Weak and faint from her recent illness, Faynie, the beautiful, petted little heiress of a short time before, huddled into a corner of the seat by the door, and drawing her veil carefully over her face, wept silently and unheeded as the midnight express bore her along to her destination.

She was going home to Beechwood; going back to the home she had left in such high spirits to join the lover who was to be all in all to her forever more; the lover who was to shield her henceforth and forever from the world’s storms, and was to be all devotion to her and love her fondly until death did them part.  And this had been the end of it.  Her high hopes lay in ruins around her.  Her idol had been formed of commonest clay, and lay crumbled in a thousand fragments at her feet.

Surely, no young girl’s love dream ever had such a sad awakening, and was so cruelly dispelled.

She would go home to her haughty old father, tell him all, then lie down at his feet and die.  That would end it all.  Even in that moment lines she had once read came back to her with renewed meaning: 

    “And this is all!  The end has come at last! 
      The bitter end of all that pleasant dream,
    That cast a hallow o’er the happy past,
      Like golden sunshine on a summer stream.

    “Sweet were the days that marked life’s sunny slope,
      When we together drew our hearts atune,
    And through the vision of a future hope,
      We did not dream that they would pass so soon.

    “In happy mood fair castles we upreared,
      And thought that life was one long summer day;
    We had no dread of future pain, nor feared
      That shadows e’er should fall athwart our way.

    “But sunken rocks lie hid in every stream,
      And ships are wrecked when just in sight of land;
    So we to-day wake from our pleasant dream
      To find our hopes were builded on the sand.

    “I do not blame you that you do not keep
      The troth you plighted e’er your heart you knew;
    Better the parting now than wake to weep,
      When time has robbed life’s roses of their dew.

    “Another face will help you to forget,
      The idle dream that had its birth in trust,
    And other lips will kiss away regret,
      For broken faith and idols turned to dust,

    “Ah, well, you chose, perhaps, the better way;
      Another love may in your heart be shrined;
    And I—­I shall go down my darkened way,
      Seeking forever what I ne’er shall find.”

It was two o’clock by the church belfry when she reached Beechwood, and a quarter of an hour later when she reached the great mansion that stood on the brow of the hill.

She remembered that one of the rear doors, seldom used, was never fastened, and toward this she bent her faltering footsteps.  It yielded to her touch, and like a ghost she glided through it and up the wide, familiar corridors, her tears falling like rain at every step.