CHAPTER XVI.
THE BARONET'S BRIDE.
The winter months wore by.

Spring came, and still that most devoted of lovers, Sir Everard Kingsland, lingered in Paris, near his gray-eyed divinity.

His life was no dull one in the gayest capital of Europe.
He had hosts of friends, the purse of Fortunatus, the youth and beauty of a demi-god.

Brilliant Parisian belles, flashing in ancestral diamonds, with the blue blood of the old _regime_ in their delicate veins, showered their brightest smiles, their most entrancing glances, upon the handsome young Englishman in vain.

His loyal heart never swerved in its allegiance to his gray-eyed queen--the love-light that lighted her dear face, the warm, welcoming kiss of her cherry lips, were worth a hundred Parisian belles with their ducal coats of arms.
"Faithful and true" was the motto on his seal; faithful and true in every word and thought--true as the needle to the North Star--was he to the lady of his love.
The weeks went swiftly and pleasantly enough; but his red-letter day was the Saturday afternoon that brought him to his darling.