That night Eily was taken to hospital. Brain fever set in, and the
doctors and nurses feared the worst.
* * * * *
Bee Vandaleur sat in her boudoir thinking. Her pretty brow was puckered
as she gazed at the photograph of a young man, tall, fair, and handsome.
For some time she cogitated, then, setting her lips together, she tore
the card straight across, dropped it into the waste-paper basket beside
her, and shrugged her pretty shoulders, exclaiming in a tone more
forcible than polite, "Brute!"
* * * * *
Leslie Hamilton stood outside the door of Mr. Vandaleur's handsome town
residence. The footman, gorgeously attired, opened the heavy door.
"Not at 'ome, sir," he answered pompously in answer to inquiries.
"My good man, you have made some mistake; I am Leslie Hamilton, and I
wish to see Miss Vandaleur."
"Very sorry, sir, no mistake, sir; Miss Vandaleur is not at 'ome!" and
the door closed in the face of the astonished artist.
* * * * *
It was June in Connemara. Where else is the month of roses half as
lovely? where does the sky show bluer, or the grass greener? and where
is the air so clear and cool and fragrant, or the lakes half as still
and azure as in that blessed country?
The sun rode high in the sky, monarch of all, and men smiled as they
went about their daily toil, and thanked the good God who was sending
them favourable weather.
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