The morrow found the colonel calling again on Miss Heath. Before doing so he took his friend the major's advice, and visited a tonsorial artist in order to present a less savage and more prepossessing appearance. This time he found the young lady at home. As he awaited the return of the domestic who took his card and was about to usher him in, the suspense, the mingled joy and apprehension of meeting, was almost unbearable. He was shown into sumptuous parlors, so filled with paintings and statues that they looked like exhibition rooms, where he found Edna in company with some friends. In a perfectly self-possessed way she came forward to receive him, and she did it so coolly, and introduced him with such an air of indifference to the other visitors present, that poor Mark's heart was chilled. Her appearance, also, surprised and displeased him. She looked, with her fair hair twisted into MedusÆan wildness and decorated with broad gold band and dangling sequins; with her delicate ears weighted by Byzantine pendants, and throat circled by a snake-like coil of dead gold,—like an Assyrian princess, beautifully barbaric. But her jaded eyes, and pale cheeks bereft of bloom, told of late hours and departing freshness.

Miss Mumbie was there, and attired much in the same way. There were also two gentlemen present.

"I believe you are already acquainted with Captain Gildersleeve, Ada," said Edna to Miss Mumbie, who bowed rather distantly in reply. "Mr. Jobson—Captain Gildersleeve," she continued, introducing Mark to one of the gentlemen.

"Captain!" exclaimed Mr. Jobson; "why, Miss Heath, this is Colonel Gildersleeve. Didn't I meet him last November when I went down to the front to see my brother? Colonel, of course, delighted to meet you. Don't you recollect Captain Jobson's brother, and the row with your orderly about the shaving brush?"

"Oh, I beg pardon," said Edna, coloring slightly. "I've been away so long that I really forgot Mr. Gildersleeve's present rank."

"Forgot!" returned Jobson, who was a dashing stockbroker, and had all the brusquerie of his class; "why, I thought everybody knew how the colonel got his promotion. Why, Miss Heath, he's one of the best known and most serviceable officers in the army. I heard the commander-in-chief himself speak in the highest and most complimentary terms of him; said he, 'That lame devil of a cavalry colonel on H——'s staff is worth all—'"

"My dear sir," interrupted Mark, blushing, and anxious to turn the conversation, though with a secret throb of pleased vanity in his inmost heart, "I remember you now very well. You came up to City Point the day after our skirmish with Hoke's brigade, when poor Archer was shot and your brother wounded."

"To be sure I did," said Jobson; "and some of you fellows at headquarters—I don't say it was you—gave me some of the vilest whiskey, that nearly cut me in two. Why, Miss Heath—"

But Miss Heath was at that moment engaged with the other gentleman, to whom Mark had not been presented. This gentleman, evidently a foreigner, was seated between the two young ladies, whom he was entertaining with some apparently amusing conversation in a subdued voice. Edna, who was reclining regally in an arm-chair, turned her head languidly to listen when appealed to by Jobson.

"Excuse me; I believe I omitted to introduce you, colonel, to Count Borgia—Colonel Gildersleeve;" and the two men bowed stiffly. She then condescendingly addressed a few words to Mark: "Have you been to Belton lately? Dull, stupid place, isn't it? So little society, and what there is is so very inferior. Have you heard about those ridiculous people, those nouveaux riches, with that horrid name, who have built near Mr. Mumbie's? Isn't it shameful that such persons are permitted to intrude among respectable people? And they do say Mr. Abbott visits them, and is quite attentive to one of the young ladies. Did you ever hear the like? Dear me, I don't see how any one can live there now. I do so pity Constance Hull. Poor thing, she makes such a martyr of herself, staying there all alone with the Judge, and he is getting so old, and peevish, and cross. Her brother very seldom goes to Belton, I believe, but Constance will stay in the poky old place."

"Perhaps she is one of those persons unfortunate enough to have attachments, and who cling to old associations," said Mark, sarcastically.

Edna seemingly did not heed the thrust, but replied carelessly:

"I don't know really, but it must be very stupid for her."

She spoke with an affected drawl, and drooped her hands from her wrists as a standing dog does its paws. Then turning to the Count, she inquired whether he had been to a certain reception that afternoon, and who were there.

