face with others that he had seen--all simply because her beauty had
dazed him.

"I can believe now in the sirens of old," he said to himself; "they must
have had just such dark, glowing eyes, such rich, sweet voices and
beautiful faces. I should pity the man who hopelessly loved Philippa
L'Estrange. And, if she ever loves any one, it will be easy for her to
win; who could resist her?"

How little he dreamed that the whole passionate love of her heart was
given to himself--that to win from him one word of love, a single token
of affection, she would have given all that she had in the world.

On the day following he received a note; it said simply:

"Dear Norman: Can you join me in a ride? I have a new horse which
they tell me is too spirited. I shall not be afraid to try it if
you are with me.

"Yours, Philippa."

He could not refuse--indeed, he never thought of refusing--why should
he? The beautiful girl who asked this kindness from him was his old
friend and playfellow. He hastened to Verdun House and found Philippa
waiting for him.

"I knew you would come," she said. "Lady Peters said you would be
engaged. I thought differently."

"You did well to trust me," he returned, laughingly; "it would require a