-vendor I could not part with the gift of the gallant captain."