Half fainting with grief and pain, Ida May rushed out into the street.

The sun was shining bright and warm, but it seemed to the girl that the whole earth was dark and gloomy.

Where should she go? Which way should she turn? She would not go back to the little lodging-house for her few belongings; she never wanted to see it again. Let them do what they would with her few belongings. The few dollars that were hers, she happened to have in the pocket of her dress.

"Royal!" she murmured, "I can not go to you in this hour of my deepest woe!"

She drew her veil down over her face, and the passers-by did not see the tears that rolled like rain down her white, despairing face. It mattered little to her which way she went.

Suddenly she heard the sound of a voice just ahead of her—a voice that sent a thrill to her heart.

"Heaven pity me!" she gasped; "it is Royal Ainsley!"

He was bidding good-bye to a companion on the corner.

The next moment he had boarded a street car. With a smothered cry, Ida May sprung after him. She must see him, she must speak to him!

The car was crowded. He was in the front of the car and she was at the rear. There was no way of speaking to him. She must ride in the car as far as he did, and when he alighted she must follow him. As she watched him with strained eyes, she saw him greet a young and lovely girl.

The sight made the blood turn cold in her veins: Light, airy, gay as of yore he was, all unconscious of the misery he had brought to a human heart. He had wrecked her life. How could he stand there smiling into the face of another girl?

Ida's heart swelled with bitter anguish.

She saw the young girl alight from the car at the corner of a fashionable street, and Royal Ainsley accompanied her. He took her arm and bent lovingly over her. She was some rich man's daughter. Ida May, who followed in their footsteps, was sure of that.

They entered a handsome brown-stone house midway up the street. The veiled, dark-robed little figure passed on, and stood at the end of the street until he should reappear. Scores of pedestrians passed as the hours rolled on.

Up and down past the house she paced under cover of the darkness. As she paced slowly to the other end of the street, a coach stopped before the house she was so intently watching.

Before she could reach a place where she could get a full view, Royal Ainsley, with one or two others—she could not tell whether they were men or women—ran lightly down the steps and entered the vehicle, which rolled rapidly away.

"I have missed him!" sobbed Ida May. "God help me!"

On the morrow, Ida May was so ill that she could not leave the little room to which she had come for temporary shelter.

The woman who kept the place took a great interest in her.

But every night, as soon as dusk had fallen, Ida May took up her lonely vigil before the house Royal Ainsley had visited.

In her anxiety she did not notice that she had been observed from an upper window by the mistress of the mansion. One night she found herself suddenly confronted by that lady.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, grasping her by the shoulder. "Speak at once!"

For a moment Ida May was so taken aback that she could not utter a sound.

"Answer me at once, or I will have you arrested!" repeated the lady.

Ida May hung down her head.

"I must and will know!" cried the lady, pitilessly. "Are you watching for the butler or any of the servants?"

The young girl lifted her head as proudly as any young queen might have done. She remembered those weeks at Newport, during which she had been considered the equal of the wealthiest girl there.

"No, madame!" she answered, sharply, "I was not waiting for any of your servants to appear, but for one of your guests."

The lady gave a little gasp; but in an instant she recovered herself.

"A guest!" she repeated. "Of whom are you speaking?"

"Mr. Royal Ainsley," replied Ida May, gasping the words out brokenly, the tears falling like rain down her face.

"Come inside," said the lady, drawing her hurriedly into the hall-way, lest she should create a scene. "Now," she said, standing before the girl with folded arms, "let me hear all about the matter. You must speak the truth, or I will certainly force it from you."

"It would illy become me to speak anything but the truth," responded Ida May. "Royal Ainsley comes here to see some beautiful young girl who lives in this house. But this must not be. He is mine—mine—by every tie that binds man to woman!"

"Surely he is not your—your—husband?" exclaimed the lady, excitedly.

"He—he should have been," sobbed Ida May, in a quivering voice. "It was all a mistake, a terrible mistake," she continued, wringing her hands.

The lady, who did not know her story, mistook her.

When she told her she started back in wonder.

Quick as thought she had decided upon her course of action.

"I wish to make an appointment with you," she said, "to talk over this matter. Can you come here to-morrow?"

"No," said Ida May. "I shall be too busy. I have some work from one of the stores, that will keep me engaged."

"Perhaps I can assist you so that it will not be necessary for you to work so hard. Still, if to-morrow is inconvenient, come in the evening."

She was about to add, "I pity you;" but there was something in the girl's face that forbid her pity.

The lady watched her curiously until she was out of sight. Then, with a sigh of relief, she walked slowly up the grand staircase to her boudoir.

A young and lovely girl was reclining on a couch, turning over the leaves of a photograph album.

"Well, did you find out what is the matter with the girl?" she asked.

"Yes," said the elder woman. "And you would never guess what it was."

"Pardon me; but I shall not even try," said the young girl, indolently, "for the simple reason that it would be too much of an effort for me."

"I will tell you," said the lady, drawing up a chair; "and I want you to pay the strictest attention, Florence St. John."

"The subject will not interest me, mamma," returned the young girl, turning over the leaves.

"But it will interest you," returned the other, "when I tell you that it concerns your new handsome lover."

She was quite right. The album fell to the floor with a crash.

"It appears," said Mrs. St. John, "that young Ainsley has got into some kind of an intrigue with a poor but very pretty shop-girl. I think she must be a shop-girl."

"I shall write to him at once never to cross this threshold again!" cried the young girl, indignantly.

"You will do nothing of the kind," replied her mother. "Sit down and listen to me. All young men are wild, and you must not take a man to task for what he has done before he knew you. Shut your eyes to it, and never bring it up to him. That's always safest. If he thinks you do know about his past life, he will be reckless, and think he doesn't need to care."

"About this girl, mamma—who is she?" she asked.

"A very pretty young creature," was the reply.