“Father, I will do thy bidding.” She wept tears of hope as she sank into her chair.
Soon the world of fashion, the society of money and brains, began to chipper-chapper of the new Crœsus and his divine daughter, who had suddenly come into their midst.
The Colchis mansion was among the finest of those beautiful homes which have made San Francisco famous as a city of palaces. His hospitality was prodigal; his entertainments fit for kings. He and his beautiful daughter were objects around which fluttered the culture, the fashion, and the wealth of the city.
Men came, saw the divinity, and worshiped at the shrine. Suitors implored her love, begged it, but without success. To all was Marie Colchis kind, honorable, and lovely, but to none gave she the slightest encouragement.
Time passed, and still she was the same. Suitors still persevered, but without success. Against her no word of disrespect could be uttered, none could bear feelings save of love and admiration; all spoke of her as the frozen sunbeam.
Colchis père saw it, and understood it; she could never change.
Then Jean Colchis arose one morning, and told his daughter that he must go away on important duty. His stay might be protracted to months, he could not tell her how long. She was to remain, and under the guardianship of her housekeeper, she should find what amusement she chose.
Their adieus were spoken, and Colchis sailed out of the Golden Gate in a ship of his own.
Months passed, and Marie Colchis grew sad and disconsolate. Her lover gone, and her father away, there was nothing to live for. Hours upon hours she sat and wept—wept tears of such sadness as only a heart bowed down by the most intense sorrow could cause to flow.
The house on the hill was closed to the world, and Marie lived but in the past, and with slight hopes for the future.