ung stranger who had stolen her
throne. A beggar by the road-side had filched from the queen in her
palace, her crown and sceptre, and the pomp and splendor of royal
surroundings only mocked and emphasized an empty sham. Merely a trifle
paler than usual, and somewhat heavy-eyed from acquaintance with
midnight vigils, she proudly bore her new burden of grief with her
wonted easy grace; but the pretty mouth was compressed into harder,
narrower lines, and the delicate nose dilated in a haughtier curve.
Sooner or later we all learn the wisdom of the unwelcome admonition:
"Fortune sells what we believe she gives."

For two months Leo's relations with Mr. Dunbar had been distinctly
strained, and while both carefully avoided any verbal attempt at
explanation, her manner had grown more distant, his more scrupulously
courteous, but pre-occupied, guarded and cold. Knowing that abdication
was inevitable, she slowly revolved the best method of release, which
promised the least sacrifice of womanly dignity, and the greatest
economy of unpleasantness on the part of her betrothed.

During the week of the trial, she had seen him but twice, and
immediately after he had been summoned to attend some suit in New
Orleans, and had hurriedly bidden her adieu in the presence of others.
With punctilious regularity he wrote studiedly polished, graceful yet
merely friendly letters, and like ice morsels they slowly widened the
glacier creeping between the two.

To her council she admitted only her bruised pride, her bleeding heart,
her relentless incorruptible conscience; and over the conclusion, she
shed no tears, made no moan, allowed no margin for pity. Early on that
Spring morning, she had received a glowing sheaf of La France and
Duchess de Brabant roses, accompanied by a brief note announcing Mr.
Dunbar's return, and requesting an interview at noon. The tone of her
reply was markedly cordial, and after offering congratulations upon
his birthday, she begged his acceptance of a souvenir made for the
occasion by her own hands, a dainty "bit of embroidery which she
flattered herself, he would value for the sake of the donor."

Who doubts that Vashti made a most elaborate toilette, on that day of
humiliation, when discarded and discrowned she trailed her royal robes
for the last time across the marble courts of Shushan, going forth to
make room for Queen Esther? Amid the loops of lace at her throat, and
into the jewelled clasp of her be