Dora Thorne........................................................................................................................................................1

"The consequences of folly seldom end with its originator," said Lord Earle to his son. "Rely upon it, Ronald,

if you were to take this most foolish and unadvisable step, you would bring misery upon yourself and every

"There is no reason in prejudice," replied the young man haughtily. "You can not bring forward one valid

"I can bring a thousand reasons, if necessary," he replied. "I grant everything you say. Dora Thorne is very

pretty; but remember, she is quite a rustic and unformed beautyand I almost doubt whether she can read or

spell properly. She is modest and good, I grant, and I never heard one syllable against her. Ronald, let me

appeal to your better judgmentare a moderate amount of rustic prettiness and shy modesty sufficient

"We know what it means," he said, "when boys of nineteen talk about love. Believe me, Ronald, if I were to

consent to your request, you would be the first in after years to reproach me for weak compliance with your

"You would not call it folly," retorted Ronald, his face flushing hotly, "if Dora were an heiress, or the

"Spare me a long discourse," again interrupted Lord Earle. "You are quite right; if the young girl in question

belonged to your own station, or even if she were near it, that would be quite a different matter. I am not

annoyed that you have, as you think, fallen in love, or that you wish to marry, although you are young. I am

annoyed that you should dream of wishing to marry a simple rustic, the daughter of my lodge keeper. It is so

"It is serious enough for me," returned his son with a long, deep sigh. "If I do not marry Dora Thorne, I shall

"She is good," cried Ronald"good and fair, modest and graceful. Her heart is pure as her face is fair. What

mesalliance can there be, father? I never have believed and never shall believe in the cruel laws of caste. In

what is one man better than or superior to another save that he is more intelligent or more virtuous?"

"I shall never interfere in your politics, Ronald," said Lord Earle, laughing quietly. "Before you are

twentyone you will have gone through many stages of that fever. Youth is almost invariably liberal, age

conservative. Adopt what line of politics you will, but do not bring theory into practice in this instance."

"I should consider myself a hero," continued the young man, "if I could be the first to break through the

"You would not be the first," said Lord Earle, quietly. "Many before you have made unequal marriages; many

will do so after you, but in every case I believe regret and disappointment followed."

"They would not in my case," said Ronald, eagerly; "and with Dora Thorne by my side, I could so anything;

"Most fathers would refuse to hear all this nonsense, Ronald," he said, gently. "I listen, and try to convince

you by reasonable arguments that the step you seem bent upon taking is one that will entail nothing but

misery. I have said no angry word to you, nor shall I do so. I tell you simply it can not be. Dora Thorne, my

lodge keeper's daughter, is no fitting wife for my son, the heir of Earlescourt. Come with me, Ronald; I will

They went together, the father and son, so like in face yet so dissimilar in mind. They had been walking up

and down the broad terrace, one of the chief beauties of Earlescourt. The park and pleasure grounds, with

flushed summer beauty, lay smiling around them. The song of hundreds of birds trilled through the sweet

summer air, the water of many fountains rippled musically, rare flowers charmed the eye and sent forth sweet

perfume; but neither song of birds nor fragrance of flowersneither sunshine nor musicbrought any

With slow steps they quitted the broad terrace, and entered the hall. They passed through a long suite of

magnificent apartments, up the broad marble staircase, through long corridors, until they reached the picture

gallery, one of the finest in England. Nearly every great master was represented there. Murillo, Guido,

Raphael, Claude Lorraine, Salvator Rosa, Correggio, and Tintoretto. The lords of Earlescourt had all loved

One portion of the gallery was set aside for the portraits of the family. Grim old warriors and fair ladies hung

side by side; faces of marvelous beauty, bearing the signs of noble descent, shone out clearly from their

"Look, Ronald," Lord Earle said, laying one hand upon his shoulder, "you stand before your ancestors now.

Yours is a grand old race. England knows and honors it. Look at these pictured faces of the wives our fathers

chose. There is Lady Sybella Earle; when one of Cromwell's soldiers drew his dagger to slay her husband, the

truest friend King Charles ever had, she flung herself before him, and received the blow in his stead. She

died, and he livednoble and beautiful, is she not? Now look at the Lacy Aliciathis fair patrician lady

smiling by the side of her grim lord; she, at the risk of her life, helped him to fly from prison, where he lay

condemned to death for some great political wrong. She saved him, and for her sake he received pardon. Here

is the Lady Helenashe is not beautiful, but look at the intellect, the queenly brow, the soullit eyes! She, I

need not tell you, was a poetess. Wherever the English language was spoken, her verses were readmen

were nobler and better for reading them. The ladies of our race were such that brave men may be proud of

Lord Earle then led his son to a large painting, upon which the western sunbeams lingered, brightening the

fair face they shone upon, until it seemed living and smiling. A deep and tender reverence stole into Lord

"No fairer or more noble woman ever ruled at Earlescourt than your mother, Ronald. She is the daughter of 'a

hundred earls,' highbred, beautiful, and refined. Now, let me ask you, in the name of common sense, do you

wish to place my lodge keeper's daughter by your mother's side? Admit that she is pretty and goodis it in

For the first time, in the heedless, fiery course of his love, Ronald Earle paused. He looked at the serene and

noble face before him, the broad brow, the sweet, arched lips, the refined patrician features, and there came to

him the memory of another face, charming, shy and blushing, with a rustic, graceful beauty different from the

one before him as sunlight compared to moonlight. The words faltered upon his lipsinstinctively he felt

that pretty, blushing Dora had no place there. Lord Earle looked relieved as he saw the doubt upon his son's

"You see it, Ronald," he cried. "Your idea of the 'fusion' of races is well enough in theory, but it will not do

brought into practice. I have been patient with youI have treated you, not as a school boy whose head is

half turned by his first love, but as a sensible man endowed with reason and thought. Now give me a reward.

