ishment.

The card bore the name of Mr. Craven Kyte.

"Where is the gentleman?" inquired Mrs. Grey.

"In the drawing-room, madam," answered the maid.

"Ask him to be so kind as to wait. I will be down directly," said Mrs.
Grey.

The girl left the room to take her message, and Mrs. Grey began to
change her dress, smiling strangely to herself as she did so.

She gave a last finishing touch to the curls of her glossy black hair,
and a last lingering look at the mirror, and then she went down-stairs.

There, alone in the drawing-room, stood the one devoted lover and slave
that she had left in the whole world.

He came down the room to meet her.

"You here! Oh, I'm so delighted to see you!" she said, in a low tone,
full of feeling, as she went toward him, holding out both her hands.

He trembled from head to foot and turned pale and red by turns as he
took them.

"I am so happy--You are so good to say so! I was almost afraid--I
thought you might consider it a liberty--my coming," faltered the poor
fellow, in sore confusion.

"A liberty? How could you possibly imagine I would consider your coming
here a liberty on your part? Why, dearest friend, I consider it a favor
from you, a pleasure for me! Why should you think otherwise?" inquired
Mary Grey, with her most alluring smile.

"Oh, thanks--thanks! But it was your letter!"

"My letter? Sit down, Craven, dear, and compose yourself. Here, sit
here," she said, seating herself on the sofa and signing for him to take
the place by her side.

He dropped, trembling, flushing and paling, into the indicated seat.

"Now tell me what there was in my harmless letter to disturb you," she
murmured, passing her soft fingers over his forehead and running them
through the dark curls of his hair.

"Nothing that was _meant_ to disturb me, I know. It was all kindness.
You could not write to me, or to any one, otherwise than kindly,"
faltered the lover.

"Well, then?" inquired Mary Grey, in a pretty, reproachful tone.

"But I felt it was cold--cold!" sighed the young man.

"Why, you dearest of dears, one must be discreet in writing letters!
Suppose my letter had expressed all my feelings toward you, and then had
fallen into the hands of any one else? Such mistakes are made in the
mails sometimes. How would you have liked it?" she inquired, patting his
cheeks.

"I should have been wild. But it would only have been at the loss of
your letter. As for me, Heaven knows, I sho