here,
else he would never have sent her a paper and nothing more.

Delighted to be of some use, and a little gratified to open a foreign
paper, Pauline tore off the wrapper, starting a little at Daisy's quick,
sharp cry as she made a rent across the handwriting.

"Look, you are tearing into my name, which he wrote," Daisy said, and
then remembering herself, she sank back into her seat in the garden
chair, while Pauline wondered what harm there was in tearing an old
soiled wrapper, and why her governess should take it so carefully in her
hand and roll it up as if it had been a living thing.

There were notices of new books, and a runaway match in high life, and a
suicide on Summer Street, and a golden wedding in Roxbury, and the
latest fashions from Paris, into which Pauline plunged with avidity
while Daisy listened like one in a dream, asking when the fashions were
exhausted: "Is that all? Are there no deaths or marriages?"

Pauline had not thought of that--she would see, and she hunted through
the columns till she found Guy's pencil mark, and read:

"Married, this morning, at St. Paul's Church, by the Rev. Dr. ----,
assisted by the rector, Guy Thornton, Esq., of Cuylerville, to Miss
Julia Hamilton, of this city."

"Yes, yes; it's very hot here, isn't it? I think I will go in," Daisy
said, her fingers working nervously with the bit of paper she held.

But Pauline was too intent on the name of Thornton to hear what Daisy
said, and she asked: "Is Mr. Thornton your friend?"

It was a natural enough question, and Daisy roused herself to answer it,
and said quickly: "He is the son of my husband's father."

"Oh, oui," Pauline rejoined, a little mystified as to the exact
relationship existing between Guy Thornton and her teacher's husband,
whom she supposed was dead, as Daisy had only confided to madame the
fact of a divorce.

"What date is the paper?" Daisy asked, and on being told she said softly
to herself: "I see, it was too late."

There was in her mind no doubt as to what the result would have been had
her letter been in time; no doubt of Guy's preference for her; no regret
that she had written to him, except that the knowledge that she loved
him at last might make him wretched with thinking "what might have
been," and with the bitter pain which cut her heart like a knife there
was mingled a pity for Guy, who would perhaps suffer more than she did,
if that were possible. She never once thought of retribution,