“Well--er--no, cousin, not at all. She gave me the marble heart--pardon my slanginess--so long ago that I am almost well of it now.” “Then the wound did not go very deep!” “I did not permit it to do so. I hardly hoped at first, Rosalind is so cold to men generally, so it did not come as much of a surprise to me when she said, ‘No, thank you.’ So now we are just the best of friends. You cannot believe half the society gossip you read in the fashion columns.” “And is there no other man?” eagerly. “None in England. Can’t say about the other side. There’s a puzzling depth in her eyes sometimes--suggests that poem, you’ve heard it somewhere, no doubt. Let’s see--it runs this way: “Sister, since I met thee last O’er that brow a change has passed; In the softness of thine eyes Deep and still a shadow lies. Through thy soul a storm has moved-- Gentle sister, thou hast loved!” How closely Warrington had noted her! Was it true? Did the shadow of a secret love dwell in those dark, soft, brilliant eyes? A jealous pang tore through his heart. The swish of a silken robe, and Lady Warrington entered, with Rosalind. The girl was dressed in thin, soft white fabric over glittering white satin, pearls clasping her neck and binding her raven hair, white carnations on her breast diffusing their subtle fragrance. Laurie had never seen her in evening dress before; he had never remembered her as quite so enchanting. Time had touched her as with a fairy wand, adding new charms. He was afraid afterward that he had seemed rather stupid and tongue-tied to his cousin, Lady Warrington. He was silent, dizzy, with a great rapture. He held the girl’s hands and gazed in her face with eager brown eyes, that asked if she were glad, and her kindling blush answered without words. From thence forward he was in Elysium until Lady Warrington brought him back to earth, saying they should have to tear themselves away for the Duchess of Delamayne’s ball; but as any friend of hers would be welcome, she would take him along. No, he would rather not intrude. He would come again to-morrow. “Do come with us now!” breathed a soft, tremulous voice, and then wild horses could not have dragged him away. He went. He danced with her every chance he got, he watched her social triumphs, he saw that she was the queen rose of that fair garden of beautiful, high-bred women; then his thoughts strayed to the old West Virginia home perched on the shelving cliffs, and the young life that had budded there in simple graciousness and beauty--and it seemed to him he had loved her from the very first, only Lelia had resolutely thrust herself between. He watched with secret envy every man who approached her, but for no one did her blushes burn so brightly as for him. He asked himself could he, indeed, be so blessed? Did she care? He was with them every day for a week before he found what he craved--the chance to speak to her alone.