s day. I was in a mood to yield. My old nature
seemed to rise out of its former self. It was the one golden opportunity
for the man by my side. The old tender leaning toward him came back
again, stronger, more subtle than ever before. It was--for the
while--love, or something very like unto love. My nature, my soul was at
its utmost flow, but no one touched the flood-gates. Gerome was passive,
silent. One word, a hand-touch, and I would have loved him and bound
myself to him for weal or woe! Little things are every thing in a
woman's life. Robert Fairfield passed by beneath the window; he briefly
paused, politely looked up, lifted his hat, _smiled_, and--innocent
of what he had done--went on his way. He had simply done what was the
proper and usual thing, but his conventional smile had come into my life
at a strangely opportune moment--or, was it opportune? My heart had been
laid bare, the flood-gates had been touched, and they had slowly opened
beneath the magic influence of a _smile_. Gerome Meadows had been
silent. He had lost his one golden opportunity. I told him so, and sent
him away. I fired upon him a volley of ridicule and contempt; my revenge
was complete. He was angry, surprised, disappointed. The old wounds were
torn open afresh; but he was not easily undone. He immediately made
peace with his irate mother. He placed himself in her charge. He
promised to try again, but under her direction and according to her
selection. In a few days more he goes to the altar with this new and
latest love. But, ah! Gerome, your charming, susceptible self never
loved but once! Where is that devilish brown-eyed beauty? It is well
that she is silent! One word from her and--but, go marry. And pray, take
with you my conventional wishes for your peace and happiness. On your
wedding day I will write you a dainty card and send you a trifle.

What shall it be? What would be, under the "existing circumstances," the
most appropriate thing? Perhaps a little Cupid, somewhat weather-beaten
and with an empty quiver might do, or, best of all, _a lock of
golden-brown hair_ stolen from the rich, heavy tresses of that
devilish brown-eyed beauty. What say you? But _au revoir_, Gerome
Meadows.

There is to be a reception--a most elegant affair--the night of the
wedding. It is to be given by that now well-satisfied lady, Mrs.
Gillespie Meadows, the mother of my dear, dear Gerome. My escort: Robert
Fairfield. The beginning of another end! What wi