'Tis in the power of woman， if she be Whole-souled and noble， free from coquetry - Her motives all unselfish， worthy， good， To make herself and feelings understood By nameless acts， thus sparing what to man， However gently answered， causes pain， The offering of his hand and heart in vain.
She can be friendly， unrestrained， and kind Assume no airs of pride or arrogance； But in her voice， her manner， and her glance， Convey that mystic something， undefined， Which men fail not to understand and read， And， when not blind with egoism， heed.
My task was harder--'twas the slow undoing Of long sweet months of unimpeded wooing.
It was to hide and cover and conceal The truth， assuming what I did not feel.
It was to dam love's happy singing tide That blessed me with its hopeful， tuneful tone By feigned indiff'rence， till it turned aside And changed its channel， leaving me alone To walk parched plains， and thirst for that sweet draught My lips had tasted， but another quaffed.
It could be done， for no words yet were spoken - None to recall--no pledges to be broken.
"He will be grieved， then angry， cold， then cross，" I reasoned， thinking what would be his 第一章PART In this strange drama. "Then， because he Feels something lacking， to make good his loss He'll turn to Helen， and her gentle grace And loving acts will win her soon the place I hold to-day； and like a troubled dream At length， our past， when he looks back， will seem."
That evening passed with music， chat， and song， But hours that once had flown on airy wings Now limped on weary， aching limbs along， Each moment like some dreaded step that brings A twinge of pain.
As Vivian rose to go， Slow bending to me from his greater height， He took my hand， and， looking in my eyes， With tender questioning and pained surprise， Said， "Maurine， you are not yourself to-night； What is it？ Are you ailing？"
"Ailing？ No，" I answered， laughing lightly， "I am not； Just see my cheek， sir--is it thin， or pale？
Now， tell me， am I looking very frail？"
"Nay， nay，" he answered， "it cannot be SEEN， The change I speak of--'twas more in your mien - Preoccupation， or--I know not what！
Miss Helen， am I wrong， or does Maurine Seem to have something on her mind this eve？"
"She does，" laughed Helen， "and I do believe I know what 'tis！ A letter came to-day Which she read slyly， and then hid away Close to her heart， not knowing I was near， And since she's been as you have seen her here.
See how she blushes！ so my random shot We must believe has struck a tender spot."
Her rippling laughter floated through the room， And redder yet I felt the hot blood rise， Then surge away， to leave me pale as death Under the dark and swiftly gathering gloom Of Vivian's questioning， accusing eyes， That searched my soul. I almost shrieked beneath That stern， fixed gaze， and stood spellbound until He turned with sudden movement， gave his hand To each in turn， and said： "You must not stand Longer， young ladies， in this open door.
The air is heavy with a cold， damp chill.
We shall have rain to-morrow， or before.
Good-night."
He vanished in the darkling shade； And so the dreaded evening found an end， That saw me grasp the conscience-whetted blade， And strike a blow for honour and for friend.
"How swiftly passed the evening！" Helen sighed.
"How long the hours！" my tortured heart replied.
Joy， like a child， with lightsome steps doth glide By Father Time， and， looking in his face， Cries， snatching blossoms from the fair roadside， "I could pluck more， but for thy hurried pace."
The while her elder brother Pain， man grown， Whose feet are hurt by many a thorn and stone， Looks to some distant hilltop， high and calm， Where he shall find not only rest， but balm For all his wounds， and cries， in tones of woe， "Oh， Father Time！ why is thy pace so slow？"
Two days， all sad with lonely wind and rain， Went sobbing by， repeating o'er and o'er The miserere， desolate and drear， Which every human heart must sometime hear.
Pain is but little varied. Its refrain， Whate'er the words are， is for aye the same.
The third day brought a change， for with it came Not only sunny smiles to Nature's face， But Roy， our Roy came back to us. Once more We looked into his laughing， handsome eyes， Which， while they gave Aunt Ruth a glad surprise In no way puzzled her， for one glance told What each succeeding one confirmed， that he Who bent above her with the lissome grace Of his fine form， though grown so tall， could be No other than the Roy Montaine of old.
It was a sweet reunion， and he brought So much of sunshine with him that I caught， Just from his smile alone， enough of gladness To make my heart forget a time its sadness.
We talked together of the dear old days：
Leaving the present， with its depths and heights Of life's maturer sorrows and delights， I turned back to my childhood's level land， And Roy and I， dear playmates， hand in hand， Wandered in mem'ry through the olden ways.
It was the second evening of his coming.
Helen was playing dreamily， and humming Some wordless melody of white-souled thought， While Roy and I sat by the open door， Re-living childish incidents of yore.
My eyes were glowing， and my cheeks were hot With warm young blood； excitement， joy， or pain Alike would send swift coursing through each vein.
Roy， always eloquent， was waxing fine， And bringing vividly before my gaze Some old adventure of those halcyon days， When suddenly， in pauses of the talk， I heard a well-known step upon the walk， And looked up quickly to meet full in mine The eyes of Vivian Dangerfield. A flash Shot from their depths：- a sudden blaze of light Like that swift followed by the thunder's crash， Which said， "Suspicion is confirmed by sight，" As they fell on the pleasant doorway scene.
Then o'er his clear-cut face a cold， white look Crept， like the pallid moonlight o'er a brook， And， with a slight， proud bending of the head， He stepped toward us haughtily， and said：
