orks on, doing
magical things. So that poor Edward Neville, the forsaken husband of
Violet Vere, when he heard that that popular actress had died suddenly
in America from a fit of delirium tremens brought on by excessive
drinking, was able, by some gentle method known only to Love and
himself, to forget all her frailties--to obliterate from his memory the
fact that he ever saw her on the boards of the Brilliant Theatre,--and
to think of her henceforth only as the wife he had once adored, and who,
he decided in vague, dreamy fashion, must have died young. Love also
laid a firm hand on the vivacious Pierre Duprez--he who had long scoffed
at the _jeu d'amour_, played it at last in grave earnest,--and one bright
season he introduced his bride into Parisian society,--a charming little
woman, with very sparkling eyes and white teeth, who spoke French
perfectly, though not with the ''haccent' recommended by Briggs. It was
difficult to recognize Britta in the _petite elegante_ who laughed and
danced and chattered her way through some of the best _salons_ in Paris,
captivating everybody as she went,--but there she was, all the same,
holding her own as usual. Her husband was extremely proud of her--he was
fond of pointing her out to people as something excessively precious and
unique--and saying--"See her! That is my wife! From Norway! Yes--from
the very utmost north of Norway! I love my country--certainly!--but I
will tell you this much--if I had been obliged to choose a wife among
French women--_ma foi!_ I should never have married!"

And what of George Lorimer?--the idle, somewhat careless man of "modern"
type, in whose heart, notwithstanding the supposed deterioration of the
age, all the best and bravest codes of old-world chivalry were written?
Had Love no fair thing to offer _him_? Was he destined to live out his
life in the silent heroism of faithful, unuttered, unrequited, unselfish
devotion? Were the heavens, as Sigurd had said, always to be empty?
Apparently not,--for when he was verging towards middle age, a young
lady besieged him with her affections, and boldly offered to be his wife
any day he chose to name. She was a small person, not quite five years
old, with great blue eyes and a glittering tangle of golden curls. She
made her proposal one summer afternoon on the lawn at Errington Manor,
in the presence of Beau Lovelace, on whose knee sat her little brother
Olaf, a fine boy a year younger than herself. She had pl