Promise me here that you will make a brave effort, give up all foolish thoughts of Dora Thorne, and not see

her again. Go abroad for a year or twoyou will soon forget this boyish folly, and bless the good sense that

"I can not, father," he replied, "for I have promised Dora to make her my wife. I can not break my word. You

"In this case I can," said Lord Earle, eagerly. "That promise is not binding, even in honor; the girl herself, if

"Hush," replied Lord Earle, angrily, "I will listen to no more nonsense. There is a limit to my patience. Once

and for all, Ronald, I tell you that I decidedly forbid any mention of such a marriage; it is degrading and

ridiculous. I forbid you to marry Dora Thorne; if you disobey me, you must bear the penalty."

"And what would the penalty be?" asked the heir of Earlescourt, with a coolness and calmness that irritated

"One you would hardly wish to pay," replied the earl. "If, in spite of my prayers, entreaties, and commands,

you persist in marrying the girl, I will never look upon your face again. My home shall be no longer your

home. You will lose my love, my esteem, and what perhaps those who have lured you to ruin may value still

more, my wealth. I can not disinherit you; but, if you persist in this folly, I will not allow you one farthing.

"I have three hundred a year," said Ronald, calmly; "that my godfather left me."

"Yes," he replied, "you have that; it would not find you in gloves and cigars now. But, Ronald, you can not be

serious, my boy. I have loved youI have been so proud of youyou can not mean to defy and wound me."

His voice faltered, and his son looked up quickly, touched to the heart by his father's emotion.

"Give me your consent, father," he cried, passionately. "You know I love you, and I love Dora; I can not give

"Enough," said Lord Earle; "words seem useless. You hear my final resolve; I shall never change itno after

repentance, no entreaties, will move me. Choose between your parents, your home, your position, and the

love of this fair, foolish girl, of whom in a few months you will be tired and weary. Choose between us. I ask

for no promises; you have refused to give it. I appeal no more to your affection; I leave you to decide for

yourself. I might coerce and force you, but I will not do so. Obey me, and I will make your happiness my

study. Defy me, and marry the girl then, in life, I will never look upon your face again. Henceforth, I will

have no son; you will not be worthy of the name. There is no appeal. I leave you now to make your choice;

The Earles, of Earlescourt, were one of the oldest families in England. The "Barony of Earle" is mentioned in

the early reigns of the Tudor kings. They never appeared to have taken any great part either in politics or

warfare. The annals of the family told of simple, virtuous lives; they contained, too, some few romantic

incidents. Some of the older barons had been brave soldiers; and there were stories of hairbreadth escapes

and great exploits by flood and field. Two or three had taken to politics, and had suffered through their

eagerness and zeal; but, as a rule, the barons of Earle had been simple, kindly gentlemen, contented to live at

home upon their own estates, satisfied with the duties they found there, careful in the alliances they

contracted, and equally careful in the bringing up and establishment of their children. One and all they had

been zealous cultivators of the fine arts. Earlescourt was almost overcrowded with pictures, statues, and

Son succeeded father, inheriting with title and estate the same kindly, simple dispositions and the same tastes,

until Rupert Earle, nineteenth baron, with whom our story opens, became Lord Earle. Simplicity and

kindness were not his characteristics. He was proud, ambitious, and inflexible; he longed for the time when

the Earles should become famous, when their name should be one of weight in council. In early life his

ambitious desires seemed about to be realized. He was but twenty when he succeeded his father, and was an

only child, clever, keen and ambitious. In his twentyfirst year he married Lady Helena Brooklyn, the

daughter of one of the proudest peers in Britain. There lay before him a fair and useful life. His wife was an

elegant, accomplished woman, who knew the world and its wayswho had, from her earliest childhood,

been accustomed to the highest and best society. Lord Earle often told her, laughingly, that she would have

made an excellent embassadressher manners were so bland and gracious; she had the rare gift of appearing

With such a wife at the head of his establishment, Lord Earle hoped for great things. He looked to a

prosperous career as a statesman; no honors seemed to him too high, no ambition too great. But a hard fate

lay before him. He made one brilliant and successful speech in Parliamenta speech never forgotten by

those who heard it, for its astonishing eloquence, its keen wit, its bitter satire. Never again did his voice rouse

alike friend and foe. He was seized with a sudden and dangerous illness which brought him to the brink of the

grave. After a long and desperate struggle with the "grim enemy," he slowly recovered, but all hope of public

life was over for him. The doctors said he might live to be a hale old man if he took proper precautions; he

To Lord Earle this seemed like a sentence of exile or death. His wife tried her utmost to comfort and console

him, but for some years he lived only to repine at his lot. Lady Helena devoted herself to him. Earlescourt

became the center and home of famous hospitality; men of letters, artists, and men of note visited there, and

in time Lord Earle became reconciled to his fate. All his hopes and his ambitions were now centered in his

son, Ronald, a fine, noble boy, like his father in every respect save one. He had the same clearcut Saxon

face, with clear, honest eyes and proud lips, the same fair hair and stately carriage, but in one respect they

differed. Lord Earle was firm and inflexible; no one ever thought of appealing against his decision or trying

to change his resolution. If "my lord" had spoken, the matter was settled. Even Lady Helena knew that any

attempt to influence him was vain. Ronald, on the contrary, could be stubborn, but not firm. He was more

easily influenced; appeal to the better part of his nature, to his affection or sense of duty, was seldom made in

No other children gladdened the Lord Earle's heart, and all his hopes were centered in his son. For the second

time in his life great hopes and ambitions rose within him. What he had not achieved his son would do; the

honor he could no longer seek might one day be his son's. There was something almost pitiful in the love of

the stern, disappointed man for his child. He longed for the time when Ronald would be of age to commence

Time passed on, and the heir of Earlescourt went to Oxford, as his father had done before him. Then came the

second bitter disappointment of Lord Earle's life. He himself was a Tory of the old school. Liberal principles

were an abomination to him; he hated and detested everything connected with Liberalism. It was a great

shock when Ronald returned from college a "full fledged Liberal." With his usual keenness he saw that all

