"THE WOMAN I LOVED AND THE MAN THAT WAS ONCE MY MORTAL FOE!"

Ladybird Conway, our little "April's lady," wept disconsolately some time upon the sofa after Aura Stanley had glided away. Her willful prank had not succeeded as she expected, and her young heart was very heavy.

"Oh, how could Earle treat me so coldly?" she sobbed. "I hate all the others—silly things. And I wouldn't marry Jack Tennant to save his life."

She heard the gate-latch click, then a masculine step on the porch, and started up in a flurry, dashing away her tears.

"It is Earle coming back to beg me not to have anything to do with Jack Tennant. Oh, I thought he would repent! I'll forgive the darling, of course, but—I'll be a little haughty just at first!" she thought, her spirits rising to the point of coquetry.

She stood up expectantly, a pretty dimpling smile on her rosy lips.

In another moment a man stood at the threshold of the open door—a tall handsome man past middle age, with many gray threads in his dark hair.

Ladybird looked at the intruder, then flew to his arms with a cry of delight:

"Dear papa, you have come at last!"

"At last, my pet!" and Bruce Conway hugged her with fervor, then drew her to a seat by him on the sofa.

"You have been well, my Ladybird, I see—you are blooming as a rose. And where is good Aunt Prue?"

"Oh, nodding in the dining-room, I expect. She always nods after tea, you know. Well, you have been away almost six weeks, you naughty papa."

"You have not missed me, I'm sure, for I find you sitting alone in the parlor, and as fine as a peacock, like a young lady expecting her beau. Were you?"

He pinched the blushing cheek and laughed mischievously as she affirmed:

"No, indeed!"

"Glad to hear it. I don't want any young fellow to carry you off from me for ages yet."

Miss Prudence Primrose entered presently and Bruce Conway rose with unaffected pleasure to greet this distant relative, a kindly old Quakeress that he had induced to come and live with Ladybird after he brought her home from her Virginia boarding-school.

But the old lady did not quite approve of the wildness of the prankish girl, and when she was alone with Bruce that night she said:

"Ladybird is asleep by now, so I must tell thee that thee art spoiling thy daughter, Bruce. She is too pretty and willful for her own good."

Bruce Conway smiled in a graceful, indolent way he had.

"Oh, nonsense, Aunt Prue; there is no harm in being pretty, and she has always been an obedient child."

"But she is so young, Bruce, and she has lovers by the dozen. They call her the village belle. I don't like it."

"She's only amusing herself, the little wild bird. It's pleasant to be pretty and popular. I don't suppose she has an idea of marrying any of those dozen lovers," laughed Bruce carelessly.

"Yes, there's one—she says she likes him best of all; but I don't know if she means it, she is so teasing. His name is Earle Winans."

"Earle Winans!" and the languid, elegant gentleman started up, alert and eager. "Earle Winans!" he repeated.

"Yes, that is his name. His father is a great statesman, and his mother owns Rosemont. He is very rich, this young man, and very much in love with our Ladybird."

"Ah!" and he rose and crossed over to the window with his face averted. She thought him careless of the subject, but he was thinking excitedly:

"So our life-paths cross again after long years in this strange fashion! Her son in love with my daughter!"

He was stirred in a most subtle fashion.

Long years ago, when Mrs. Winans was a fair young girl, Bruce Conway had loved her with all the passion of his young manhood.

His young wife who had died had been Mrs. Winans' dearest friend.

How like a sequel of fate it seemed that their two children should love and wed!

The idea pleased Bruce Conway. It was a recompense for all the sufferings of the past; it was romantic to the last degree.

He did not rest well that night. The revival of the past made him restless and nervous. His sleep was haunted by restless dreams, and at daydawn he was awake after a most unrefreshing night.

Going out for a walk he soon stood by the side of the flowing river, his eyes fixed on the eastern sky now glowing with the rose and gold of dawn. Suddenly a shaft of fiery light pierced the horizon and the glorious orb of day appeared.

At that moment two pistol shots, fired simultaneously at some distance away, rang in his ears. He turned about quickly. At a little distance there was a thick grove of pines. He ran forebodingly to the spot.

Voices came to his ears. One said pityingly: "It is a fatal wound. Tennant, you had better fly."

Then the scene of a duel burst on Conway's sight.

Surgeons and seconds were grouped about in a green leafy glade. Upon the grass lay Earle Winans, his eyes closed, his face pale, blood spurting from his breast. He had fired into the air, but his adversary had not been so generous.

Within fifteen minutes a telegram went to Washington saying that Earle was very ill and wanted his father.