October and November passed without any event of special interest occurring in connection with any of our characters.

In Brooklyn, in the home of August Huntress, these were very busy days, but every member of the household was full of hope and happiness.

Gladys and Geoffrey saw but comparatively little of each other, except during the evening, for Geoffrey went early to the office in New York every morning, and did not return until dinner time at six; but both were looking forward to the thirtieth of December, the date set for their union with all the fond anticipations of young and loving hearts.

Their engagement was formally announced immediately after it was decided that Geoffrey was to go abroad, and cards for the wedding were issued by the first of December.

Congratulations poured in upon the young couple from all quarters, and, the winter being an exceptionally gay one, invitations abroad were numerous and pressing, their friends urging their presence, since they were to lose their society entirely during their long absence in Europe.

Everet Mapleson, while reading the fashionable items in a New York paper one morning, came across the announcement of this approaching marriage.

He bounded from his chair with a muttered imprecation.

“So soon!” he said, with a frowning brow. “They are in a great hurry, it seems to me; but perhaps the trip abroad explains it. Let me see—they are to be married on the thirtieth,” he continued, referring to the paper again, “and will sail the next day on the Scythia. The Scythia? That is not a New York steamer—that sails from Boston; so, of course, they will have to leave New York immediately after their marriage to be in season for it.”

He paced up and down the room, with bent head and sullen, thoughtful brow.

All at once he gave a violent start.

“I wonder,” he muttered, stopping short in his pacing; “I wonder if it would be possible to manage it?”

He tossed back the disheveled hair from his forehead; his eyes blazed with some sudden purpose, his lips were set in a firm, livid line.

“I shall try for it,” he said, in a low, hoarse whisper. “I have everything to win or lose, and I will not yield without a desperate struggle.”

Two hours later his portmanteau was packed, and he was taking leave of his father and mother.

They expressed great surprise over his sudden departure, and protested against his leaving home before the holidays, since they had made arrangements for a gay time at Christmas, chiefly on his account.

But he was resolute, and would not be turned from his purpose.

“There is to be a great wedding in New York on the thirtieth, for which I am booked,” he explained, though he did not say who was to be married; “and I would not miss it for anything.”

“Well, but you could easily reach New York in season for this wedding, even if you do not leave until after Christmas,” his mother pleaded, for she was greatly disturbed to have him leave home at this time, while she suspected, from his gloomy face, who was to be married, and felt sure he was only heaping up misery for himself in going to New York.

“Perhaps I will come back just for your grand party at Christmas,” he said, to appease her and be allowed to get off without further objections; “but I must run up North for a week or two, anyhow.”

He reached the city on the morning of the sixth, and proceeded directly to the club, of which he was a member, and where he soon learned all that was going on among the bon ton.

During the following day he called upon Gladys’ friend, Miss Addie Loring, from whom he meant to get all the particulars of the approaching wedding.

Miss Loring received him with evident pleasure.

“Where have you kept yourself all winter, Mr. Mapleson?” she questioned, brightly, as she cordially gave him her hand. “I feared you had deserted us altogether since leaving college.”

“I have been in the South most of the time, but something, more powerful than home influence, constrained me to come to New York for a little taste of society and city life,” Everet returned, in a tone and with a look that made the young lady’s bright eyes droop consciously.

“Will you remain until the end of the season?”

“That depends,” he replied, with a significant smile, which made her heart flutter strangely.

“New York is very gay this winter, and there will be plenty to entertain you for as long as you choose to remain,” Miss Loring promised, with a charming smile. “I suppose,” she added, “you have heard of the great wedding that is to come off on the thirtieth?”

“The great wedding! Whose?” Everet questioned, feigning ignorance, although the chief object of his call was to learn all he could about it.

“Why, that of your classmate and double, Mr. Geoffrey Huntress, and my dear friend, Gladys. I am astonished that you have not heard of it,” said Miss Addie, really surprised that he should not have received cards for the marriage.

“Ah! So Huntress is going to marry Miss Gladys, is he? Pray, what name will he bestow upon the lady?” the young man asked, with a curl of his handsome lips.

