care of yourself."

She allowed him to press his hot lips to hers, and, accompanying him to the
door, saw him jump into the frail open-topped buggy. Wildfire plunged and
sprang off in his usual style, and, with a crack of the whip and wave of
his hat, Hugh was fairly started.

Seven hours later Irene sat alone at the library table, absorbed in writing
an article on Laplace's Nebular Theory for the scientific journal to which
she occasionally contributed over the signature of "Sabaean." Gradually her
thoughts wandered from the completed task to other themes of scarcely less
interest. The week previous she had accompanied Hugh to an operatic concert
given by the Parodi troupe, and had been astonished to find Russell seated
on the bench in front of her. He so rarely showed himself on such occasions
that his appearance elicited some comment. They had met frequently since
the evening at Mr. Mitchell's, but he pertinaciously avoided recognizing
her; and, on this particular night, though he came during an interlude to
speak to Grace Harris, who sat on the same row of seats with Irene, he
never once directed his eyes toward the latter. This studied neglect, she
felt assured, was not the result of the bitter animosity existing between
her father and himself; and though it puzzled her for a while, she began
finally to suspect the true nature of his feelings, and, with woman's
rarely erring instincts, laid her finger on the real motive which prompted
him. The report of his engagement to Grace had reached her some days
before, and now it recurred to her mind like a haunting spectre. She did
not believe for an instant that he was attached to the pretty, joyous girl
whom rumour gave him; but she was well aware that he was ambitious of high
social position, and feared that he might possibly, from selfish, ignoble
reasons, seek an alliance with Judge Harris' only daughter, knowing that
the family was one of the wealthiest and most aristocratic in the State.
Life had seemed dreary enough before; but, with this apprehension added, it
appeared insupportable, and she was conscious of a degree of wretchedness
never dreamed of or realized heretofore. Not even a sigh escaped her; she
was one of a few women who permit no external evidences of suffering, but
lock it securely in their own proud hearts. The painful reverie might,
perhaps, have lasted till the pallid dawn looked in with tearful eyes at
the window, but Paragon, who was sleeping on