"Let the Liberal fever wear out," said one of his friends; "you will find, Lord Earle, that all young men favor

it. Conservatism is the result of age and experience. By the time your son takes a position in the world, he

Lord Earle devoutly believed it. When the first shock of his disappointment was over, Ronald's political zeal

began to amuse him. He liked to see the boy earnest in everything. He smiled when Ronald, in his clear,

young voice, read out the speeches of the chief of his party. He smiled when the young man, eager to bring

theory into practice, fraternized with the tenant farmers, and visited families from whom his father shrunk in

There was little doubt that in those days Ronald Earl believed himself called to a great mission. He dreamed

of the time when the barriers of caste would be thrown down, when men would have equal rights and

privileges, when the aristocracy of intellect and virtue would take precedence of noble birth, when wealth

would be more equally distributed, and the days when one man perished of hunger while another reveled in

luxury should cease to be. His dreams were neither exactly Liberal nor Radical; they were simply Utopian.

Even then, when he was most zealous, had any one proposed to him that he should inaugurate the new state

of things, and be the first to divide his fortune, the futility of his theories would have struck him more plainly.

Mingling in good society, the influence of clever men and beautiful women would, Lord Earle believed,

convert his son in time. He did not oppose him, knowing that all opposition would but increase his zeal. It

was a bitter disappointment to him, but he bore it bravely, for he never ceased to hope.

A new trouble was dawning for Lord Earle, one far more serious than the Utopian dream of his son; of all his

sorrows it was the keenest and the longest felt. Ronald fell in love, and was bent on marrying a simple rustic

Earlescourt was one of the fairest spots in fair and tranquil England. It stood in the deep green heart of the

The Hall was surrounded by a large park, where the deer browsed under the stately spreading trees, where

there were flowery dells and knolls that would charm an artist; a wide brook, almost broad and deep enough

Earlescourt was noted for its trees, a grand old cedar stood in the middle of the park; the shivering aspen, the

graceful elm, the majestic oak, the tall, flowering chestnut were all seen to greatest perfection there.

Art had done much, Nature more, to beautify the home of the Earles. Charming pleasure gardens were laid

out with unrivaled skill; the broad, deep lake was half hidden by the drooping willows bending over it, and

The Hall itself was a picturesque, gray old building, with turrets covered with ivy, and square towers of

modern build; there were deep oriel windows, stately old rooms that told of the ancient race, and cheerful

One of the great beauties of Earlescourt was the broad terrace that ran along one side of the house; the view

from it was unequaled for quiet loveliness. The lake shone in the distance from between the trees; the

perfume from the hawthorn hedges filled the air, the fountains rippled merrily in the sunshine, and the

Lord Earle loved his beautiful home; he spared no expense in improvements, and the time came when

One thing he did of which he repented till the hour of his death. On the western side of the park he built a

new lodge, and installed therein Stephen Thorne and his wife, little dreaming as he did so that the first link in

Ronald was nineteen, and Lord Earle thought, his son's college career ended, he should travel for two or three

years. He could not go with him, but he hoped that surveillance would not be needed, that his boy would be

wise enough and manly enough to take his first steps in life alone. At college he won the highest honors;

great things were prophesied for Ronald Earle. They might have been accomplished but for the unfortunate

Lord and Lady Earle had gone to pay a visit to an old friend, Sir Hugh Charteris, of Greenoke. Thinking

Ronald would not reach home until the third week in June, they accepted Sir Hugh's invitation, and promised

to spend the first two weeks in June with him. But Ronald altered his plans; the visit he was making did not

prove to be a very pleasant one, and he returned to Earlescourt two days after Lord and Lady Earle had left it.

His father wrote immediately, pressing him to join the party at Greenoke. He declined, saying that after the

Knowing that every attention would be paid to his son's comfort, Lord Earle thought but little of the matter.

In after years he bitterly regretted that he had not insisted upon his son's going to Greenoke. So it happened

that Ronald Earle, his college career ended, his future lying like a bright, unruffled dream before him, had

The first day was pleasant enough. Ronald went to see the horses, inspected the kennels, gladdened the

gamekeeper's heart by his keen appreciation of good sport, rowed on the lake, played a solitary game at

billiards, dined in great state, read three chapters or "Mill on Liberalism," four of a sensational novel, and fell

asleep satisfied with that day, but rather at a loss to know what he should do on the next.

It was a beautiful June day; no cloud was in the smiling heavens, the sun shone bright, and Nature looked so

fair and tempting that it was impossible to remain indoors. Out in the gardens the summer air seemed to thrill

with the song of the birds. Butterflies spread their bright wings and coquetted with the fragrant blossoms;

busy humming bees buried themselves in the white cups of the lily and the crimson heart of the rose.

Ronald wandered through the gardens; the delicate golden laburnum blossoms fell at his feet, and he sat

down beneath a large acacia. The sun was warm, and Ronald thought a dish of strawberries would be very

acceptable. He debated within himself for some time whether he should return to the house and order them,

What impulse was it that sent him on that fair June morning, when all Nature sung of love and happiness, to

The strawberry gardens at Earlescourt were very extensive. Far down among the green beds Ronald Earle

saw a young girl kneeling, gathering the ripe fruit, which she placed in a large basket lined with leaves, and

"I should like a few of those strawberries," he said, gently, and she raised to his a face he never forgot.

Involuntarily he raised his hat, in homage to her youth and her shy, sweet beauty. "For whom are you

In a moment the young girl stood up, and made the prettiest and most graceful of courtesies.

"They are for the housekeeper, sir," she replied; and her voice was musical and clear as a silver bell.

"Because I have lived always with my aunt, at Dale," she replied. "I only came home last year."

