When Royall called that evening she looked her loveliest, gowned in her favorite white, and she made herself most charming, hoping, dear heart, that he would tell Dallas Bain that she was such a charming girl he really ought to make her acquaintance. But nothing was farther from Royall’s thoughts. He was delighted to find that she was rarely gifted and intelligent, but he kept his knowledge closely to himself, never letting his friend know that he was pursuing his acquaintance with Daisie, though he contrived to see her every day in the week, and even took her to drive one afternoon when the coast was clear, Dallas having stayed in to write some important letters. She was very kind and friendly with Royall, but he saw that she took a secret, eager interest in Dallas, listening eagerly when he talked of him, though he was careful never to say anything good, still hoping to turn her heart to himself. In fact, he pretended to decry the engagement he assumed to be existing between Dallas and his pretty cousin. “If I had guessed at anything like this, I’d never have brought him to Sea View--never!” he said. “In fact, I told Lutie so to her face. I said: ‘I haven’t the least idea of his antecedents, and you ought not to encourage him unless he explains everything.’ But she was so infatuated with the fellow she wouldn’t even let me hint such a thing to him, and he’s as reticent over himself as if he were an escaped convict--which he may be, for all we know,” argued Royall. Daisie suppressed a sigh, and asked carelessly: “But doesn’t he seem very nice? Isn’t he well educated, and--and--doesn’t he write a fine hand?” Royall fell into her little trap, and answered: “Oh, his manner is charming; that’s what made me take up with him first, you know--so frank and friendly; and he seems to be college bred. As for his writing--see,” and he exhibited to the trembling girl some random papers from his notebook, scribbled over with his friend’s name and some poetical quotations. He did not notice that Daisie trembled, that the color rushed to her cheek and the light to her eyes, from pure joy. The writing was identical with the poem. Her heart told her the truth. Dallas Bain had written her those sweet verses. He loved her, after all. “I see how it is,” she thought, with keenest pain. “When he first saw me, his heart went out to me, as did mine to him, in the thrilling glance we exchanged. But he was already pledged to another, and could not retreat in honor; so he dared not trust himself to know me better. That was why the verses breathed such hopeless sadness.” There was balm in the thought, for his avoidance had wounded her cruelly until she thought she had fathomed the cause.