d help
breathing. Their glances turned so often to each other, their smiles
were so tender, their voices had so soft a cadence when they called each
other's names, that every one could guess the passion of their hearts.

Ellsworth and the surrounding neighborhood had been very gay the past
few weeks.

Dances and picnics, moonlight rides and tea parties, all varied the
programme, and contributed to the pleasure of Mrs. Ellsworth's beautiful
nieces.

Dainty, even in her simple gowns and hats, was the beauty of every
gathering, and might have been the belle of everything had she so
chosen; but she was shy and cold with all other men, in her loyalty to
her noble lover.

There came a day, toward the second week in July, when Mrs. Ellsworth
asked her step-son for a private interview in her boudoir.

"I am obliged to speak to you on a very important subject," she said,
anxiously.

He bowed inquiringly.

"Can you not guess the subject to which I refer?" she continued. "Have
you forgotten the peculiar provisions of your father's will, by which
you will be disinherited in my favor unless you marry on or before your
twenty-sixth birthday?"

"I have not forgotten," he replied, calmly.

"Then perhaps you have forgotten that the first day of August will be
your birthday?"

"I have not forgotten that, either," he replied, coolly.

The handsome old lady regarded him with some irritation, and snapped
out:

"Then perhaps you will condescend to explain the reason for your strange
shilly-shallying? Your birthday scarcely three weeks off, and your
inheritance dependent on your marriage, yet not even engaged!"

"Dear madame, there is plenty of time yet," he replied, with provoking
coolness.

"You expect, then, to be married on your birthday?"

"Certainly, madame. You can not suppose that I am going to remain
single, and resign my birthright to you or any one?"--sarcastically.

"I scarcely thought you such a fool," she said, tartly; adding: "But I
consider your behavior very strange. You are not yet engaged that I know
of, and the bride ought to have more than three weeks to prepare her
trousseau."

"That is all nonsense about an elaborate trousseau. She will need only a
wedding and traveling-gown, and the other finery can be bought while we
are on our wedding-tour in Paris," he returned, airily.

She exclaimed, suspiciously:

"Perhaps you are engaged already to some grand foreign lady, and intend
to return to Europ