She realized that unless Mrs. Dalrymple accepted her as a daughter she would be thrown on the world penniless, and obliged to make her own way.
She had remembered that her father, by a strange whim, carried the whole of his fortune, consisting of magnificent uncut gems, in a belt of leather around his waist.
But she knew that she had a talent that, if exercised, would provide her a living. It was her voice, whose power and sweetness equaled those of the most world famous prima donnas. The professors who had cultivated that charming voice had told her she could secure a position on the operatic stage any time she chose.
But Jessie cared nothing for fame. At the present moment, so young, so fair, so tender, all that her heart craved was love.
And the pain of her disappointment took all the zest out of life.
She spent a quiet, lonely day with her humble hostess, whom she entertained by a recital of the way she had spent her time since leaving New York.
In the evening she grew listless and taciturn, her mind wandering from this humble abode of the poor widow to the grand mansion on Fifth Avenue, where her beautiful, stately mother reigned supreme, and where Cora was now perhaps receiving Frank and renewing their vows of love.
“Perhaps when he sees her again his heart will turn back to her with the old love. How could he help it when once he loved her so well? He will soon forget poor Jessie, and that will be the best,” she thought, but so inconsistent is love that hot tears welled to her eyes at the fancy.
Then Widow Doyle ran in with the evening paper, which she had borrowed from a neighbor.
Jessie took it and glanced indifferently at the columns, thinking that the news of New York had but little interest for a sad heart like her own.