“Why, of course, there will be no change of name—Geoff was legally adopted by Mr. Huntress, so that makes everything all right,” returned Miss Loring, looking a trifle displeased at the slur that had been cast at her friend’s betrothed.

“Then the groom-elect has never been able to discover the secret of his parentage?” Everet remarked, inquiringly.

“I think not.”

“Are you pleased with this match, Miss Loring?”

“Of course I am—I think Geoffrey Huntress is a magnificent man,” she affirmed, emphatically. “It would, doubtless, be a great comfort to him to have the mystery of his birth solved; but it doesn’t matter, really—they love each other devotedly, and will make a splendid couple.”

Everet winced under these last words, but deemed it wiser to keep his sneers and slurs to himself.

“I suppose it—the wedding—will be a very grand affair?” he remarked.

“Very; there are to be six bridesmaids, of whom I am to be the chief,” responded Miss Addie, with animation. “They will be married in Plymouth Church.”

“In church!” interposed Everet, with an eager look. “Will it be in the evening?”

“Yes, in the early evening—at five o’clock—and they will receive from six until eight. Mr. Huntress has spared no expense to make it a very brilliant affair. But I am surprised—I supposed, having been a classmate, you would have received cards for the wedding, Mr. Mapleson,” Miss Loring concluded.

“No, I have not been honored. Will the happy couple settle in New York?”

“Really, Mr. Mapleson, you are behind the times,” laughed his companion. “No, indeed, they sail the next day, at twelve, for Europe, to be gone for six months. Will not that be delightful? If the course of true love never ran smoothly before, it has done so in this case, for there has been nothing to mar it from the beginning.”

Everet Mapleson’s eyes gleamed strangely at this, and a spot of bright color leaped into his cheeks.

“On what steamer do they sail?” he inquired.

“On the Scythia, from Boston, owing to some business connected with that city. That is why the marriage and reception are set so early; they leave New York on an evening train, and will arrive in Boston early the next morning. Oh!” concluded the young lady, with a sigh, “I shall miss Gladys more than I can tell you.”

“No doubt,” Everet observed; and then, after conversing a few moments longer upon indifferent topics, having obtained all the points he wished, he arose to take his leave.

His chief object in calling had been to assure himself that he had not been misinformed regarding any of the details of the approaching marriage.

His next plan was to meet Gladys somewhere, if possible.

It was easy enough to do this, by securing invitations to the receptions among the elite, and a few evenings later he found her at a fashionable party on Lexington avenue.

She seemed lovelier than ever, with the rosy glow of perfect health on her face, her beautiful eyes gleaming with happiness, and her lips wreathed with smiles.

Her dress, on this occasion, was vastly becoming, consisting of a deep shade of ecru, embroidered with a delicate shade of blue intermingled with silver. Ornaments of silver in filigree, and set with diamonds, were on her neck and arms, while a graceful aigrette of blue and white was fastened in her hair by a star, to match her other ornaments.

She started slightly as she met Everet Mapleson’s glance fixed upon her. He was so much like Geoffrey that it was almost impossible, even now, for her to distinguish them apart.

The next moment he was bowing before her, with extended hand.

“It seems a long time since we met, Miss Huntress,” he said, in a tone which deepened the color in her cheeks, for it reminded her vividly of not only their last meeting, but also their parting.

But she thought best to ignore it all, and so returned his greeting with lady-like courtesy.

“I suppose you have been in your Southern home, Mr. Mapleson,” she said. “I should think you would hardly like to leave its genial climate for our rigorous winter here.”

“There are sometimes stronger attractions than a genial climate in winter,” he replied, with an earnest look into her lovely eyes.

“Yes, New York is very attractive just now,” she returned, determined not to appropriate his significant remark to herself, “Do you remain here long?”

“I think I may stay through this month,” he answered, with an emphasis upon the last two words that brought the quick blood again to her cheeks, for she knew that he was thinking of her approaching marriage.

Still, she was willfully obtuse.

“What!” she exclaimed, archly. “Can you content yourself away from home during the holidays?”

