and then opened one--the first from Christina. It was dated
Florizel, the summer of three years before when she was waiting so
patiently for him at Blackwood. It began conservatively enough--"Dear
E--," but it concerned itself immediately with references to an
apparently affectionate relationship. "I went this morning to see if by
chance there were any tell-tale evidences of either Diana or Adonis in
Arcady. There were none of importance. A hairpin or two, a broken
mother-of-pearl button from a summer waist, the stub of a lead-pencil
wherewith a certain genius sketched. The trees seemed just as
unconscious of any nymphs or hamadryads as they could be. The smooth
grass was quite unruffled of any feet. It is strange how much the trees
and forest know and keep their counsel.

"And how is the hot city by now? Do you miss a certain evenly-swung
hammock? Oh, the odor of leaves and the dew! Don't work too hard. You
have an easy future and almost too much vitality. More repose for you,
sir, and considerably more optimism of thought. I send you good
wishes.--Diana."

Angela wondered at once who Diana was, for before she had begun
the letter she had looked for the signature on the succeeding page.
Then after reading this she hurried feverishly from letter to letter,
seeking a name. There was none. "Diana of the Mountains," "The
Hamadryad," "The Wood-Nymph," "C," "C C"--so they ran, confusing,
badgering, enraging her until all at once it came to light--her
first name at least. It was on the letter from Baltimore suggesting
that he come to Florizel--"Christina."

"Ah," she thought, "Christina! That is her name." Then she hurried back
to read the remaining epistles, hoping to find some clue to her surname.
They were all of the same character, in the manner of writing she
despised,--top-lofty, make-believe, the nasty, hypocritical, cant and
make-believe superiority of the studios. How Angela hated her from that
moment. How she could have taken her by the throat and beaten her head
against the trees she described. Oh, the horrid creature! How dare she!
And Eugene--how could he! What a way to reward her love! What an answer
to make to all her devotion! At the very time when she was waiting so
patiently, he was in the mountains with this Diana. And here she was
packing his trunk for him like the little slave that she was when he
cared so little, had apparently cared so little all this time. How could
he ever have cared for her and do