ols do. And it is the same divine thing
to-day as it was in its exquisite beginnings in Paradise. Love is
either the greatest bliss or the profoundest misery the soul of man
can know." And quite inadvertently, his eyes fell upon Rose, and she
trembled and resolved to take her letter to Dick Duval out of the mail
bag.

But when she went for it the bag had been sent to the post-office, and
she whispered to herself dramatically, "The die is cast!" and then she
sat down and played a "Romanza," and wove into it her memories of poor
Horace Key, watching his old love plight her broken faith to a rich
husband. Swiftly Horace Key became Dick Duval, and she played herself
into tears, thinking of his black, velvety eyes, and his love-darting
glances.

Early in the morning Adriana's little visit was over. She had made no
preparations for a longer one, and after all, the old rule with regard
to visits is one that fits most occasions--a day to come, a day to
stay, and a day to go away. She had also a singular feeling of
necessity in her return home, as if she were needed there; and she was
glad that Harry had to go to New York, and that their adieu was
public and conventional. "We shall meet again very soon," he said, as
he touched Yanna's hand; and then he lifted the reins, and the
dog-cart went spinning down the avenue, as if he had only one
desire--that of escaping from her.

In another hour Adriana was at home, going through her own sweet,
spotless rooms, with that new, delightful sense of possession that
makes home-coming worth going from home to experience. There was only
one servant in Peter's house--a middle-aged woman, whose husband had
been killed in Peter's quarry; but she had the Dutch passion for
cleanliness, and the very atmosphere of the house was fresh as a
rose--the windows all open to the sunshine, the white draperies
blowing gently in the south breeze, and every article of furniture
polished to its highest point. Yanna ran up and down stairs with a
sweet satisfaction. This dwelling, so simple, so spotless, so void of
pretenses, was the proper home for a man like Peter Van Hoosen; she
could not imagine him in a gilded saloon, with painted flowers and
heathen goddesses around him.

They talked a little while, and then Peter went into his garden; and
Yanna took out a white muslin dress which required some re-trimming,
and sat down with her ribbons and laces, to make it pretty. She was
tying bows of blue ribbons