“You really mean what you say, Lelia? All is ended between us forever?” She saw with pleasure how pale and wretched he looked, the poor victim of her caprice whom she was torturing as usual, to whistle him back when she had punished him enough. “Yes, I mean every word,” she said, with freezing hauteur. “You have killed the love I once had for you, and my heart has turned to another.” With this cruel thrust, she bowed to Laurie, and haughtily retired. CHAPTER XIII. A RASH PROMISE. Laurie started, like one stunned, after the retreating Juno-like form of his cousin, then recovering himself with a bitter, sarcastic laugh, thrust the ring back into his vest pocket. “I must not lose it. She will be wanting it back to-morrow,” he muttered. For twice before to-day Lelia had broken their betrothal, then repented in haste and called him back again. But this time she had been more cruel than ever before--she had uttered words that pierced his heart. “I love another!” He wondered if it were true, or only said to wound his pride. He knew he would not have to look far for a rival; he had guessed at the secret admiration of the gay, handsome Warren Beihl for his betrothed. He had even seen that Lelia rather encouraged his advances. In flirting, she always allowed herself more latitude than she did Laurie, like Flora McFlimsey: “For this is a sort of engagement, you see, That is binding on you, but not binding on me!” Yes, if her boast that she loved another was true, it could be no one else but Warren Beihl. Well, he was a good match, well-born, well-bred, wealthy, even for Lelia. If she chose to throw over her cousin for this new lover, let her have her way. He would make no protest, though it broke his heart. But he resolved that he would not remain at The Crags and give her the triumph of flaunting her happiness in his face. He would go away, and at once, from the scene of his broken betrothal. He went up to his room, flung his things together into his trunk, helter-skelter, then rushed down for the farewell to his aunt. She was nowhere to be found, and passing Mrs. Goodwill in the hall, she told him Miss Willoughby was in Gipsy’s room. “She is setting up to-day, and so Miss Willoughby is keeping her company,” she said. “I will go up there,” he said, rushing up the steps two at a time, with an odd sort of elation that he was doing something Lelia would not approve; but that, fortunately, she was not for the moment his commander-in-chief. After all, the taste of liberty is sweet now and then to the harried slave. The door and window of the simple little room stood open for air, and the mantel and table held vases of roses and lilies, diffusing their delicate perfume. Gipsy, in the easy chair, in a loose white wrapper, looked a very interesting invalid, indeed, as she listened smilingly to Miss Willoughby.