Mark directed his attention to this foreigner, whom he already instinctively disliked. He was a handsome Italian of thirty-five or so, with white teeth gleaming between pulpy red lips partly hidden by a jet mustache with waxed points. He appeared well-bred, spoke English fluently and with very little foreign accent, but minced his words as he displayed his teeth, and smiled so insinuatingly, that Mark's disfavor was intensified at the sight.

The young ladies and the Count began discussing the important subject of a "German" they had attended the previous evening, subsequently to the party at the Van Spuytenduyvels.

"I'm sure, Miss Mumbie, I am right," insisted the Count. "It is exactly as I have said. I did not dance the bouquet figure with Miss Heath; I recollect, with very great distinctness, indeed, that I was leading with the young widow lady, Mrs. Lovett, who has such very charming eyes, and Miss Heath was with—"

"To be sure, Ada, don't you recollect I was dancing with that odious little Herbert Hopper?" said Edna. "Whenever I go to the Pinkertons, I'm sure to meet him invariably, and he never leaves me, so that I have to endure the pleasure of his company the whole of the evening."

"I wish I were in the place of that odious little Hopper," remarked Jobson, gallantly.

"There are others no better," said Edna; "as for Herbert Hopper, I must say that he is a perfect little pest, and I do wish he wouldn't annoy me."

"Say the word, Miss Heath," said Jobson, "and I'll slay him."

"O Miss," deprecated the Count, with a winning air, "do not—do not, I pray you, be so severe with the fire of your indignation on the poor boy. It is not his fault. You do not know what he has to contend with. How can he help it? When we see a parterre of beautiful flowers, do we not all stop and linger around the most beautiful and loveliest of them?" and he added some words in French that caused Edna to smile with evident pleasure, and pout her lips coquettishly.

Mark's feelings underwent a complete revulsion. His bitter disappointment had given place to anger incited by jealousy and the cavalier treatment he had received. Now disenchantment succeeded, and left him very sad. Was it for this he had striven? Where were all those fond illusions and longings, those bright visions of future happiness? Gone in one brief interview with the enchantress that had conjured them. Was this vain, artificial flirt—this heartless girl who treated him with disdain and indifference, the sweet idol he had worshipped so fervently from boyhood? He could stay no longer in her presence, and with a haughty bow to the company rose to leave. Edna bent her head with a dismissive nod, and continued her frivolous conversation with the Count. Jobson sprang up also to leave. "Which way, Colonel? Stopping at the Albemarle, ain't you? Down the avenue, I suppose? I'll go with you. Stop a minute till I look at my watch. By Jove! later than I thought. Ladies, much as I regret it, I must tear myself away. Don't grieve, and I'll promise to return again and heal your lacerated hearts. 'Too late I stayed, forgive the crime, Unheeded flew the hours, How softly falls the foot of time, That only treads on flowers!' With which elegant extract this Child of Affliction begs to subscribe himself on the tablets of your hearts, ladies, as your most obedient and obliged good servant. Ajew—ajew! Parting is such sweet sorrow that I shall say—ajew, till it be morrow. Ha, ha, ha!"

The jocose Jobson then bowed himself out, chaffed the servant in the hall who assisted him on with his overcoat, lit a segar, offered one to the impatient colonel (who was figuratively shaking the dust from his shoes on the stoop), and then hooking his arm in that of the disgusted warrior, walked along with him, chatting with a familiar confidence that rather surprised his companion. Mark examined this new-found friend with some curiosity. Jobson was a tall, spare man, with a good-natured sharp face, keen eyes, a predatory nose, and wispy whiskers. Beneath his drab surtout he wore a brown velvet coat and waistcoat, and his slender legs were encased in cords. A coral splinter-bar pin ornamented his blue bird's-eye scarf, and his watch-chain was composed of miniature snaffle-bits ending in a horse-shoe locket. Altogether he looked the amateur turfman to perfection.

"Deuced fine girl, Miss Heath, ain't she?" he began; "Got the stamps, too—richest heiress in the market. Old man took his death through immoderate use of cold water—fell in the drink over in Jersey, where he owned a whole town; and to think now that this sallow-faced bandit seems to have the inside track. It's a burning shame, I say, that such a smoky-head lazzaroni should be tolerated, when good-looking chaps like you and I, colonel, are around and unprovided for, ain't it?"

The stockbroker's flippant way of treating a subject so near to the colonel's heart grated harshly on his feelings, but curiosity overcame his repugnance, and he inquired, "Who is this Italian—this Count?"