"I see," said Ronald. "Will you give me some of those strawberries?" he asked. "They look so ripe and

He sat down on one of the garden chairs and watched her. The pretty white fingers looked so fair, contrasted

with the crimson fruit and green leaves. Deftly and quickly she contrived a small basket of leaves, and filled

it with fruit. She brought it to him, and then for the first time Ronald saw her clearly, and that one glance was

She was no calm, grand beauty. She had a shy, sweet, blushing face, resembling nothing so much as a

rosebud, with fresh, ripe lips; pretty little teeth, which gleamed like white jewels, large dark eyes, bright as

stars, and veiled by long lashes; dark hair, soft and shining. She was indeed so fair, so modest and graceful,

"It must be because you gathered them that they are so nice," he said, taking the little basket from her hands.

"Rest awhile, Dorayou must be tired with this hot sun shining full upon you. Sit here under the shade of

He watched the crimson blushes that dyed her fair young face. She never once raised her dark eyes to his. He

had seen beautiful and stately ladies, but none so coy or bewitching as this pretty maiden. The more he

looked at her the more he admired her. She had no delicate patrician loveliness, no refined grace; but for

So the young heir of Earlescourt sat, pretending to enjoy the strawberries, but in reality engrossed by the

charming figure before him. She neither stirred nor spoke. Under the boughs of the apple tree, with the

sunbeams falling upon her, she made a fair picture, and his eyes were riveted upon it.

It was all very delightful, and very wrong. Ronald should not have talked to the lodge keeper's daughter, and

sweet, rustic Dora Thorne should have known better. But they were young, and such days come but seldom,

"Dora Thorne," said Ronald, musingly"what a pretty name! How well it suits you! It is quite a little song

She smiled with delight at his words; then her shy, dark eyes were raised for a moment, and quickly dropped

"I will tell you the story," he said, patronizingly. "Ever since I read it I have had an ideal 'Dora,' and you

She had not the least idea what he meant; but when he recited the musical words, her fancy and imagination

were stirred; she saw the wheat field, the golden corn, the little child and its anxious mother. When Ronald

"So much!" she replied. "Ah, he must be a great man who wrote those words; and you remember them all."

Her simple admiration flattered and charmed him. He recited other verses for her, and the girl listened in a

trance of delight. The sunshine and western wind brought no warning to the heir of Earlescourt that he was

forging the first link of a dreadful tragedy; he thought only of the shy, blushing beauty and coy grace of the

Suddenly from over the trees there came the sound of the great bell at the Hall. Then Dora started.

"It is one o'clock!" she cried. "What shall I do? Mrs. Morton will be angry with me."

"Angry!" said Ronald, annoyed at this sudden breakup of his Arcadian dream. "Angry with you! For what?"

"She is waiting for the strawberries," replied conscious Dora, "and my basket is not half full."

It was a new idea to him that any one should dare to be angry with this pretty, gentle Dora.

In less than a minute the heir of Earlescourt was kneeling by Dora Thorne, gathering quickly the ripe

"There," said Ronald, "you need not fear Mrs. Morton now, Dora. You must go, I suppose; it seems hard to

"Yes," she replied; "it will take me all the week to gather strawberries for the housekeeper."

He held out his hand, and her little fingers trembled and fluttered in his grasp. She looked so happy, yet so

frightened, so charming, yet so shy. He could have clasped her in his arms at that moment, and have said he

loved her; but Ronald was a gentleman. He bowed over the little hand, and then relinquished it. He watched

"Shame on all artificial training!" said Ronald to himself. "What would our fine ladies give for such a face?

Imagine beauty without coquetry or affectation. The girl's heart is as pure as a stainless lily; she never heard

of 'a grand match' or a 'good parli.' If Tennyson's Dora was like her, I do not wonder at anything that

Instead of thinking to himself that he had done a foolish thing that bright morning, and that his plain duty was

to forget all about the girl, Ronald lighted his cigar, and began to dream of the face that had charmed him.

Dora took the fruit to Mrs. Morton, and received no reprimand; then she was sent home to the cottage, her

work for the day ended. She had to pass through the park. Was it the same road she had trodden this

morning? What caused the new and shining glory that had fallen on every leaf and tree? The blue heavens

seemed to smile upon her; every flower, every song of the bright birds had a new meaning. What was it? Her

own heart was beating as it had never beaten before; her face was flushed, and the sweet, limpid eyes shone

with a new light. What was it? Then she came to the brookside and sat down on the violet bank.

The rippling water was singing a new song, something of love and youth, of beauty and

happinesssomething of a new and fairy like life; and with the faint ripple and fall of the water came back

to her the voice that had filled her ears and touched her heart. Would she ever again forget the handsome face

that had smiled so kindly upon her? Surely he was a king among men, and he had praised her, said her name

was like a song, and that she was like the Dora of the beautiful poem. This grand gentleman, with the clear,

So Dora dreamed by the brookside, and she was to see him again and again; she gave no thought to a cold,

dark time when she should see him no more. Tomorrow the sun would shine, the birds sing, and she should

Dora never remembered how that happy day passed. Good Mrs. Thorne looked at her child, and sighed to

think how pretty she was and how soon that sweet, dimpled face would be worn with care.

Dora's first proceeding was characteristic enough. She went to her own room and locked the door; then she

put the cracked little mirror in the sunshine, and proceeded to examine her face. She wanted to see why

Ronald Earle admired her; she wondered much at this new power she seemed possessed of; she placed the

glass on the table, and sat down to study her own face. She saw that it was very fair; the coloring was delicate

and vivid, like that of the heart of a rose; the fresh, red lips were arched and smiling; the dark, shy eyes, with

their long silken lashes, were bright and clear; a pretty, dimpled, smiling face told of a sweet, simple, loving

naturethat was all; there was no intellect, no soul, no highbred refinement; nothing but the charm of

Dora was half puzzled. She had never thought much of her own appearance. Having lived always with

sensible, simple people, the pernicious language of flattery was unknown to her. It was with a halfguilty

thrill of delight that she for the first time realized the charm of her own sweet face.

