wife? Music used
to be such a bond of sympathy between us."

There was both love and reproach in her voice. He heard neither. He
had simply forgotten it.

"I have been thinking of other things, I presume. Allow me to make up
for it at once, however, by asking you if you will sing for me now."

The tears came to her dark, flashing eyes, but she forced them bravely
back. She had hoped he would clasp her in his arms, whispering some
sweet compliment, then say to her "Darling, won't you sing to me
now?"

She swept toward the piano with the air of a queen.

"I want you to sit where I can see you, Rex," she demanded, prettily;
"I like to watch your face when I sing you my favorite songs."

Rex drew his chair up close to the piano, laying his head back
dreamily against the crimson cushions. He would not be obliged to
talk; for once--just once--he would let his fancies roam where they
would. He had often heard Pluma sing before, but never in the way
she sung to-night. A low, thrilling, seductive voice full of
pleading, passionate tenderness--a voice that whispered of the
sweet irresistible power of love, that carried away the hearts of
her listeners as a strong current carries a leaflet.

Was it a dream, or was it the night wind breathing the name of Daisy?
The tears rose in his eyes, and he started to his feet, pale and
trembling with agitation. Suddenly the music ceased.

"I did not think such a simple little melody had power to move you,"
she said.

"Is it a new song?" he asked. "I do not remember having heard it
before. What is the title of it?"

He did not notice her face had grown slightly pale under the soft,
pearly light of the gleaming lamps, as she held the music out toward
him.

"It is a pretty title," she said, in her low, musical voice, "'Daisies
Growing o'er my Darling's Grave.'"

In the terrible look of agony that swept over his handsome face, Pluma
read the secret of his life; the one secret she had dreaded stood as
clearly revealed to her as though it had been stamped in glowing
letters upon his brow. She would have stood little chance of being
Rex's wife if Daisy Brooks had lived.

Who would have dreamed the beautiful, proud young heiress could have
cursed the very memory of the young girl whom she believed to be
dead--lying all uncared for in a neglected, lonely grave?

Rex felt sorely disturbed. He never remembered how the remainder of
the evening passed. Ah, heavens! how his mind wandered