"When did he come?" asked Marion, after a moment.

"This morning on the 'Limited'. He has been in England all winter. You
will see him to-morrow, as he told me Sedger had asked him on his
coach."

"What fate has brought him back again?" thought Marion.

Roswell Sanderson was silent for a moment, then he came toward his wife.
Taking a seat beside her, he asked tenderly if she remembered what day
it was; then he took a package from his pocket which he dropped into her
lap.

"Why, it's the anniversary of our wedding. I had quite forgotten it."

Florence had left the room a moment before, so that they were alone.
Marion untied the parcel in her lap, and found that it was a case
containing a string of pearls. She looked up into her husband's face and
kissed him, and a feeling of shame came into her heart. She saw a love
in his eyes which she could not return, and she prayed that he might
find the means to make her love him. This thought was in her heart only
for a moment, then she was playing with the pearls, and wondering again
why Duncan had come back into her life.

CHAPTER XIII.

DERBY DAY.

A small crowd was collected in front of the Hotel Mazarin, and its
proportions were gradually being swelled by passing Saturday loungers.
Walter Sedger's drag, drawn up in front of the hotel to receive his
party for the races, was the attraction which drew together this
inquisitive throng, and in spite of the expression of superior
indifference assumed by most of the men and boys composing the crowd, it
was easy to see that the red-wheeled coach, with its smart team of
browns, was an object of more than passing interest. A park policeman
was exchanging a word or two in a knowing manner with the stolid Briton
in boots and breeches at the leaders' heads, and near him a
slouch-hatted veteran, wearing a Grand Army badge, was talking
condescendingly with an ice-man. A large cake of ice, which had been
carried thus far on its way to the hotel bar, was slowly melting in the
sun, and little streams of water flowed from it and trickled into the
gutter; but the veteran and the ice-man still gazed at the shining
panels of the drag, and eyed the "cattle" with the air of connoisseurs,
while a butcher's boy with his white apron and basket of meat, and a
German carpenter with his kit of tools, stood there stolidly, intent
upon remaining until the show was over. A diminutive Italian boot-black,
still attired in the rags of his