He was mistaken. The time was coming when he was to learn what a brave heart and strong patience lay hidden beneath the fragile seeming of the lovely girl who held his heart.
The summer breeze sighing softly over the grass and flowers, and lifting the dark, careless locks from his broad, white brow had no subtle voice to warn him of the long, dark shadow that was ever widening between him and the prize that seemed almost within his grasp.
Walter Earle did not go home immediately after his rejection by Jaquelina.
He had loved her with as much ardor as he was capable of, and he felt the pain of his disappointment deeply.
He wandered homeward slowly through the green woods, and threw himself down by a purling brook to rest.
It was twilight when he reached home. He looked in the parlor for Violet, but she was not there.
His father and Ronald Valchester were discussing some political news, his mother was placidly crocheting lace on the sofa.
He went on quietly up-stairs to Violet's own especial room, and tapped lightly on the door.
"Come in," she said, and he turned the door-knob and entered.
Violet was at the mirror, looping back her fair curls with roses and white jessamine.