the bright patches of
glittering moonlight, through the sweet-scented, rose-bordered path,
on through the dark shadows of the trees toward the home of Rex--her
husband.

A soft, brooding silence lay over the sleeping earth as Daisy, with a
sinking heart, drew near the house. Her soft footfalls on the green
mossy earth made no sound.

Silently as a shadow she crept up to the blossom-covered porch; some
one was standing there, leaning against the very pillar around which
she had twined her arms as she watched Rex's shadow on the roses.

The shifting moonbeams pierced the white, fleecy clouds that enveloped
them, and as he turned his face toward her she saw it was Rex. She
could almost have reached out her hand and touched him from where she
stood. She was sorely afraid her face or her voice might startle him
if she spoke to him suddenly.

"I do not need to speak," she thought. "I will go up to him and lay
the letter in his hand."

Then a great intense longing came over her to hear his voice and know
that he was speaking to her. She had quite decided to pursue this
course, when the rustle of a silken garment fell upon her ear. She
knew the light tread of the slippered feet but too well--it was Pluma.
She went up to him in her usual caressing fashion, laying her white
hand on his arm.

"Do you know you have been standing here quite two hours, Rex,
watching the shadows of the vine-leaves? I have longed to come up and
ask you what interest those dancing shadows had for you, but I could
not make up my mind to disturb you. I often fancy you do not know how
much time you spend in thought."

Pluma was wondering if he was thinking of that foolish, romantic fancy
that had come so near separating them--his boyish fancy for Daisy
Brooks, their overseer's niece. No, surely not. He must have forgotten
her long ago.

"These reveries seem to have grown into a habit with me," he said,
dreamily; "almost a second nature, of late. If you were to come and
talk to me at such times, you would break me of it."

The idea pleased her. A bright flush rose to her face, and she made
him some laughing reply, and he looked down upon her with a kindly
smile.

Oh! the torture of it to the poor young wife standing watching them,
with heart on fire in the deep shadow of the crimson-hearted
passion-flowers that quivered on the intervening vines. The letter she
held in her hand slipped from her fingers into the bushes all
unheeded. She had but