"I'll tell you all I know about him in a few words," continued Jobson. "Throw away that segar first, and take a fresh one—they're Partagas. You see I'm a broker—by the bye, here's my card, and happy to see you down town at my office any time you're that way, or at the club in the evening, whichever is most convenient. Well, as I was saying, I'm a broker, and last year after I closed out the Rock Island pool, out of which I cleared two hundred and forty-five thousand dollars, in less than ninety days, I went to Europe and fell in with the Mumbies. I'm a second cousin of old man Mumbie, you must know, although he never discovered it until I was worth half a million. Anyway Bob Mumbie and I went about together some, and had a good time. Miss Heath, who, I suppose you know, is a ward of Mumbie's, was with the family, and this feller, this Italian, was their courier. After a while it came out that he was a count, and then they all kow-towed to him as if he were the Grand Mogul. When they got to Italy he showed them his ancestral halls, and all that sort o' thing, and sold Mumbie pictures and marbles enough at five prices to stock a museum, so that the commissions and profits he made on them enabled him to set up for a gentleman, and give up the courier business. But he still froze to the Mumbies, and accompanied them over here. First he made love to Ada, but when he found out that Miss Heath was an heiress, and ever so much richer, he dropped Ada and turned his batteries on the other. Bob Mumbie was also sweet on Miss Heath, but when the Count appeared, poor Bob's pipe was out at once. Mrs. Mumbie is as much magnetized as any of them. She thinks a wonderful sight of high birth, blood, families, and all that sort o' thing, and wants to secure the Count for Ada, though I don't think there's much show for her now. So you see the feller's in clover and, begad, I think he can take his pick of the girls any day he wants to. Can't imagine what possesses our girls to take up with foreign beggars, with handles to their names, when there's lots of their good-looking sensible countrymen to be had, with the rocks to back 'em." Here Jobson threw back the lappels of his coat and displayed his chest. "So it goes," he continued with a sigh. "Some time ago French marquises and barons were all the rage, and now they're running on Italian counts and princes. That Count Borgia hasn't got a red cent. He's passing chips half the time 'round to Morrissey's. Hang me, if I don't think he's a capper, and that's the way he manages to live."

Jobson evidently spoke from warmth of feeling, and the gist of his sentiments found an emphatic indorsement in Mark's breast, who, however, was not disposed to exchange views on the topic, and remained silent. By this time they had reached the Union Club.

"Come in and dine with me?" said Jobson.

The colonel excused himself.

"Well, say to-morrow. I'll call for you in my dog-cart, and we'll take a spin down the Lane before dinner. What do you say?"

The colonel thanked Jobson for his invitation, but said he should leave for the front that evening.

"Sorry, colonel, if you must go. Good-by. Take care of yourself."

Mark promised to do so, and returned to his hotel.

"Henceforth let every incident of my past life, every thought and remembrance connected with her, be dismissed from my mind. Let it be as blank. I blot out every memory of Edna Heath from this moment. No such being exists for me." Such were the colonel's resolves, as he prepared himself to leave. "I can very well understand how men become Trappists. It would take but little to induce me to join the order, provided they permitted smoking. How vain, hollow, and illusory are all our hopes and plans! Vanity of vanities," etc., etc., and he continued in the usual strain of jilted lovers, indulging in gloomy rhapsodies as he packed his portmanteau.

An hour later he was on his way to City Point. Contemporaneously, the object of his animadversions was in her room preparing for the evening's campaign. The hair-dresser had just left, and she remained leaning pensively on her toilet-table. Evidently she was dissatisfied with something, probably with herself. On reviewing the events of the day, and her conduct and attitude towards Mark, a vexing doubt would obtrude that she had perhaps treated him rather shabbily, at least ungenerously, if not unworthily. "After all," she reflected, "it is his fault. He has no one to blame but himself. Why did he not answer my letters? why this unaccountable silence on his part? Perhaps he might have explained it, but then, why is he so intensely haughty, and why does he attempt to overawe me? Am I a child to be chidden and rendered submissive by imposing airs? Still he seemed so joyful when he entered the room—his eyes fairly sparkled. But what could I do? I couldn't fly in his arms or appear demonstrative in the presence of the Count and the others. Still, I might have shown some cordiality. I don't see what possessed me. I did feel like greeting him, but something checked me. O dear! I am so weak and foolish, I presume nothing will do now but I must write a note apologizing like a little goose, and telling him how very sorry I am, and promising never to do so again. No! I won't do that, but I'll smooth it over with a few non-committal sentences, and he will be just as well pleased." Sitting down to her writing-desk, she began penning a formal missive, containing a half dozen white fibs, which, before it was completed, she impatiently tore into bits, and began another which met a similar fate, until at length her feelings found relief and satisfactory expression in the following:

These few words were immediately despatched to the colonel, who, Edna had overheard Jobson say, was stopping at the "Albemarle," and strict injunctions given the messenger to ascertain positively if this were so.

