The uncomfortable drive home came to an end at this juncture, and

Preston Cheney retired to his own room, with the disagreeable words

of his wife and daughter ringing in his ears, and the beautiful face

of the young organist floating before his eyes.

"I wish she were my daughter," he said to himself; "what a comfort

and delight a girl like that would be to me!"

And while these thoughts filled the man's heart the Baroness paced

her room with all the jealous passions of her still ungoverned nature

roused into new life and violence at the remembrance of Joy Irving's

fresh young beauty and Preston Cheney's admiring looks and words.

"I could throttle her," she cried, "I could throttle her. Oh, why is

she sent across my life at every turn? Why should the only two men

in the world who interest me to-day, be so infatuated over that girl?

But if I cannot remove so humble an obstacle as she from my pathway,

I shall feel that my day of power is indeed over, and that I do not

believe to be true."




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