DREAMING BY THE SEA.





Five o'clock on Thursday afternoon found Mr. Randall Clayton
hovering around the grounds of the more democratic Hotel Manhattan,
while the early birds of fashion sought the more pretentious splendor
of the Oriental.

There was an anxious look upon the young man's face, and deep hollows
under his eyes told of unaccustomed vigils. A couple of wandering
peris gazed wishfully at the hand bundle carefully enveloped in
silvery tissue paper. It was true that dark blue Russian violets,
the starry forget-me-not, and the peerless lilies of the valley were
therein hidden, but a keener emotion than expectant love shone in
the young man's haggard eyes.

He was anxiously gazing around for the now well known form of Madame
Raffoni. Clayton dared not exhibit himself before the couple of
hundred staring eyes upon the pavilion and broad porticos.

An unknown fear of being entrapped drove him restlessly about.

"Would to God that Jack Witherspoon had arrived!" muttered the
lover. "I may have the trap sprung on me at any moment. Another
week; a long, long week! And God knows what may not happen in that
time." Some burning fever gnawed at his unquiet heart, some veiled