The clerk in attendance at the hotel, unaware that Mark had departed a short time before, replied, when questioned as to whether the colonel were staying there, in the affirmative; and taking Edna's note, flung it carelessly in an appropriate pigeon-hole. It lay there a day; and the next tenant of the room occupied by Mark received it, opened it without looking at the address, and discovering his mistake and the apparent unimportance of the epistle, unconcernedly threw it into the fire.

Accidents seemingly trivial shape our destinies; and this one separated two young hearts forever, and caused a material divergence in their future lives.

Edna, after sending the note, remained at home that evening. She had engaged to go to the opera; but plead indisposition, and grievously disappointed an admirer. She waited in expectation of a swift acknowledgment of her petition. The mask had fallen. If Mark could have seen her now, all his bitterness would have vanished. Old thoughts and recollections had resumed their sway, and her countenance beamed with the latent tenderness of a frank, generous nature. It was not the tristful expression of a love-lorn maiden, for her girlish passion for Mark was indeed gone; but there remained a sincere affection for her old friend and playmate. He came not, neither made he any sign; and Edna retired to her room that night disappointed, and perhaps a little nettled. This feeling very soon passed over; it lasted a day or so, and then with an appeased conscience, and serene conviction that she had made ample amends for her frigid reception of her old lover, she continued to mingle in the whirl of fashionable diversions.

Her wealth and beauty had installed her at once as the reigning belle of the season. Suitors she had without number. Noticeable among them, besides the Italian count, were: the still faithful Spooner, the former dog-fancier, now the Rev. F. Standish Spooner, in charge of a congregation at Roxbury, that he sadly neglected to wait upon Miss Heath, without, however, much hope of success, as his ineligibility as a partner in the dance put him at a woful disadvantage; the dashing stockbroker, Jobson, whom the belle rather disdained, in spite of his horses and yacht, as unrefined and inclined to low tastes; Herbert Hopper, a little fop, with immeasurably more money than brains; a pretty fellow, though, that scores of girls would gladly have taken up with; and last though not least, Percy Brocatelle, a famous leader of the German. Percy's means of livelihood were involved in mystery, and his antecedents humble. He had been a clerk at Stewart's, where his gentlemanly address and good looks had won him many friends and acquaintances from among the fashionable patronesses of that establishment. Under the auspices of the sagacious Sexton Brown, he had forsaken the glove-counter, and made his dÉbÛt as a society-man, gradually rising to eminence in that arduous profession. Envious swells, to be sure, maligned him; sons of successful pork-merchants and stable-keepers blackballed him and refused him admission to their clubs; but Brocatelle rose triumphant over all these obstacles, and was found everywhere—that was anywhere—for who could so deftly tread the mazes of the German as he? Whose head was so round, or hair parted with such precision as his? And who else combined with all this, clothes so faultless, and a mustache so imposing? His taste, furthermore, in ladies' dress—in their laces, gloves, ribbons, and coiffures, was unimpeachable and invaluable. These qualities were not to be gainsaid; and Edna, for one, declared publicly, that she preferred dancing with him to any one else, and dreaded his criticism on her attire more than even that of the great Schmauder. Yet in spite of all these advantages, Percy could make no headway against the Count—the irresistible Count, surrounded with all the fascinating and terrible glories of the Borgia family, whose star was in the ascendant until a prince—a real Prince, came along. For it happened in those days that the son of a reigning monarch was making a tour of the States. His mother, who was, naturally enough, a queen, although a queen, bore as irreproachable a character as any matron in her dominions; and as such praiseworthy conduct on the part of a sovereign deserved encouragement, several estimable old citizens of the great metropolis deemed it their duty to manifest their approval of her good behavior, by giving a public ball to her son, out of respect for his august mother. This, to be sure, was but a left-handed compliment to the son, and when a committee of the reverend seignors waited on the prince to tender the proposed honor, he did not evince any lively sense of anticipated pleasure; and after the deputation had bowed themselves off (each one under the delightful delusion that he would be asked in return to drop in at the palace, in a friendly way, on his next visit to Europe) he turned to his mentor and discontentedly said, "Dammit, Grey, must I go to that ball, and be bored by those confounded snobs?"

