[CHAPTER XVII.]
A CRUEL FORGERY.
At the elegant family mansion on Boston's most aristocratic avenue, Jesse Devereaux, watching by the bedside of his sick father, waited with burning impatience for the answer to the letter in which he had poured out the overwhelming tenderness of his soul.
No shadow of doubt clouded his love, he felt so sure of Liane's love in return. Had it not trembled in her voice, gleamed in her eyes, and blushed on her cheeks?
Oh, they would be so happy together, he and his young bride, Liane! He would make up to her for all the poverty and sorrow of her past life. Life should be flower-strewn and love-sweet for her now.
Of course he expected some opposition from Lyde, his proud, fashionable sister, when she learned that he was off with his engagement to the heiress, Miss Clarke, and meant to wed a poor girl, who worked for her living. But he meant to stand firm, and when she saw how sweet and beautiful Liane was, she would be ready to excuse him and accept his darling for a sister.
In these rosy daydreams the hours flew, and on the second day after posting his letter he received a reply.
It gave him something of an unpleasant shock when he held the square blue envelope in his hand and read the ill-written address: