--CARLOTTA PERRY. Lord Chester had come up to Rosemont with Bruce Conway, and finding Precious waiting for him, had asked her to walk with him by the river. He had a romantic longing to plight his vows of love beneath the silent stars, beside the whispering waters, where he had first kissed Precious, his heart's darling. He drew the trembling little hand fondly within his arm, and they walked along several minutes in that silence so dear to lovers, each heart thrilling with the nearness of the beloved one. The moon silvered the graveled path they were walking, and the soft breeze blew to his senses the fragrance of the knot of violets Precious wore at her white throat. The walk to the river seemed very short and perilously sweet. They paused in the shadow of a tree and suddenly, ere Precious realized his intention, Lord Chester clasped her in his arms, and kissed her lips. "My own Precious, my beautiful darling!" he murmured, holding her close, and kissing again and again the lovely face, not realizing at first that she was shrinking from him, trying to struggle out of his arms. He was not a vain man, but somehow he had been very sure that Precious returned his love; it had seemed to him that they were made for each other. "God made two souls in Paradise Of air and fire and dew, Then oped the morning's crystal gates, And let them wander through." It seemed to the young lover that God had created himself and Precious twin souls. They belonged to each other, and neither could desire to escape so sweet a fate. He had quite forgotten the beautiful belle for whom he had cherished a fleeting fancy. The passion of a lifetime had swept across his soul like a wave upon the shore, obliterating all other things, and as he clasped and kissed the girl beneath the watching stars it seemed to him that the whole universe contained only God, Precious, and himself. It was a moment of the purest rapture, the most ecstatic bliss; it was so exquisite it touched the border line of pain. That girlish, budding form in the circle of his tender arms, that golden head on his shoulder, that lovely face beneath his lips, her warm breath and the odor of the violets at her throat blending together, it was intoxicating, divine. "My little bride that is to be," he whispered; but a frightened sob replied to him; she writhed herself out of his clasping arms. "Have I startled you, my Precious? Ah, forgive me, little angel," he cried eagerly, and added: "You received my letter, Precious? You know how much I love you! Do you love me a little in return? May I speak to your father to-morrow, and tell him that it is Precious, not Ethel, who is to be my bonny bride?" Ah, Heaven, the sweetness of that wooing voice, the glorious beauty of that face smiling down on her, the heaven of love in those eager, extended arms! Her tender heart went out to him with passionate yearning to grant his prayer: