ically, holding her off at arm's-length, watching the
heightened color that surged over the dainty, dimpled face so plainly
discernible in the white, radiant starlight.

Daisy rested her head on one soft, childish hand, and gazed
thoughtfully up at the cold, brilliant stars that gemmed the heavens
above her.

"Oh, if you had only warned me, little stars!" she said. "I was so
happy then; and now life is so bitter!"

A sudden impulse seized her, strong as her very life, to look upon his
face again.

"I would be content to live my weary life out uncomplainingly then,"
she said.

Without intent or purpose she walked hurriedly back through the
pansy-bordered path she had so lately traversed.

The grand old trees seemed to stretch their giant arms protectingly
over her, as if to ward off all harm.

The night-wind fanned her flushed cheeks and tossed her golden curls
against her wistful, tear-stained face. Noiselessly she crept up the
wide, graveled path that led to his home--the home which should have
been hers.

Was it fancy? She thought she heard Rex's voice crying out: "Daisy, my
darling!" How pitifully her heart thrilled! Dear Heaven! if it had
only been true. It was only the restless murmur of the waves sighing
among the orange-trees.

A light burned dimly in an upper window. Suddenly a shadow fell across
the pale, silken curtains. She knew but too well whose shadow it was;
the proud, graceful poise of the handsome head, and the line of the
dark curls waving over the broad brow, could belong to no one but Rex.
There was no one but the pitying moonlight out there to see how
passionately the poor little child-bride kissed the pale roses on
which that shadow had fallen, and how she broke it from the stem and
placed it close to her beating heart--that lonely, starved little
heart, chilled under the withering frost of neglect, when life, love
and happiness should have been just bursting into bloom for her.

"He said I had spoiled his life," she sighed, leaning her pale face
wearily against the dark-green ivy vines. "He must have meant I had
come between him and Pluma. Will he go back to her, now that he
believes me dead?"

One question alone puzzled her: Had Birdie mentioned her name, and
would he know it was she, whom every one believed lying so cold and
still in the bottomless pit? She could not tell.

"If I could but see Birdie for a moment," she thought, "and beseech
her to keep my secret!"

Birdie had