“Yes—at least for this year. Miss Huntress, will you give my name a place upon your dancing-list?” he asked, glancing at the card that was suspended by a silken cord from her corsage.

Gladys opened and held it up before him, with a smile.

It was full, and she was glad it happened so.

His face fell, for his quick glance detected Geoffrey’s name against several dances.

“I am too late, I perceive,” he said, with a bow; “but, perchance I may be more fortunate before the month is out.”

Something in his tone more than the words made her regard him closely, and a sort of chill smote her heart as she marked the peculiar gleam in his eye and the resolute lines about his mouth.

Some one claimed her just then, and, with a polite bow, she excused herself and left him, glad to get away from his presence.

The next time they met was more than a week later, at the opera.

Gladys was spending a few days with her friend, Addie Loring. It was to be her last visit before her marriage, and the two girls were making the most of it.

Mr. Loring invited them to accompany him to hear Parepa Rosa, and sent word to Geoffrey to join them; but he had an engagement for the first half of the evening, and could not; he would, however, join them later, he said in the note that he sent his betrothed.

Mrs. Loring was not well, and did not feel equal to going out, and so her husband had to be both chaperon and escort for the young ladies.

Everet Mapleson saw them the moment they entered their box, while it was not long before Miss Loring discovered his vicinity, when she bowed and smiled most cordially. A moment later she leaned forward and whispered to her father, who nodded assent, and then made a signal for Everet to come and join his party.

The young man needed no second invitation, and was soon seated between the two young ladies, gayly parrying Miss Loring’s witty shots at his having come to the opera all alone, when there were so many belles and beauties who would have been delighted to share the pleasure with him.

Gladys drew herself a little apart. She felt uncomfortable to have him there, under any circumstances, while, too, she was interested in the opera, and it annoyed her to have those around her conversing, even though it was scarcely above their breath.

When the curtain went down, after the second act, Addie Loring raised her glass and began gazing about her.

Suddenly her face lighted, and, bending forward, she waved her hand to some one in the audience near them.

“Oh papa,” she said, turning eagerly to her father, “there is Sadie Nutting! She must have returned on the last steamer. See! she is beckoning to me. Will you take me to her just for a few moments, while the curtain is down? I am sure Gladys and Mr. Mapleson will excuse us and entertain each other while we are gone, and we won’t be five minutes.”

Mr. Loring glanced at Everet, hoping he would offer to escort his daughter, for he was too comfortably seated to care to be disturbed.

But the young man had no such intention; this was just the opportunity he had been wanting, ever since he came to New York, and he meant to improve it, even though he should have only “five minutes.” He said:

“Certainly, certainly,” to Miss Loring, “go, by all means, to see your friend, if you wish,” and he watched the father and daughter with a secret thrill of triumph as they went out, leaving him alone with Gladys.

She was greatly disturbed by the incident.

She could not blame Addie, for she knew that she was ignorant of her feelings toward Everet Mapleson; but she wished, with all her heart, that Geoffrey would come, so that she need not be alone with Everet.

The moment the doors closed upon Mr. Loring and his daughter, Everet turned smilingly toward his companion, and drew his chair nearer to her.

“Thank the fates, and that giddy girl, for this supreme moment,” he began, in a low, passionate tone; adding: “Gladys, have you forgotten our last private interview at Vassar?”

Gladys looked up at him, both startled and indignant.

“I should be glad to forget it, Mr. Mapleson, if you would allow me to do so, for your sake as well as my own,” she returned, with cold dignity.

“I do not wish you to forget it, Gladys,” he returned, with increasing fervor, “for I love you a hundred fold more to-night, and I must unburden my heart to you, or it will burst.”

“Mr. Mapleson!” Gladys said, half rising from her chair, a flash of anger in her eyes, “you shall not say such things to me; you know you have no right——”

“I have a right,” he interposed, hotly; “a right because of my deathless love and my indomitable purpose to win yours in return.”

“You cannot! how dare you?” Gladys began again, but he would not let her go on.

“I dare, because I must dare or die! oh! Gladys, I love you so! have pity on me!” he said, and his voice died away in an agonized whisper, showing how terribly in earnest he was.