The sunny hours flew by. Dora never noted them; she thought only of the morning past and the morning to

come, while Ronald dreamed of her almost unconsciously. She had been a bright feature in a bright day; his

artistic taste had been gratified, his eyes had been charmed. The pretty picture haunted him, and he

remembered with pleasure that on the morrow he should see the shy, sweet face again. No thought of harm or

wrong even entered his mind. He did not think that he had been imprudent. He had recited a beautiful poem

to a pretty, coy girl, and in a grand, lordly way he believed himself to have performed a kind action.

The morning came, and they brought bright, blushing Dora to her work; again the little white fingers

glistened amid the crimson berries. Then Dora heard him coming. She heard his footsteps, and her face grew

"Good morning, Dora," he said; "you look as bright as the sunshine and as fair as the flowers. Put away the

basket; I have brought a book of poems, and mean to read some to you. I will help you with your work

Dora, nothing loath, sat down, and straightway they were both in fairyland. He read industriously, stealing

every now and then a glance at his pretty companion. She knew nothing of what he was reading, but his voice

At length the book was closed, and Ronald wondered what thoughts were running through his companion's

simple, artless mind. So he talked to her of her daily life, her work, her pleasures, her friends. As he talked he

grew more and more charmed; she had no great amount of intellect, no wit or keen powers of repartee, but

the girl's love of nature made her a poetess. She seemed to know all the secrets of the trees and the flowers;

no beauty escaped her; the rustle of green leaves, the sighs of the western wind, the solemn hush of the

deepgreen woods, the changing tints of the summer sky delighted her. Beautiful words, embodying

beautiful thoughts, rippled over the fresh, ripe lips. She knew nothing else. She had seen no pictures, read no

books, knew nothing of the fine arts, was totally ignorant of all scholarly lore, but deep in her heart lay a

It was new to Ronald. He had heard fashionable ladies speak of everything they delighted in. He had ever

Once Dora forgot her shyness, and when Ronald said something, she laughed in reply. How sweet and pure

that laughter waslike a soft peal of silver bells! When Ronald Earle went to sleep that night, the sound

Every morning brought the young heir of Earlescourt to the bright sunny gardens where Dora worked among

the strawberries. As the days passed she began to lose something of her shy, startled manner, and laughed and

talked to him as she would have done to her own brother. His vanity was gratified by the sweetest homage of

all, the unconscious, unspoken love and admiration of the young girl. He liked to watch the blushes on her

face, and the quivering of her lips when she caught the first sound of his coming footsteps. He liked to watch

her dark eyes droop, and then to see them raised to his with a beautiful, startled light.

Insensibly his own heart became interested. At first he had merely thought of passing a pleasant hour; then he

admired Dora, and tried to believe that reading to her was an act of pure benevolence; but, as the days passed

on, something stronger and sweeter attracted him. He began to love herand she was his first love.

Wonderful to say, these long teteatetes had not attracted observation. No rumor of them escaped, so that no

It wanted three days until the time settled for the return of Lord and Lady Earle. Sir Harry Laurence, of

Holtham Hall, asked Ronald to spend a day with him; and, having no valid excuse, he consented.

She looked at him with a startled face. One whole day without him! Then, with a sudden deadly pain, came

the thought that these golden days must end; the time must come when she should see him no more. The

"Are you grieved that I am going away for one whole day?" he asked. But she looked so piteous and so

startled that he waited for no reply. "I shall continue to see you," he resumed. "I could not let any day pass

Then Ronald paused abruptlyhe had never given one thought to the "afterward." Why, of course

strawberries would not grow foreverit would not always be summer. Lord Earle would soon be back again,

and then he must go abroad. Where would Dora be then? He did not like the thoughtit perplexed him.

Short as was the time he had known her, Dora had, in some mysterious way, grown to be a part of himself.

He could not think of a day wherein he should not see her blushing, pretty face, and hear the music of her

words. He was startled, and clasped her little hands more tightly within his own.

Poor Ronald! Had he been wise, he would have flown then; but he bent his head over her, and kissed the tears

away. The pretty rounded cheek, so soft and childlike, he kissed again, and then clasped the slight girlish

"Do not shed another tear, Dora," he whispered; "we will not lose each other. I love you, and you shall be my

One minute before he spoke the idea had not even crossed his mind; it seemed to him afterward that another

"Your wife!" she cried, looking at him in some alarm. "Ah, no! You are very kind and good, but that could

"Because you are so far above me," replied the girl. "I and mine are servants and dependents of yours. We are

She could not have touched Ronald more deeply; in a moment he had poured forth a torrent of words that

amazed her. Fraternity and equality, caste and folly, his mission and belief, his love and devotion, were all

"Never say that again, Dora," he continued, his fair, boyish face flushing. "You are the equal of a queen upon

her throne; you are fair and true, sweet and good. What be a queen more than that?"

"Then I will teach you," he said. "Ah, Dora, you know enough! You have beautiful thoughts, and you clothe

them in beautiful words. Do not turn from me; say you love me and will be my wife. I love you, Dorado

"I would not make you unhappy," she said, "for the whole world; if you wish me to love youoh, you know

But the very thought of it brought tears again. She looked so pretty, so bewildered between sorrow and joy,

so dazzled by happiness, and yet so piteously uncertain, that Ronald was more charmed than ever.

"My darling Dora," he said, "you do love me. Your eyes speak, if your lips do not tell me. Will you be my

It was the prettiest picture in the world to see the color return to the sweet face. Ronald bent his head, and

"You shall never rue your trust, Dora," he said, proudly; but she interrupted him.

"What will Lord Earle say?" she asked; and again Ronald was startled by that question.

