while the preparations for the marriage which poor, hapless bernardine looked forward to with so much fear went steadily on, preparations for another wedding, in which jay gardiner was to be the unwilling bridegroom, progressed quite as rapidly.

on the day following the scene in which sally pendleton had turned miss rogers from the house—which had been witnessed by the indignant young doctor—he called upon his betrothed, hoping against hope that she might be induced to relent, even at the eleventh hour, and let him off from this, to him, abhorrent engagement.

he found sally arrayed in her prettiest dress—all fluffy lace and fluttering baby-blue ribbons—but he had no eyes for her made-up, doll-like sort of beauty.

she never knew just when to expect him, for he would never give her the satisfaction of making an appointment to call, giving professional duties as an excuse for not doing so.

sally arrayed herself in her best every evening, and looked out from behind the lace-draped windows until the great clock in the hall chimed the hour of nine; then, in an almost ungovernable rage, she would go up to her room, and her mother and louisa would be made to suffer for her disappointment.

on the day in question she had seen jay gardiner coming up the stone steps, and was ready to meet him with her gayest smile, her jolliest laugh.

"it is always the unexpected which happens, jay," she said, holding out both her lily-white hands. "welcome, a hundred times welcome!"

he greeted her gravely. he could not have stooped and kissed the red lips that were held up to him if the action would have saved his life.

he was so silent and distrait during the time, that sally said:

"aren't you well this morning, jay, or has something gone wrong with you?" she asked, at length.

"i do feel a trifle out of sorts," he replied. "but pardon me for displaying my feelings before—a lady."

"don't speak in that cold, strange fashion, jay," replied the girl, laying a trembling hand on his arm. "you forget that i have a right to know what is troubling you, and to sympathize with and comfort you."

he looked wistfully at her.

would it do to tell her the story of his love for bernardine? would she be moved to pity by the drifting apart of two lives because of a betrothal made in a spirit of fun at a race? he hardly dared hope so.

"i was thinking of a strange case that came under my observation lately," he said, "and somehow the subject has haunted me—even in my dreams—probably from the fact that it concerns a friend of mine in whom i take a great interest."

"do tell me the story!" cried sally, eagerly—"please do."

"it would sound rather commonplace in the telling," he responded, "as i am not good at story-telling. well, to begin with, this friend of mine loves a fair and beautiful young girl who is very poor. a wealthy suitor, a dissipated roué, had gained the consent of her father to marry her, before my friend met and knew her and learned to love her. now, he can not, dare not speak, for, although he believes in his heart that she loves him best, he knows she is bound in honor to another; and to make the matter still more pitiful, he is betrothed to a girl he is soon to marry, though his fiancée has no portion of his great heart. thus, by the strange decrees of fate, which man can not always comprehend the wisdom of, four people will be wedded unhappily."

as sally listened with the utmost intentness, she jumped to the conclusion that the "friend" whose picture jay gardiner had drawn so pathetically was himself, and she heard with the greatest alarm of the love he bore another. but she kept down her emotions with a will of iron. it would never do to let him know she thought him unfaithful, and it was a startling revelation to her to learn that she had a rival. she soon came to a conclusion.

"it is indeed a strangely mixed up affair," she answered. "it seems to me everything rests in the hands of this young girl, as she could have either lover. couldn't i go to her in the interest of your friend, and do my best to urge her to marry him instead of the other one."

"but supposing the young girl that he—my friend—is betrothed to refuses to give him up, what then?"

"i might see her," replied sally, "and talk with her."

"it is hard for him to marry her, when every throb of his heart is for another," answered jay gardiner, despondently.

"who is this young girl who is so beautiful that she has won the love of both these lovers?" she asked in a low, hard voice.

"bernardine—— ah! i should not tell you that," he responded, recollecting himself. but he had uttered, alas! the one fatal word—bernardine.