"No help for it that I can see," replied my lord.

"Well, there will be lots of pretty girls there, I dare say. These Yankee girls are doosid pretty. If they'd only give me a chance to have my fling, and not insist on my leading out a lot of stupid old dowagers, I wouldn't mind it a bit," remarked H. R. H.

Now princeling was to a certain extent justified in his comments, for while the mass of the people had an honest curiosity to see a prince, and rushed to look at him as they would to a unicorn or any other rare sight, there was a select circle who worshipped him as the representative of power and pageantry, and hoped by surrounding him to shine resplendently in the reflected light of royalty. H. R. H. was not an astute lad, but he was probably sharp enough to perceive that all the toadying he was subjected to was due to his rank and trappings and not to him as an individual. That refined snobbery called loyalty has its redeeming side. One can understand the devotion of a good and wise royalist to an imbecile or wretched monarch, because the sentiment may be disinterested, and would still exist were the monarch an exiled mendicant, but the courtiership of republicans is purely selfish and debasing. Most of us, like Thackeray, would jump out of our skins for joy at walking arm-in-arm between two dukes, but it is painful to reflect that we should hardly toss a shilling to either of them the next day if stripped of their titles and reduced to beggary. So Mr. Mumbie, who was abject in the presence of the prince, and ready to prostrate his poor old brown wig in the dust before his royal highness would, in all likelihood, have but grudgingly lent him a dollar had he come in the guise of an impecunious plebeian. But H. R. H. was a good-natured boy and had a part to perform. So he duly attended the ball, was very complaisant, honored several ladies, old enough to be his grandmammas, with his august hand in the dance, and was then allowed to run at large among the younger beauties present. Miss Heath was among those who enjoyed the inestimable privilege of being selected as his partner. Moreover, he graciously flirted with her in the intervals of a galop. He told her that she was a "stunning girl." His Royal Highness had actually said that! Edna thrilled with pleasure. True he had paid the same compliment to the oysters of the country and its cocktails—true he was plain and an awkward dancer, but then he was a prince—a prince of the blood-royal, whatever that might be, and she, Edna Heath, in his princely estimation, was a stunning girl! Was there anything left to live for? Her happiness was complete, but alas and alack! the prince, as princes often do, fluttered away like a fickle butterfly, and she was left forlorn to mourn his disappearance.

Then by degrees the Count—the wily, persistent Count—temporarily eclipsed, arose again and reappeared in the zenith of her favor. At times, when she had leisure to think amid the excitement of her existence, she gave a passing thought to Mark, but she felt absolved from any duty towards him. She had done all that could be required of her, and had gone farther to retain his regard than she would to any other person than so old a friend. It is true she had had a girlish fancy for him, but it was at a time when she was barely more than a child and inexperienced. He could not possibly presume upon that now, especially after the long period in which he had neglected her, and when her letters had remained uncared for. Consequently she felt entirely justified in dismissing him thenceforth from her mind. It is not so certain but that the Count might have shared the same fate, had it not been for an occurrence that turned the scales in his favor.

Mrs. Mumbie, in her anxiety to secure the nobleman for a son-in-law, had watched with much dissatisfaction his marked preference for Edna. This, and the heiress' continued indifference to her son Bob's attentions, were more than her kind, motherly soul could bear. After a long delay and patient waiting, one day Bob ventured to propose. Edna listened with an air of mingled surprise and merriment that rather disconcerted him, and declined the proffered honor. The rejected postulant, chopfallen and sullen, repaired to his mother and related his unsuccess. Mrs. Mumbie could contain herself no longer. The blood of the Skinners was aroused, and her wrath knew no bounds. Rushing in unceremoniously upon the heiress, she overwhelmed her with vehement reproaches. Edna was at first bewildered, and recoiled from the storm of anger so unaccountably directed at her by the usually amiable matron, who raged away incoherently, until at length unburthening herself, the animus of all her fury was very disagreeably revealed. "So, Miss, you have seen fit to insult us—to insult your guardian—to insult the family to whom you owe so much, by refusing my son, who was good enough to honor you by an offer. You hussy! how dare you slight my son—how dare you treat us in this way? This is your gratitude, is it? After all the kindness we have shown you—after all our attention and devotion to you. You precious, artful piece! to think of your eating day after day at our table, sitting at our board with us, looking as if butter wouldn't melt in your mouth, and all the while plotting against the happiness of our children. I don't see how you dare look at me! And the Count—this foreign adventurer whom Ada despises and whom you have encouraged with your advances—this Count has turned your silly head, and I'll no longer permit you to stay in this household."