"My father can say nothing," he replied. "I am old enough to please myself, and this is a free country. I shall

introduce you to him, Dora, and tell him you have promised to be my wife. No more tears, love. There is

And so he believed. He could think of nothing, care for nothing but Doraher pretty face, her artless, simple

ways, her undisguised love for him. There was but one excuse. He was young, and it was his first love; yet

despite his happiness, his pride, his independence, he did often wonder in what words he should tell his father

that he had promised to marry the lodge keeper's daughter. There were even times when he shivered, as one

The four days passed like a long, bright dream. It was a pretty romance, but sadly misplaceda pretty

summer idyll. They were but boy and girl. Dora met Ronald in the park, by the brook side, and in the green

meadows where the white hawthorn grew. They talked of but one thing, their love. Ronald never tired of

watching Dora's fair face and pretty ways; she never wearied of telling him over and over again, in a hundred

Lord Earle wrote to say that he should be home on the Thursday evening, and that they were bringing back a

"There will be no time to tell my father just at present," said Ronald; "so, Dora, we must keep our secret. It

They arranged to keep the secret until Lord Earle should be alone again. They were to meet twice every

dayin the early morning, while the dew lay on the grass, and in the evening, when the Hall would be full of

Ronald felt guiltyhe hardly knew how or whywhen his father commiserated him for the two lonely

weeks he had spent. Lonely! He had not felt them so; they had passed all too quickly for him. How many

There was little time for telling his secret to Lord Earle. The few guests who had returned to Earlescourt were

Lady Earle saw some great change in her son. She fancied that he spent a great deal of time out of doors. She

asked him about it, wondering if he had taken to studying botany, for late and early he never tired of rambling

in the park. She wondered again at the flush that crimsoned his face; but the time was coming when she

It is probable that if Ronald at that time had had as much of Dora's society as he liked, he would soon have

discovered his mistake, and no great harm would have been done; but the foolish romance of foolish

meetings had a charm for him. In those hurried interviews he had only time to think of Dora's lovehe never

noted her deficiencies; he was charmed with her tenderness and grace; her artless affection was so pretty; the

difference between her and those with whom he was accustomed to talk was so great; her very ignorance had

One by one Lord Earle's guests departed, yet Ronald had not told his secret. A new element crept into his

love, and urged him on. Walking one day through the park with his father they overtook Dora's father. A

young man was with him and the two were talking earnestly together, so earnestly that they never heard the

two gentlemen; and in passing by Ronald distinguished the words, "You give me your daughter, Mr. Thorne,

Ronald Earle turned quickly to look at the speaker. He saw before him a young man, evidently a welltodo

farmer from his appearance, with a calm, kind face and clear and honest eyes; and he was asking for

DoraDora who was to be his wife and live at Earlescourt. He could hardly control his impatience; and it

Dinner was over at last. Lord Earle sat with Sir Harry Laurence over a bottle of claret, and Lady Earle was in

the drawing room and had taken up her book. Ronald hastened to the favorite trysting place, the brookside.

Dora was there already, and he saw that her face was still wet with tears. She refused at first to tell him her

sorrow. Then she whispered a pitiful little story, that made her lover resolve upon some rash deeds.

Ralph Holt had been speaking to her father, and had asked her to marry him. She had said "No;" but her

mother had wept, and her father had grown angry, and had said she should obey him.

"He has a large farm," said Dora, with a bitter sigh. "He says I should live like a great lady, and have nothing

to do. He would be kind to my father and mother; but I do not love him," she added.

Clasping her tender little hands round Ronald's arm, "I do not love him," she sobbed; "and, Ronald, I do love

He bent down and kissed her pretty, tearbedewed face, all the chivalry of his nature aroused by her words.

"You shall be my wife, Dora," he said, proudly, "and not his. This very evening I will tell my father, and ask

his consent to our marriage. My mother is sure to love youshe is so kind and gracious to every one. Do not

tremble, my darling; neither Ralph Holt nor any one else shall take you from me."

She was soon comforted! There was no bound or limit to her faith in Ronald Earle.

"Go home now,"he said, "and tomorrow my father himself shall see you. I will teach that young farmer his

He went with her down the broad walk, and then returned to the Hall. He walked very proudly, with his

gallant head erect, saying to himself that this was a free country and he could do what he liked; but for all that

his heart beat loudly when he entered the drawing room and found Lord and Lady Earle. They looked up

smilingly at him, all unconscious that their beloved son, the heir of Earlescourt, was there to ask permission

Ronald Earle had plenty of courageno young hero ever led a forlorn hope with more bravery that he

displayed in the interview with his parents, which might have daunted a bolder man. As he approached, Lady

"Out again, Ronald!" she said. "Sir Harry Laurence left his adieus for you. I think the park possesses some

He made no reply, but drew near to his mother; he bent over her and raised her hand to his lips.

"I am come to tell you something," he said. "Father, will you listen to me? I ask your permission to marry

His voice never faltered, and the brave young face never quailed. Lord Earle looked at him in utter

"To marry Dora Thorne!" he said. "And who, in the name of reason, is Dora Thorne?"

"The lodge keeper's daughter," replied Ronald, stoutly. "I love her, father, and she loves me."

He was somewhat disconcerted when Lord Earle, for all reply, broke into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. He

"I am so much in earnest," he replied, "that I would give up all I have in the worldmy life itself, for Dora."

Then Lord Earle ceased laughing, and looked earnestly at the handsome, flushed face.

"No," said he, "you can not be serious. You dare not ask your mother to receive a servant's daughter as her

"It is no jest," he replied. "We Earles are always terribly in earnest. I have promised to marry Dora Thorne,

"In any case," he replied, quietly, "you are too young to think of marriage yet. If you had chosen the daughter

"I shall be twenty in a few months," said Ronald,"and I am willing to wait until then."

"My dear Ronald, have you lost your senses? Tell me, who is Dora Thorne?" She saw tears shining in his

eyes; his brave young face touched her heart. "Tell me," she continued, "who is she? Where have you seen

"She is so beautiful, mother," he said, "that I am sure you would love her; she is as fair and sweet as she is

modest and true. I met her in the gardens some weeks ago, and I have met her every day since."

