One morning Eugene Mallard informed his young wife at the breakfast-table that he had invited a party of friends from the adjoining city, and had just received word that they would be with them that day. This was sorrowful news to Ida, for she realized that she would see less of her husband when they came. But he seemed to await their arrival in a fever of impatience.

While she was wondering how many there would be in the party, her husband said, as if in answer to the unexpressed thought:

"There will be six in the party—Mrs. Staples and her[142] two daughters, Dora and Louisa, Captain Drury, Arthur Hollis, and—and Vivian Deane."

Ida looked up quickly as her husband pronounced the last name. Was it only her fancy, or did he turn away abruptly?

Somehow she could not rid herself of the fancy.

Then suddenly it occurred to her that she had heard the name, Vivian Deane, before. She remembered the conversation well.

While their former guests were there, she had been sitting in the rose-embowered veranda one day, while two of them passed on the lawn, and the fragments of their conversation floated up to her.

"I am surprised to find that Vivian Deane is not here," said one.

"Indeed! I would have been more surprised if she had been here," said the other.

They were idle words, almost meaningless, as far as she was concerned, but the name, Vivian Deane, clung to her for many days afterward. This was the last morning she would have with her husband. It was generally his custom to smoke in the grounds after breakfast. If she walked over the lawn she might be able to have a little chat with him.

She made a tour of the grounds, but to her surprise she did not see Eugene Mallard. Perhaps he was detained in the library writing letters. A little brook ran through a far corner of the grounds, and on either side of it tall laurel bushes grew.

Would life ever be any different for her? Would fate be always as unkind as now? Bitter tears, which she could not restrain, sprung to her eyes and coursed down her cheeks.

She tried to stop their flow, but she could not, though she realized that they would be a sorry object before her husband's guests. At that moment she heard the sound of footsteps.

Looking through the bushes she saw two of the servants walking leisurely along, one carrying a basket[143] of newly gathered fruit, and the other a basket of freshly cut roses.

Was it fate that caused one of them to say:

"Let us not return to the house just yet. The morning is warm and fine, why not sit down here under the shade of this tree and tie the roses into bunches? I can do it as well here as in the house."

Whereupon they leisurely proceeded to seat themselves.

"It isn't the same house since master brought home his bride," said the other. "It's nothing but company, company, all the time. Now we are to have another new lot of guests."

"And guess who is invited this time," said her companion.

"Mr. Mallard seems to know everybody in the country, so it would be a pretty hard guess," laughed the girl.

"Well," returned the other, "as you are not so good at guessing, I may as well tell you—it is Miss Vivian Deane."

"Pray, who is she?" asked the girl who was tying the roses.

"Oh, I forgot you were not here long enough to know about her. Well, I will tell you. She is a young girl who lives a few miles away in a magnificent house called Deane Castle. She is as beautiful as a dream, and as heartless as she is beautiful. She has a doll-like pink-and-white face, big blue eyes, and a wealth of flaxen curls. Though she looks like an angel, a bigger devil in wom............