Edna could listen no longer. With cheeks hot with indignation, and hands to her ears, she retreated into an adjoining room. Mrs. Mumbie, left alone, took to screaming, and throwing herself on the floor, drummed away with her heels in impotent ire. Edna meanwhile put on her hat and shawl, and swiftly leaving the house stood in the street. She drew her veil to hide her agitated countenance, and debated whither she should go. Within a few squares dwelt an intimate friend, a young lady, to whom she repaired and confided her trouble. This done, her pent-up grief could no longer be contained, and she gave way to a long cry. She was very sorrowful. The Mumbies had always been kind to her, and their home was the only one she had known since her father's death. This sudden severance, and Mrs. Mumbie's cruel attack, made her feel very lonely and miserable.

It was not until the morrow that the Mumbie's discovered where their ward had taken refuge. By that time Mrs. Mumbie had recovered her presence of mind, and felt that she had sadly marred her plans by her hasty and intemperate conduct. So Mr. Mumbie was immediately despatched with a verbal apology, and instructions to smooth matters and induce the heiress to return. Mr. Mumbie felt himself rather an incompetent ambassador for such a mission, still he undertook it with zeal having a genuine affection for the daughter of his old friend, and sincerely and deeply regretting his wife's behavior towards her. With what seemed to him subtle policy, he put on sundry tokens Edna had given him, such as a seal ring, a scarf-pin, and a watch-chain which could not fail to open a spring of fond associations that would greatly facilitate his task. He augured well from his reception, for Edna appeared much pleased to see him, and held up her face to be kissed. But when, after a short disquisition on the weather, and some hemming and hawing, he ventured to announce the object of his mission, and, in alluding to Mrs. Mumbie's "peculiar temper," said she "mustn't mind it"—that nobody minded her "peculiar temper" (which was rather a stretch of veracity), as "she didn't mean anything by it," and that the best thing Edna could do was to put on her "things" and go right back with him—the young lady shook her head in a way that caused Mr. Mumbie to lose faith in his powers of persuasion. He tried to appeal to her feelings. "Why, Edna, you can't imagine how we miss you. You know we are a family of strong local attachments. I myself have carried this knife—this"—

He felt in his pockets, rummaged them, searched them over—the knife was gone! Consternation was imminent—when he suddenly recollected that he had, for the first time in his life, left this cherished companion at home. This shock, however, disturbed his ratiocination, and he floundered on rather feebly in his plea.

"As I was saying, Edna, we miss you awfully. If you had only seen us at breakfast this morning, you couldn't stay away a minute. We couldn't any of us eat hardly anything. All I took was a cup of tea and a roll. As for Bob, and you know what a hearty feeder he is, poor Bob couldn't go more than a couple of buckwheat cakes and a chop, and Ada, she just about touched an egg, and kept pointing with her fork at your vacant chair, and saying there's where she used to sit. Last night Will Hull called, and says he, 'Where's Edna?' and Ada didn't know what to say. Now this sort of thing won't do. You must forget and forgive."

"My dear guardian," replied Edna, firmly; "while I shall always retain the utmost respect and gratitude for the kindness you have invariably shown me, and shall always be very much pleased to see you, I never wish to see Mrs. Mumbie again. I could not endure to be reminded of the cruel attack I was subjected to from her."

"Come—come, Edna, you must not talk in that strain. She didn't mean anything by it. I've been through it myself. It's only her peculiar way, you know."

Edna pressed her lips tightly together, and shook her head, in a manner that signified a fixed resolution, and disheartened her guardian.

