immediately rose, looking very grand as he turned and
surveyed his daughter with his clear penetrating eye.'

"'You have a lover, have you not?' he asked, laying his hand on her bare
and beautifully polished shoulder.

"An odd little smile crossed her lip. She looked at her hands on which
never a ring shone, and coquettishly tossed her head. 'Let the gentleman
speak for himself,' said she, 'I give no man his title until he has
earned it.'

"Her father laughed. A lover was not such a dreadful thing in his eyes
provided he were worthy. And Jacqueline would not choose unworthily of
course--a Japha and his daughter! 'Well then,' said he, 'let us see if
he can make good his title; Holt is not a bad name and Boston is not a
poor place to hail from.' And without more ado, they hurried from the
room. But the light had all died out from her face! What did it mean?

"At tea time I met the gentleman. He had evidently made his title good.
I was not only favorably impressed with him but actually struck. Of all
the high-bred, clear-eyed, polished and kindly gentlemen who had sat
about the board since I first came into the family in Mrs. Japha's
lifetime, here was surely the finest, the handsomest and the best; and
surprised in more ways than one, I was giving full play to my relief and
exhilaration, when I caught sight of Jacqueline's eye, and felt again
the cold shudders of secret doubt and apprehension. Smile upon him as
she would, coquet with him as she did, the flame and the glory that drew
her like an inspiration to her feet when his name was announced, had
fled, and left not a shadow behind. Had he failed in his expressions of
devotion? Was he hard or cold or severe, under all that pleasant and
charming manner? Had the hot soul of our motherless child rushed upon
ice, and in the shock of the dreadful chill, fallen inert? No, his looks
bespake no coldness; they dwelt upon Jacqueline's lovely but inscrutable
face, with honest fervor and boundless regard. He evidently loved her
most passionately, but she--if it had not been for that first moment of
unconscious betrayal, I should have decided that she cared for him no
more than she did for the few others who had adored her, in the short
space of her incomprehensible life.

"The mystery was not cleared up when she came to me that night with a
short, 'How do you like my lover, Margery?' I was forty years her
senior, but she always called me Margery.

"'I think he is the finest