everything of their past—that past, so ethereal, so innocent, so dreamlike, but to them eternal as the heavens. On the first evening after Thorndyke's return, when Constance, from her balcony, half-hidden in towering palms, caught sight of the flame of Thorndyke's cigar as he strolled by in the murky night, she slipped within the darkened drawing-room. The next moment Thorndyke heard her playing softly some chords of the old, old songs—nay, even singing a stanza or two. It filled his heart with a vehement hope that set his pulses off like wild horses, into an ecstasy which lasted until he got home to his old-fashioned bachelor quarters. What! Ask Constance Maitland to give up her beautiful home, her carriages, her French gowns for that! Thorndyke called himself a blankety-blank fool, with an emphasis that bordered on blasphemy. Next day he was so dull that the Honourable Mark Antony Hudgins charged him with having been jilted by a certain tailor-made and Paris-enamelled widow whom Thorndyke paid considerable attention to and cordially hated. That very afternoon, though, he had his recompense, for, strolling through the beautiful but unfashionable Smith-
