It was a story of failure. She strove as perhaps woman never before had
striven, and she succeeded in winning his truest admiration, his warmest
friendship; he felt more at home with her than any one else in the wide
world. But there it ended--she won no more.

It was not his fault; it was simply because the electric spark called
love had never been and never could be elicited between his soul and
hers. He would have done anything for her--he was her truest, best
friend; but he was not her lover.

She hoped against hope. Each day she counted the kind words he had said
to her; she noted every glance, every look, every expression. But she
could not find that she made any progress--nothing that indicated any
change from brotherly friendship to love. Still she hoped against hope,
the chances are that she would have died of a broken heart.

Then the season ended. She went back to Verdun Royal with Lady Peters,
and Lord Arleigh to Beechgrove. They wrote to each other at Christmas,
and met at Calverley, the seat of Lord Rineham. She contrived, even when
away from him, to fill his life. She was always consulting him on
matters of interest to her; she sought his advice continually, and about
everything, from the renewal of a lease to the making of a new
acquaintance. "I cannot do wrong," she would say to him, "if I follow
your advice." He was pleased and happy to be able to help the daughter
of his mother's dearest friend.

Her manner completely deceived him. If she had evinced the least pique
or discontent--if she had by word or look shown the least resentment--he
would have suspected that she cared for him, and would have been on his