on
the offending daisies he wore on his breast.

"I left you an hour ago smiling and happy. I find you white and worn.
There are strange lights in your eyes like the slumbrous fire of a
volcano; even your voice seems to have lost its tenderness. What is
it, Pluma?"

She raised her dark, proud face to his. There was a strange story
written on it, but he could not tell what it was.

"It--it is nothing. The day is warm, and I am tired, that is all."

"You are not like the same Pluma who kissed me when I was going away,"
he persisted. "Since I left this house something has come between you
and me. What is it, Pluma?"

She looked up to him with a proud gesture that was infinitely
charming.

"Is anything likely to come between us?" she asked.

"No; not that I know of," he answered, growing more and more puzzled.

"Then why imagine it?" she asked.

"Because you are so changed, Pluma," he said. "I shall never perhaps
know the cause of your strange manner toward me, but I shall always
feel sure it is something which concerns myself. You look at me as
though you were questioning me," he said. "I wish you would tell me
what is on your mind?"

"I do not suppose it could make the least difference," she answered,
passionately. "Yes, I will tell you, what you must have been blind not
to notice long ago. Have you not noticed how every one watches us with
a peculiar smile on their lips as we come among them; and how their
voices sink to a whisper lest we should overhear what they say? What
is commented upon by my very guests, and the people all about us?
Listen, then, it is this: Rex Lyon does not love the woman he has
asked to be his wife. The frosts of Iceland could not be colder than
his manner toward her. They say, too, that I have given you the truest
and deepest love of my heart, and have received nothing in return.
Tell me that it is all false, my darling. You do care for me, do you
not, Rex? Tell me," she implored.

"Good heavens!" cried Rex, almost speechless in consternation; "do
they dare say such things? I never thought my conduct could give rise
to one reproach, one unkind thought."

"Tell me you do care for me, Rex," she cried. "I have been almost mad
with doubt."

There was something in the lovely face, in the tender, pleading eyes,
and quivering, scarlet mouth, that looked as if it were made for
kisses--that Rex would have had to have been something more than
mortal man to have resisted her pleading wi