nd who I am."

"Who you are! Are you not Mr. Reinecourt?"

"Certainly!" half laughing. "But that is rather barren information, is
it not? Can you wait until to-morrow?"

His smile, the clasp in which he held her hand, reassured her.

"Oh, yes," she said, drawing a long breath, "I can wait!"

That day--Rose remembered it afterward--he stood holding her hands a
long time at parting.

"You will go! What a hurry you are always in," he said.

"A hurry!" echoed Rose. "I have been here three hours. I should have
gone long ago. Don't detain me; good-bye!"

"Good-bye, my Rose, my dear little nurse! Good-bye until we meet again."

CHAPTER VII.

HON. LIEUTENANT REGINALD STANFORD.

Rose Danton's slumbers were unusually disturbed that night. Mr.
Reinecourt haunted her awake, Mr. Reinecourt haunted her asleep. What
was the eventful morrow to reveal? Would he tell her he loved her? Would
he ask her to be his wife? Did he care for her, or did he mean nothing
after all?

No thought of Jules La Touche came to disturb her as she drifted off
into delicious memories of the past and ecstatic dreams of the future.
No thought of the promise she had given, no remorse at her own falsity,
troubled her easy conscience. What did she care for Jules La Touche?
What was he beside this splendid Mr. Reinecourt? She thought of
him--when she thought of him at all--with angry impatience, and she drew
his ring off her finger and flung it across the room.

"What a fool I was," she thought, "ever to dream of marrying that silly
boy! Thank heaven I never told any one but Grace."

Rose was feverish with impatience and anticipation when morning came.
She sat down to breakfast, tried to eat, and drink, and talk as usual,
and failed in all. As soon as the meal was over, unable to wait, she
dressed and ordered her horse. Doctor Frank was sauntering up the
avenue, smoking a cigar in the cold February sunshine, as she rode off.

"Away so early, Di Vernon, and unescorted? May I--"

"No," said Rose, brusquely, "you may not. Good morning!"

Doctor Frank glanced after her as she galloped out of sight.

"What is it?" he thought. "What has altered her of late? She is not the
same girl she was two weeks ago. Has she fallen in love, I wonder? Not
likely, I should think; and yet--"

He walked off, revolving the question, to the house, while Rose was
rapidly shortening the distance between herself and her beloved. Old
Jacques was leaning over the