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she had not adorned herself in her best gown, as usual, but wore her simple shop-gown of black serge.

      She did not care whether she looked fair to him or not, and he quickly realized it, for he was an adept in reading the complex nature of woman. But he hid his chagrin, saying, admiringly:

      "Perhaps you do not realize how pretty and demure you look in that black gown."

      "Thank you," Geraldine said, listlessly, as she sank into a chair opposite, and tried to seem friendly and interested.

       CHAPTER VIII.

      "A GIRL HAS A RIGHT TO CHANGE HER MIND."

      "Reprove me not that still I change

      With every passing hour,

      For glorious nature gives me leave,

      In wave and cloud and flower.

      And you and all the world would do—

      It all but dared—the same;

      True to myself—if false to you

      Why should I reck your blame?"

      It made Clifford Standish secretly furious to see how near he had come to losing the charming little beauty on whom he had set his burning heart, and of whom he had felt so sure but a few days ago.

      Her pale and pensive looks, her drooping eyes, her pathetic red mouth, all told that her heart was far away, and in his heart he cursed himself for inviting her to go on that fateful excursion to Newburgh, by which he had almost lost her forever.

      But he had one chance now to retrieve his misstep, and he set about improving it.

      "Well, I will tell you the promised good news!" he exclaimed. "I have at last secured you the wished-for position in my company."

      "Oh!" cried Geraldine, starting, and clasping her little hands convulsively together.

      But the exclamation was one of dismay rather than of joy.

      His quick ear detected it, but he pretended to misapprehend her, and continued:

      "I knew you would be delighted to hear it."

      "Ye-es," she faltered, weakly; then bracing herself to escape the engagement. "But—but—perhaps I ought not to go on the stage. Cissy is opposed to it."

      "Yes, I know—you told me that at first, but you said, also, that you did not care for her opinions—that you should do as you pleased."

      Geraldine could not contradict him. It was perfectly true.

      She sat speechless and embarrassed, feeling like a little bird caught in the fowler's net, while he continued, smoothly:

      "Don't be afraid of Miss Carroll's displeasure. It's only envy and jealousy."

      Geraldine, in her resentment against Cissy, had said this to him, too, and she comprehended that he was cleverly turning her own weapons against her now. She could only sit mute and miserable, with a forced smile that was more pathetic than tears.

      "'If I could leave this smile,' she said,

      'And take a moan upon my mouth,

      And let my tears run smooth,

      It were the happier way,' she said."

      Clifford Standish continued:

      "The position offered you is not as good as I could wish, but I shall manage to get you a promotion soon. Our soubrette is going to leave, and you can take her place as soon as you wish."

      It was strange how tenaciously Geraldine's mind clung to the dread of Harry Hawthorne's disapproval. She did not wish to go on the stage now, and was eager for a loophole to escape.

      "Oh, I don't think I'd like to take a soubrette's place," she cried.

      "But last week you said you wouldn't mind it."

      "Oh, why do you keep throwing up things I said last week?" she burst out, pettishly.

      "Do you wish to forget them so soon, Miss Harding? Then you must be very fickle-minded, and I am sorry that I had that poor soubrette discharged for your sake!"

      "For my sake! Oh-h-oh!"

      "Why, certainly; because you were so anxious for a place, and I wished to please you above all things," tenderly; "and, of course, you know the manager dare not refuse anything reasonable that I ask, so I persuaded him to discharge poor Bettina."

      "Oh, let her keep the place, do! It was cruel to turn her off."

      "It is too late to replace her now. She has accepted an offer from a company that is going to remain in New York, and I shall have no end of trouble getting another girl to fill the place. I thought you wanted the chance so badly," reproachfully.

      Geraldine flushed crimson, and the tears she had been fighting back brimmed over in her eyes.

      "Oh, I have acted abominably," she sobbed; "but—but—a girl has a right to change her mind, hasn't she?"

      "Certainly, if she doesn't mind putting every one out," stiffly.

      He rose as if to go, walked to the door as if in anger, then relented, and stood looking back with intense eyes that compelled her to look at him deprecatingly.

      Having gained this point, he said, gently:

      "We are going on the road with our company in one week, and as our soubrette can stay with us a few days longer, I'll give you three days to make up your mind whether you will take the place or not. For who knows but that you will change your mind again?" and still smiling kindly at her, he quoted:

      "'Tis helpless woman's right divine,

      Her dearest right—Caprice!"

      "Please go now," she answered, burying her face in her hands.

      "I am going now, but I shall come back to-morrow evening, and hope to find you in a brighter mood," he answered, going out softly and closing the door.

      He had purposely refrained from speaking of Harry Hawthorne, but he guessed well that it was he who had influenced her against the stage.

      "Curse his meddling! But it shall avail him nothing. I shall conquer in the end. I have sworn to make her mine, and mine she shall be, the coquettish little darling," he muttered, resolutely.

      The days came and went, while Geraldine waited patiently for the coming of Harry Hawthorne—waited all in vain, for he continued very ill at the hospital, and the note he had dictated to a nurse acquainting her with his accident she never received. It had fallen into the hands of his triumphant rival, Standish, who kept it hidden safely from that yearning young heart.

       CHAPTER IX.

      THE ACTOR MAKES HAY WHILE THE SUN SHINES

      "Go! let me pray, pray to forget thee!

      Woe worth the day, false one, I met thee!

      Ever till then, careless and free, love,

      Never again thus shall I be, love.

      Through my soul's sleep thine the voice breaking,

      Long shall I weep, weep its awaking,

      Weep for the day when first I met thee,

      Then let me pray, pray to forget thee!"

      Two more days passed by, and still Geraldine heard nothing of Harry Hawthorne.

      "Is it not strange—the way he has acted?" she said, at last, to Cissy, who answered:

      "Yes; he has behaved so shabbily that you ought to put him out of your thoughts, dear."

      "Oh, Cissy, do you believe that he never meant to come? That he was unworthy?" almost piteously.

      "I'm afraid so, Geraldine, for even if something had happened to keep him away that evening, he has had ample time to explain and apologize since then; but he has not done so, and it looks as if he was a sad flirt, and only amused himself with you for the time, without giving you another

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