The young girl was deathly pale now, and trembling in every limb; but she faced him with blazing eyes and curling lips, her perfect form proudly erect.

“You are no gentleman,” she said, scornfully, “to say such words to one who, in less than two weeks, will be the wife of another man; to take advantage of me during the absence of my friends, and in a place like this force such a declaration upon me.”

“I could not help it; I had no other time; you avoid me upon every occasion,” he returned, the blood flushing his face hotly at her scorn.

“I have no choice; your looks, your acts all compel me to——”

“I cannot help them—when I am near you I forget everything but that I love you!” he pleaded in excuse.

“Shame! Where is your sense of honor, that you persist in such language to the affianced of another?” she panted.

“Twice you have thrown that in my teeth,” he retorted, fiercely, and fast losing control of himself. “Have you no shame, that you confess yourself the affianced of a nameless outcast?”

“He is not nameless, and you have no authority for calling him an outcast,” retorted Gladys, proudly, all her spirit rising to arms at this attack upon her absent lover.

“Haven’t I?” sneered the hot-headed young man. “Listen. I have been looking up Geoffrey Dale’s pedigree, since I saw you last. I have traced him to his birthplace. His mother was a poor, but beautiful girl, without a home, without friends. She had a rich lover, who could not marry her without sacrificing a fortune, and he loved his money too well to do that, so he sacrificed the girl instead. He took her to a remote mining district, where, hidden away from every one who ever knew her, she lived with him for one short year, and died when her child was only a month old. That child was Geoffrey Dale; his mother’s name was Annie Dale, and he has no right to any other, except the one that has been given him for charity’s sake. You have a right to be proud of your betrothed, Miss Huntress.”

“I am proud of him!” Gladys returned, in a firm, even tone. Astonishment at Everet Mapleson knowing so much about Geoffrey had contributed more toward calming her excited nerves than almost anything else could have done. “Yes, I am proud of him,” she repeated, with a change of emphasis, “and you have told me nothing new, Mr. Mapleson. excepting that this young girl had no home or friends, and that the man who took her to New Mexico was rich, and willfully wronged her. Indeed, I know even more than you have told me.”

“More! Do you know who his father was?” Everet Mapleson exclaimed, with a start.

“No, nor do I wish to, if he was guilty of the atrocious act you have named,” Gladys returned, with withering scorn, “But the sin will some day recoil upon his own head: it can never change my regard for one who is innately noble and true.”

“And you do not shrink from becoming the wife of one upon whom shame has rested from the hour of his birth?” demanded Everet Mapleson, regarding the beautiful girl with astonishment.

“No,” she replied, steadfastly; “no shame rests upon him; that all belongs to the preceding generation; but I should shrink with loathing from the man who betrayed Annie Dale, as you represent, were he lord or prince—he is only worthy of my contempt, and I would scorn him as I would the veriest blackleg in this city.”

The young man flushed hotly. It was not pleasant to listen to such words, believing what he did; they touched a sensitive spot.

“But this man of whom I have told you is a gentleman, nevertheless,” he said.

“A gentleman?”

The words were uttered in the quietest possible tone, but the contempt which trembled through it was matchless, and made the young man wince as under a lash.

“Your distinctions are more nice than wise, Miss Huntress; but, mark my words, you shall never marry this man’s illegitimate son!” he hissed, driven almost to a frenzy by her words, her look, and tone.

She turned upon him, her face colorless, but with eyes gleaming like two points of fire.

“You insult me, sir! You insult one who is a hundred fold more noble than yourself, by the use of such vile language. But,” and she raised one daintily gloved hand to enforce her words, “were his name doubly tainted by the sin of others, it could not smirch the man I honor—the man I love. It will be the proudest day of my life when I wed Geoffrey Dale Huntress, as I shall, in spite of all that you have told me to-night, ay, even though you should do your worst, and proclaim it from every house-top in this city.”

She was glorious, in her haughty pride and indignation, as she gave utterance to these loyal sentiments, and Everet Mapleson instinctively shrank before her with a sense of shame and humiliation. At that moment the doors behind them swung open, and Geoffrey himself entered the box.