Henry Lawrence and Marion Brands were youthful lovers and in a spirit of jest aroused his jealousy. They quarrel and separate. Both headstrong, they never meet again. Ten years elapse, and Marion has developed into a cold-hearted woman of society, ever in the vortex of the social swim, until her tender sensibilities become blunted into absolute nonchalance. Henry, meanwhile has fallen into ill health and feels the end of his career is not far distant, so reading in the newspaper of Marion’s return from Europe, writes asking her to call that he might see once more the face so dear to him. She is entertaining when the note arrives, so laughs it to scorn, but her company of friends dare her to go, which she does, accompanied by them. What a sight greets her. There in the chair sits Henry, clutching her portrait, dead. Oh, how she longs for the yesterday.