“I’ve got his picture here in my locket,” said Miss Conway, after wiping her eyes with her handkerchief.  “I never showed it to anybody; but I will to you, Mr. Donovan, because I believe you to be a true friend.”

Mr. Donovan gazed long and with much interest at the photograph in the locket that Miss Conway opened for him.  The face of Count Mazzini was one to command interest.  It was a smooth, intelligent, bright, almost a handsome face—­the face of a strong, cheerful man who might well be a leader among his fellows.

“I have a larger one, framed, in my room,” said Miss Conway.  “When we return I will show you that.  They are all I have to remind me of Fernando.  But he ever will be present in my heart, that’s a sure thing.”

A subtle task confronted Mr. Donovan,—­that of supplanting the unfortunate Count in the heart of Miss Conway.  This his admiration for her determined him to do.  But the magnitude of the undertaking did not seem to weigh upon his spirits.  The sympathetic but cheerful friend was the role he essayed; and he played it so successfully that the next half-hour found them conversing pensively across two plates of ice-cream, though yet there was no diminution of the sadness in Miss Conway’s large gray eyes.

Before they parted in the hall that evening she ran upstairs and brought down the framed photograph wrapped lovingly in a white silk scarf.  Mr. Donovan surveyed it with inscrutable eyes.

“He gave me this the night he left for Italy,” said Miss Conway.  “I had the one for the locket made from this.”

“A fine-looking man,” said Mr. Donovan, heartily.  “How would it suit you, Miss Conway, to give me the pleasure of your company to Coney next Sunday afternoon?”

A month later they announced their engagement to Mrs. Scott and the other boarders.  Miss Conway continued to wear black.

A week after the announcement the two sat on the same bench in the downtown park, while the fluttering leaves of the trees made a dim kinetoscopic picture of them in the moonlight.  But Donovan had worn a look of abstracted gloom all day.  He was so silent to-night that love’s lips could not keep back any longer the questions that love’s heart propounded.

“What’s the matter, Andy, you are so solemn and grouchy to-night?”

“Nothing, Maggie.”

“I know better.  Can’t I tell?  You never acted this way before.  What is it?”

“It’s nothing much, Maggie.”

“Yes it is; and I want to know.  I’ll bet it’s some other girl you are thinking about.  All right.  Why don’t you go get her if you want her?  Take your arm away, if you please.”

“I’ll tell you then,” said Andy, wisely, “but I guess you won’t understand it exactly.  You’ve heard of Mike Sullivan, haven’t you?  ‘Big Mike’ Sullivan, everybody calls him.”

“No, I haven’t,” said Maggie.  “And I don’t want to, if he makes you act like this.  Who is he?”