"I asked her to be my wife while you were from home," replied Ronald. "She promised and I have only been

"Is it to see Dora Thorne that you have been out so constantly?" asked Lady Earle.

"Yes, I could not let a day pass without seeing her," he replied; "it would be like a day without sunshine."

"No, you may be quite sure, father, I should tell you before I told any one else," replied Ronald.

They looked at him in silent dismay, vexed and amazed at what he had doneirritated at his utter folly, yet

forced to admire his honor, his courage, his truth. Both felt that some sons would have carefully concealed

such a love affair from them. They were proud of his candor and integrity, although deploring his folly.

Without the least hesitation, Ronald told them every word; and despite their vexation, neither could help

smilingit was such a pretty storya romance, all sunshine, smiles, tears, and flowers. Lord Earle's face

"Ronald," said he, "we shall disagree about your love; but remember, I do full justice to your truth. After all,

the fault is my own. I might have known that a young fellow of your age, left all alone, was sure to get into

mischief; you have done so. Say no more now; I clearly and distinctly refuse my consent. I appeal to your

When the door closed behind him, Lord and Lady Earle looked at each other. The lady's face was pale and

"Oh, Rupert," she said, "how brave and noble he is! Poor foolish boy! How proud he looked of his absurd

"I do not think so," replied her husband. "Valentine Charteris will be here soon, and when Ronald sees her he

"It will be better not to thwart him," interrupted Lady Earle. "Let me manage the matter, Rupert. I will go

down to the lodge tomorrow, and persuade them to send the girl away; and then we will take Ronald abroad,

All night long the gentle lady of Earlescourt was troubled by strange dreamsby vague, dark fears that

"Evil will come of it," she said to herself"evil and sorrow. This distant shadow saddens me now."

The next day she went to the lodge, and asked for Dora. She half pardoned her son's folly when she saw the

pretty dimpled face, the rings of dark hair, lying on the white neck. The girl was indeed charming and

modest, but unfittedoh, how unfitted! ever to be Lady Earle. She was graceful as a wild flower is graceful;

but she had no manner, no dignity, no cultivation. She stood blushing, confused, and speechless, before the

"You know what I want you for, Dora," said Lady Earle, kindly. "My son has told us of the acquaintance

between you. I am come to say it must cease. I do not wish to hurt or wound you. Your own sense must tell

you that you can never be received by Lord Earle and myself as our daughter. We will not speak of your

inferiority in birth and position. You are not my son's equal in refinement or education; he would soon

Dora spoke no word, the tears falling from her bright eyes; this time there was no young lover to kiss them

away. She made no reply and when Lady Earle sent for her father, Dora ran away; she would hear no more.

"I know nothing of it, my lady," said the worthy lodge keeper, who was even more surprised than his master

had been. "Young Ralph Holt wants to marry my daughter, and I have said that she shall be his wife. I never

Lady Earle's diplomacy succeeded beyond her most sanguine expectations. Stephen Thorne and his wife,

although rather dazzled by the fact that their daughter had captivated the future Lord Earlescourt, let common

sense and reason prevail, and saw the disparity and misery such a marriage would cause. They promised to be

gentle and kind to Dora, not to scold or reproach her, and to allow some little time to elapse before urging

When Lady Earle rose, she placed a twentypound banknote in the hands of Stephen Thorne, saying:

"I could not do that, my lady," said Stephen, refusing to take the money. "I can not sell poor Dora's love."

Then Lady Earle held out her delicate white hand, and the man bowed low over it. Before the sun set that

evening, Stephen Thorne had taken Dora to Eastham, where she was to remain until Ronald had gone abroad.

For a few days it seemed as though the storm had blown over. There was one angry interview between father

and son, when Ronald declared that sending Dora away was a breach of faith, and that he would find her out

and marry her how and when he could. Lord Earle thought his words were but the wild folly of a boy

The story of Earlescourt might have been different, had not Ronald, while still amazed and irritated by his

father's cool contempt, encountered Ralph Holt. They met at the gate leading from the fields to the high road;

"I have a little account to settle with you, my young lordling," said Ralph, angrily. "Doves never mate with

eagles; if you want to marry, choose one of your own class, and leave Dora Thorne to me."

"She will never be," was the quick reply. "See, young master, I have loved Dora since she was aa pretty,

brighteyed child. Her father lived near my father's farm then. I have cared for her all my lifeI do not

know that I have ever looked twice at another woman's face. Do not step in between me and my love. The

"Never!" cried Ralph. "Since you will not listen to fair words, I defy you. I will go to Eastham and never

High, angry words passed between them, but Ralph in his passion had told the secret Ronald had longed to

It was a sad story and yet no rare one. Love and jealousy robbed the boy of his better sense; duty and honor

were forgotten. Under pretense of visiting one of his college friends, Ronald went to Eastham. Lord and Lady

Earle saw him depart without any apprehension; they never suspected that he knew where Dora was.

It was a sad story, and bitter sorrow came from it. Word by word it can not be written, but when the heir of

Earlescourt saw Dora again, her artless delight, her pretty joy and sorrow mingled, her fear and dislike of

Ralph, her love for himself drove all thought of duty and honor from his mind. He prayed her to become his

wife secretly. He had said that when once they were married his father would forgive them, and all would be

well. He believed what he said; Dora had no will but his. She forgot all Lady Earle's warnings; she

remembered only Ronald and his love. So they were married in the quiet parish church of Helsmeer, twenty

There was no excuse, no palliation for an act that was undutiful, dishonorable, and deceitfulthere was

nothing to plead for him, save that he was young, and had never known a wish refused.

They were married. Dora Thorne became Dora Earle. Ronald parted from his pretty wife immediately. He

arranged all his plans with what he considered consummate wisdom. He was to return home, and try by every

argument in his power to soften his father and win his consent. If he still refused, then time would show him

the best course. Come what might, Dora was his; nothing on earth could part them. He cared for very little

else. Even if the very worst came, and his father sent him from home, it would only be for a time, and there

He returned to Earlescourt, and though his eyes were never raised in clear, true honesty to his father's face,

Lord Earle saw that his son looked happy, and believed the cloud had passed away.

