But before hope entirely died, several false alarms had thrilled him with happiness.  One was a cablegram from Gibraltar in which the only words that were intelligible were “congratulate” and “engagement.”  This lifted him into an ecstasy of joy and excitement, until, on having the cable company repeat the message, he learned it was a request from Miss Kirkland to congratulate two mutual friends who had just announced their engagement, and of whose address she was uncertain.  He had hardly recovered from this disappointment than he was again thrown into a tumult by the receipt of a mysterious package from the custom-house containing an intaglio ring.  The ring came from Italy, and her ship had touched at Genoa.  The fact that it was addressed in an unknown handwriting did not disconcert him, for he argued that to make the test more difficult she might disguise the handwriting.  He at once carried the intaglio to an expert at the Metropolitan Museum, and when he was told that it represented Cupid feeding a fire upon an altar, he reserved a state-room on the first steamer bound for the Mediterranean.  But before his ship sailed, a letter, also from Italy, from his aunt Maria, who was spending the winter in Rome, informed him that the ring was a Christmas gift from her.  In his rage he unjustly condemned Aunt Maria as a meddling old busybody, and gave her ring to the cook.

After two months of pilgrimages to places sacred to the memory of Polly Kirkland, Ainsley found that feeding his love on post-mortems was poor fare, and, in surrender, determined to evacuate New York.  Since her departure he had received from Miss Kirkland several letters, but they contained no hint of a change in her affections, and search them as he might, he could find no cipher or hidden message.  They were merely frank, friendly notes of travel; at first filled with gossip of the steamer, and later telling of excursions around Cairo.  If they held any touch of feeling they seemed to show that she was sorry for him, and as she could not regard him in any way more calculated to increase his discouragement, he, in utter hopelessness, retreated to the solitude of the farm.  In New York he left behind him two trunks filled with such garments as a man would need on board a steamer and in the early spring in Egypt.  They had been packed and in readiness since the day she sailed away, when she had told him of the possible sign.  But there had been no sign.  Nor did he longer believe in one.  So in the baggage-room of an hotel the trunks were abandoned, accumulating layers of dust and charges for storage.

At the farm the snow still lay in the crevices of the rocks and beneath the branches of the evergreens, but under the wet, dead leaves little flowers had begun to show their faces.  The “backbone of the winter was broken” and spring was in the air.  But as Ainsley was certain that his heart also was broken, the signs of spring did not console him.  At each week-end he filled the house