would do her best to entertain him; he would never have a moment's
vacancy in her society. She would find sparkling anecdotes, repartees,
witty, humorous stories, to amuse him. He liked her singing; she would
cultivate it more and more. She would study him, dress for him, live for
him, and him alone; she would have no other end, aim, thought, or
desire. She would herself be the source of all his amusement, so that he
should look for the every-day pleasures of his life to her--and, such
being the case, she would win him; she felt sure of it. Why had she been
so hopeless, so despairing? There was no real cause for it. Perhaps,
after all, he had looked upon the whole affair, not as a solemn
engagement, but as a childish farce. Perhaps he had never really thought
of her as his wife; but there would be an end to that thoughtlessness
now. What had passed on the previous day would arouse his attention, he
could never know the same indifference again.

So she rose with renewed hope. She shrank from the look of her face in
the glass. "Cold water and fresh air," she said to herself, with a
smile, "will soon remedy such paleness." And thus on that very day began
for her the new life--the life in which, no longer sure of her love, she
was to try to win it.

He would have loved her had he been able; but his own words were
true--"Love is fate."

There was nothing in common between them--no sympathy--none of those
mystical cords that, once touched, set two human hearts throbbing, and
never rest until they are one. He could not have been fonder of her than
he was, in a brotherly sense; but as for lover's love, from the first
day he had seen her, a beautiful, dark-eyed child, until the last he
had never felt the least semblance of it.