d life's roses of their dew.

"Another face will help you to forget,
The idle dream that had its birth in trust,
And other lips will kiss away regret,
For broken faith and idols turned to dust,

"Ah, well, you chose, perhaps, the better way;
Another love may in your heart be shrined;
And I--I shall go down my darkened way,
Seeking forever what I ne'er shall find."

It was two o'clock by the church belfry when she reached Beechwood, and
a quarter of an hour later when she reached the great mansion that stood
on the brow of the hill.

She remembered that one of the rear doors, seldom used, was never
fastened, and toward this she bent her faltering footsteps. It yielded
to her touch, and like a ghost she glided through it and up the wide,
familiar corridors, her tears falling like rain at every step.

She knew it was her father's custom to spend long hours in his library,
sometimes far into the gray dawn. He found this preferable to the
presence of his sharp-tongued second wife, who was always nagging him
for more money, or to put his property into her name as proof positive
of his unbounded, undying affection for her.

In his library, among his books, there was no nagging. Here he found
peace, silence and quiet.

Therefore, toward the library, late as the hour was, Faynie made her
way, stealing along quietly as a shadow.

The door stood slightly ajar, and a ray of light, a narrow, thread-like
strip, fell athwart the dim corridor.

When Faynie reached the door she paused, trembling with apprehension, a
feeling of intense dread, like a presentiment of coming evil, stealing
over her like the shadow of doom.

She was prepared for his bitter anger, for the whirlwind of wrath that
would be sure to follow, but she would cast herself on her knees at his
feet, and with head bowed, oh, so lowly, so piteously, wait for the
hurricane of his rage to exhaust itself. Then she would bend over her
head still lower, her pride crushed, her pitiful humiliation complete,
and sue on her bended knees, with her hands clasped for his pardon and
his love again.

She would plead for it for the sake of the fair, hapless young mother
whom she had loved and lost in his early youth. Surely, for her sake he
would find mercy, perhaps pardon, for the child she had left behind her,
the fair, petted, hapless daughter, who had been so lonely, and whose
heart yearned so for love ever since he had brought