"Why, Edna, even Blanche has noticed that you have left the house, and goes whining about, and as for the canaries they are dumb and dull as owls," added Mr. Mumbie, at a loss for arguments. But even this touching allusion to the sorrows of the pet Italian grayhound and the singing-birds failed to soften the obdurate ward, and he was obliged to retire baffled.

Then Ada Mumbie came and tried her powers, but with no better success, and Edna's determination remained unshaken.

She stayed at her friend's house, pending the arrival of Mrs. Applegate, who was spending the winter in a distant western city, and with whom she intended to reside in the future.

The moment was a propitious one for the Count. He was aware that some disagreement had arisen between the Mumbies and Miss Heath, but of the nature of it he was in total ignorance. His curiosity was excited. He could learn nothing from the young lady. She of course was silent on the subject, and he had too much tact to appear inquisitive, but Bob—the guileless Bob, in a gush of confidence, inspired by a bottle of Burgundy at the club, imparted the story of his unrequited love, his declaration, and its sequel, to the feeling bosom of a friend, who in turn confided the tale to a dozen other confidential friends. In this way it reached the ears of the Count, who was not slow to perceive the great advantage Miss Heath's present position gave him in prosecuting his suit. Here was a young, inexperienced person, severed from life-long friends, and left almost alone in the world. Naturally she was ready to attach herself to the first sympathetic heart that presented itself in a suitable and engaging way. Craftily the Count played his cards. When Edna went to Philadelphia to reside with her aunt, he followed her there, and had the field to himself. He began by captivating Mrs. Applegate. She bore a striking resemblance to his cousin the Principessa Baldonachi, he said, and had the port and mien of those noble Venetian dames, that Titian loved to paint. He brought her flowers and escorted her to church. The good lady was flattered beyond measure at these unwonted attentions, and pronounced him the most polite gentleman she had ever known. At a favorable moment he took occasion to confide to her, his adoration of her niece—that truly noble young person—for, while he confessed, with a certain reluctance, that he belonged to one of the most illustrious houses of Europe, yet he deemed the only true nobility to be the nobility of the soul, such as Miss Heath possessed; and then, with a sigh, he regretted that the young lady was wealthy. He deeply deplored that. "If she were only a poor girl—if she were entirely destitute—how happy I should be. With what eager joy would I hasten to lay my heart, my title, my patrimony, everything at her feet, and beg of her to accept them. But now, alas! I cannot. No—no—it cannot be—it must not be. The world—the censorious world, would call me mercenary. No—I must suffer in silence. Be still, my poor heart! But you shall be my friend, will you not?"

His visible agitation and moistening eyes touched Mrs. Applegate, who ventured a little consolatory advice. The Count's sentiments and conduct in this manner did him great honor, she said, but she did not think he was called upon to push his disinterestedness to such extremes. For her part, she had always been of the opinion that no considerations of money should be allowed to interfere, where true affection existed, and the happiness of the parties was at stake. The worthy dame already saw herself sweeping down the grand staircase of the Palazzo Baldonachi, on the arm of her noble nephew-in-law.

The Count thanked her a thousand times, for her kind words. She had lifted a load from his heart, he said, and raising her hand respectfully to his lips, the gallant Italian closed the interview.

Having secured the aunt as an ally, the Count redoubled his efforts to please the niece. He surrounded her with delicate attentions. He was pliant, polite, deferential, and at length Edna yielded. What else could she do? How could she, an inexperienced girl, who had never felt, until now, the need of a protector, resist the persistent courtship of a man, handsome, subtle, versed in the vulnerable points of feminine nature, who plied her with ardent protestations of love and constancy. Her aunt approved of it, too, and not long after the announcement was made public, that a marriage had taken place between Count Borgia and Miss Edna Heath, which, naturally enough, created no little excitement among the numerous friends and admirers of the bride in the neighboring city of New York. The match was very frankly discussed at the clubs, rather unfavorably than otherwise, and Jobson freely offered the odds of two to one, in sums to suit, that the Count would either poison or strangle his wife within a year; and odds of ten to one that the extinguishment would take place in less than six months, provided the husband could get a will in his favor by that time—found no takers.

Colonel Mark Gildersleeve read of the marriage in a newspaper, just before the final advance of our army on Richmond. Perhaps his rash bravery on that occasion, when he rallied a broken column against a battery as gallantly as Caulincourt at Borodino, may have been stimulated by the conduct of one who had robbed existence of its charms, and rendered all renown barren.

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