What was there in common between that outcast, and this well-groomed, frankly spoken young woman?
Yet, whoever she was or had been, the remembrance of her could not be conjured out of his brain.

He might look back with repugnance upon those others, those misty phantoms of the past, but the vision of his mind, his ever-changeable divinity of the vine shadows, would not become obscured, nor grow less fascinating.

Let her be whom she might, no other could ever win that place she occupied in his heart.

His mind dwelt upon her flushed cheeks, her earnest face, her wealth of glossy hair, her dark eyes filled with mingled roguery and thoughtfulness,--in utter unconsciousness that he was already her humble slave.

Suddenly there occurred to him a recollection of Silent Murphy, and his strange, unguarded remark.