The Press., 1896-11-26

from the crush and heat of the city, and, among others, Edgar Reynolds.
 At the gate sudden thought strikes her. The housekeeper's little child is very ill. She will go in and inquire for her. No one save the servant can be up yet. She pushes open the gate and noise- lessly fits up the garden path to the rear of the house.
 She accomplishes her mission and is returning, when she sees futtering on the path before her 8 sheet of creamy note paper. She picks it up and glanoes around. It must have blown from a window left open on retiring. Yes, there is one directly overhead.
 She is about to take it to the house. keeper to return to it's owner, when her eyes chance to fall on two words written in firm, bold hand, Florence Thorne. ' It is but short letter, and the girl, for getting all honor in the intensity of her surprise, reads every word of it almost before she knows what she has done.
 ''Dear Will," it runs, "expect me back on Thursday. Am tired of rusti- eating. It would have been an unbear- able bore were it not for an awfully pretty girl, flirting with whom has helped to pass the time. She is the daughter of Allen Thorne, the million aires brother, you know. Made fool of himself by marrying 8 school teach CTS daughter years ago. Florence Thorne is shy, wild rose-poor, pretty and proud as 8 princess-but couldn't afford to ruin my prospects for her, you know. Much as could do to keep from losing my heart in earnest. Had half mind to throw over Agatha Vere's thou sands, but-pshaw, the bank account carries the day.''
 There is little more relating to busi- ness matters, then the letter closes with the hastily scratched signature, Edgar Reynolds.
 The girl stands stiff and rigid in the bright morning sunlight, great startled horror in her eyes. All the pretty, child ish beauty dies in the strained intensity of that gaze.
 Harkl Is that some one coming? For a moment she lifts her hand to her head in a confused, helpless way. Then, crush ing the letter into her bosom, she turns and flies fast as her leaden weighted feet will bear her down the path, through the gate, along the dusty high way-home.
 Her uncle came to her on receipt of Philip Towards letter, stating how ill she was, his lonely old heart warming with love toward his brothers orphan child. As for Edgar Reynolds, he had heard of her illness with his usual well bred indifference.
 Poor little thing! Perhaps it's the best way it could have ended after all, he said, and so congratulating himself, he had gone back to town, while Philip Howard, far out on the broad Atlantic, 8 self made exile from home and friends, carried in his heart of hearts the picture of lovely, wistful, girIish face, with shiest pansy purple eyes.
 Three years afterward James Thorne' s palace home is a blaze of light and beauty. The massive doors are flung open; the perfume of the flowers floats out on the night air.
 The soft, brilliant light from the chandeliers, through curtains of amber satin and creamy lace, streams forth on the street below.
 She has received them all with a sweet, imperious grace, wholly her own, and is glancing away, on a partner s arm, when she looks up and sees be- fore her late arrival-Edgar Reynolds
 The dark debonair face is handsome 04 hr;cp q new life when he sees her. "Florence-Miss Thornel' He has sprung forward eagerly, and, regardless of the presence of others, held out bot h hands.
 Florence Thorne looks up at him in calm surprise. She does not smile; she does not cry out. No tinge of the rose flush dies from her face. The pansy pur- pie eyes do not droop; the lily hands do not tremble.
 So she lays her hand moment in his, coldly, courteously.
 "Have you come back at last-at last?''
 "Yes, we returned a fortnight ago, " rings out the clear, silvery voice. Gap tain Arthurs, will you take me to the ballroom?'
 She bows a trife haughtily to Edgar Reynolds and leaves the drawing room on her partners arm.
 The night goes by with the ripple of laughter, the crash of music, the tread of dancing feet.
 Everywhere admiring eyes follow Florence Thorne, and her uncle looks 0V1 A0 bow down before his darling. ''Such wit, such repartee, such matchless gracel" they say. "She is the beauty of the season."
 'One dance, only one," pleads Edgar Reynolds, flor the sake of old times"
 She laughs, that clear, happy laugh of hers, and leaves him.
 He stands where she has left him and looks after her with hot, angry eyes.
 He has staid single and let Agatha Vere's bank account slip through his James Thorne's wealth.
 Oh, now-now for one hour of the old dominion.
 He sees a servant approach her in the crowd, sees her bend her naughty head and follow him.
 ''I must have it out with her now, !" he says, clutching his hands fiercely. "I must awake the old love tonight if ever :"
 He follows her through the long, gas lit room till, parting the velvet cur tains at the end, she enters cool, dim, shadowy alcove.
 He is just behind her, but draws back quickly in the shade of tall, flower