Miss Fairfax of Virginia. St. George Rathborne

covered with hundreds of strange mementoes of the land of Buddha and Vishnu—grinning idols, miniature elephants, tiger skins, queer swords and knives, and wonderful pieces of colored work fashioned by the cunning handicraft of those natives of Bengal and Ceylon.

      Upon the floor were strewn very costly rugs from Dagestan and Persia.

      There was an air of romance hovering about the apartment—even the peculiar Oriental odor that was so pronounced, seemed to be associated with tender scenes.

      Roderic felt it, and a strange eagerness took possession of his heart.

      Was such happiness as he had never allowed himself to dream could dawn upon him again about to become his guest?

      Having led him into this apartment, the girl drew back the Bagdad curtains in order that more light from the westerly sun might enter, after which she advanced slowly toward him.

      Her head was lowered, so that he knew not whether those wonderful orbs were filled with love or contempt, and the uncertainty alarmed him.

      "You have surely not brought me in here to upbraid, Georgia—I cannot believe that. It would have been enough had you desired me to go, to have told me so outside, and while ready to ask forgiveness on my knees, if you assured me I was quite in the wrong, I would have turned away without one reproach, deserving all. I asked you the question that has burned itself upon my brain ever since that hour when I flung myself out of your presence so madly, and vowed never again to believe in a woman's love. Was dashing Julio anything to you then—is he now?"

      Then she threw back her proud head and looked him in the face—he was answered even before she spoke a word.

      "One finger of your hand, Roderic Owen, yes, even its tip was of more value to me in those days than a dozen bolero dancers with their graceful movements and threadbare love phrases. Julio sued in vain—I laughed him to scorn—I have not seen him from the hour you fled."

      Then a glad cry burst from his lips—he opened his arms and would have seized upon her, believing that she had forgiven—that the old conditions could be thus easily revived, since the barrier that had separated them was swept aside.

      He had lowered his pride—he had humbly cried "peccavi—I have sinned," and it was reasonable to believe that if she still cherished the love she once bore him, this girl of the Antilles would fall into his embrace to forgive and be forgiven.

      But instead she stepped back, eluding his grasp, and while panting with emotion, said resolutely:

      "Stand back, Senor Roderic—touch me not I command you!"