of blue-black hair. The firelight flickered and danced across the silken shimmer of it. It swept wildly past the waist, a glorious, night-dark tide in which the heart of a strong man could be tangled and lost. With quivering lips Jacqueline cried: "Look at me! Am I worthy of him?"
Short step by step Mary went back, staring with fascinated eyes as one who sees some devilish, midnight revelry, and shrinks away from it lest the sight should blast her. She covered her eyes with her hands but instantly strong grips fell on her wrists and her hands were jerked down from her face. She looked up into the eyes of a beautiful tigress.
"Answer me—your yellow hair against mine—your child fingers against my grip—are you equal with me?"
But the strength of Jacqueline faded and grew small; her arms fell to 'her side; she stepped back, with a rising pallor taking the place of the red. For Mary, brushing her hands, one gloved and one bare, before her eyes, returned the stare of the mountain girl with a calm and equal scorn. Her heart was breaking, but a mighty loathing filled up her veins in place of strength.
"Tell me," she said, "was—was this man living with you when he came to me and—and made speeches—about love?"
"Bah! He was living with me. I tell you, he came back and laughed with me about it, and told me about your baby-blue eyes when they filled with
