IT WAS the afternoon of May 15. A young lady sat by an open window looking out upon the hawthorn and laburnum trees, and yet her thoughts seemed to be elsewhere.

About her was every luxury. The brick house, in Queen Anne style, was set in the midst of trees, many of them now in blossom, or graceful with their seed-tassels. Far away in the distance the ocean could be seen. The girl herself added much to this charm of the picture, as she rested her elbow upon her blue-velvet writing-desk, where scores of addressed envelopes were piled up. She took up one and read the superscription—“Herbert Underwood, 7 Brompton Place.”

“I am really sorry. I wish it had not gone so far,” she said aloud, as the color faded a little from her cheek; “but then,” and the color came back, “Herbert will not mind it more than other men. They seem to forget such things soon. I have loved him for years, as two may who grow up together, but other girls are ready to accept him.

“I wonder if he will really care much. He will be surprised when he reads these cards announcing my marriage to another. Engaged to two at once! I suppose they will say I am a coquette. It is so delightful to be admired—to be loved. I really wish I had told him that Robert loves me also. Robert is not richer nor handsomer, but Herbert seems more like a brother.

“Besides, it will be so charming to live in Washington, and meet all the celebrities. I hope it is not frivolous, for I suppose all girls like society. I wonder what Herbert will do. Perhaps he will write me that he is broken-hearted; perhaps he will come in person and rebuke me. He is very proud, though, and I think he will bear it bravely. I had a friend who engaged herself to two at once, and the rejected young man shot himself. I hope Herbert will not do that!”

The cards were sent, and preparations went forward for a grand wedding. Dresses were tried on, and boxes of presents were opened with eager curiosity—those offerings which usually mean so little, and cramp the recipients for the next ten years in returning like favors. There was nothing from Herbert—not even a letter.

“How strange!” said the expectant bride. When Mr. Underwood received the cards he was indeed confounded, not heart-broken, for though he had long loved Clara Rawley he had questioned for some time her complete devotion to him.

She had been a society prize—rich, pretty, admired. He, likewise of fine family, could have won many. It was of course a disappointment, a humiliation. His friends would know it, and wonder at it. Some men would have taken a hasty departure to Europe; some would have been embittered by a young woman’s double dealing. He determined, perhaps not the most honorable thing for him, to recompense evil for evil.

By wise investigation he ascertained at what hour the happy bridegroom, Robert Spalding, was expected at the home of his betrothed, and decided to meet him on the train previous to his arrival. They had met each other once or twice, and thus it was not difficult to discern in the crowded cars the handsome face of his rival.

“Mr. Spalding, I believe.”

“Yes. Oh, I remember you—Mr. Underwood, the friend of Miss Rawley! Glad to see you; sit down.”

Presently the conversation turned upon the approaching wedding, and then with apparent calmness, but with indignation, Herbert told him how he had been engaged to Miss Rawley for several years, and of her perfidy.

Mr. Spalding listened with astonishment, and when he had finished, lost faith, ceased to find her the ideal of his life. She had been faithless to one; she might be to another. She certainly was undeserving of the love he had given her. He determined, then and there, to retrace his steps, and sent her a telegram, followed by a letter, telling her of the withdrawal of his hand.

The Rawley family were in consternation when the letter was received. Clara was piqued, angered, and became ill over it, and was sent to Europe. The careless if not heartless girl had been punished.