Dora was to remain at Eastham until she heard from him. He could not write to her, nor could she send one

line to him; but he promised and believed that very soon he should take her in all honor to Earlescourt.

It was a beautiful morning toward the end of August; the balmy sweetness of spring had given way to the

glowing radiance of summer. The golden corn waved in the fields, the hedge rows were filled with wild

flowers, the fruit hung ripe in the orchards. Nature wore her brightest smile. The breakfast room at

Earlescourt was a pretty apartment; it opened on a flower garden, and through the long French windows came

It was a pretty scenethe sunbeams fell upon the rich silver, the delicate china, the vases of sweet flowers.

Lord Earle sat at the head of the table, busily engaged with his letters. Lady Earle, in the daintiest of morning

toilets, was smiling over the pretty pink notes full of fashionable gossip. Her delicate, patrician face looked

clear and pure in the fresh morning light. But there was no smile on Ronald's face. He was wondering, for the

hundredth time, how he was to tell his father what he had done. He longed to be with his pretty Dora; and yet

"Ah," said Lady Earle, suddenly, "here is good newsLady Charteris is positively coming, Rupert. Sir Hugh

"I am very glad," said Lord Earle, looking up with pleasure and surprise. "We must ask Lady Laurence to

Ronald sighed; his parents busily discussed the hospitalities and pleasures to be offered their guests. A grand

dinner party was planned, and a ball, to which half the country side were to be invited.

"I shall have all this to go through," sighed Ronald"grand parties, dinners, and balls, while my heart longs

to be with my darling; and in the midst of it all, how shall I find time to talk to my father? I will begin this

When dinner was over, Ronald proposed to Lord Earle that they should go out on the terrace and smoke a

cigar there. Then took place the conversation with which our story opens, when the master of Earlescourt

Ronald was more disturbed than he cared to own even to himself. Once the words hovered upon his lips that

he had married Dora. Had Lord Earl been angry or contemptuous, he would have uttered them; but in the

presence of his father's calm, dignified wisdom, he was abashed and uncertain. For the first time he felt the

truth of all his father said. Not that he loved Dora less, or repented of the rash private marriage, but Lord

There was little time for reflection. Lady Charteris and her daughter were coming on the morrow. Again Lady

"Ronald," said his mother, as they parted that evening, "I know that, as a rule, young men of your age do not

care for the society of elderly ladies; I must ask you to make an exception in favor of Lady Charteris. They

showed me great kindness at Greenoke, and you must help me to return it. I shall consider every attention

Ronald smiled at his mother's words, and told her he would never fail in her service.

"If he sees much of Valentine," thought his mother, "he can not help loving her. Then all will be well."

Ronald was not in the house when the guests arrived; they came rather before the appointed time. His mother

and Lady Charteris had gone to the library together, leaving Valentine in the drawing room alone. Ronald

found her there. Opening the door, he saw the sleeve of a white dress; believing Lady Earle was there, he

went carelessly into the room, then started in astonishment at the vision before him. Once in a century,

perhaps, one sees a woman like Valentine Charteris; of the purest and loveliest Greek type, a calm, grand,

magnificent blonde, with clear, straight brows, fair hair that shone like satin and lay in thick folds around her

queenly headtall and stately, with a finished ease and grace of manner that could only result from long and

careful training. She rose when Ronald entered the room, and her beautiful eyes were lifted calmly to his

face. Suddenly a rush of color dyed the white brow. Valentine remembered what Lady Earle had said of her

son. She knew that both his mother and hers wished that she should be Ronald's wife.

He bowed and withdrew. This, then, was Valentine Charteris, the fine lady whose coming he had dreaded.

No thought of love, or of comparing this magnificent woman with simple, pretty Dora, ever entered his mind.

But Ronald was a true artist, and one of no mean skill. He thought of that pure Grecian face as he would have

thought of a beautiful picture or an exquisite statue. He never thought of the loving, sensitive woman's heart

It was not difficult when dinner was over to open the grand piano for Valentine, to fetch her music, and listen

while she talked of operas he had never heard. It was pleasant to watch her as she sat in the evening

gloaming, her superb beauty enhanced by the delicate evening dress of fine white lace; the shapely shoulders

were polished and white, the exquisite arms rounded and clasped by a bracelet of pearls. She wore a rose in

the bodice of her dress, and, as Ronald bent over the music she was showing him the sweet, subtle perfume

Valentine Charteris had one charm even greater than her beauty. She talked well and gracefullythe play of

her features, the movement of her lips, were something not to be forgotten; and her smile seemed to break

Poor Ronald stood by her, watching the expression that seemed to change with every word; listening to pretty

polished language that was in itself a charm. The two mothers, looking on, and Lord Earle felt himself

relieved from a heavy weight of care. Then Lady Earle asked Valentine to sing. She was quite free from all

"Simple old ballads," he replied, thinking of Dora, and how prettily she would sing them.

He started when the first note of Valentine's magnificent voice rang clear and sweet in the quiet gloaming.

She sang some quaint old story of a knight who loved a maidenloved and rode away, returning after long

years to find a green grave. Ronald sat thinking of Dora. Ah, perhaps, had he forsaken her, the pretty dimpled

face would have faded away! He felt pleased that he had been true. Then the music ceased.

"Is that what you like?" asked Valentine Charteris, "it is of the stronger sentimental school."

Simple, honest Ronald wondered if sentiment was a sin against etiquette, or why fashionable ladies generally

"Do you laugh at sentiment?" he asked; and Valentine opened her fine eyes in wonder at the question. Lady

Earle half overheard it, and smiled in great satisfaction. Matters must be going on well, she thought, if Ronald

had already begun to speak of sentiment. She never thought that his heart and mind were with Dora while he

spokepretty Dora, who cried over his poetry, and devoutly believed in the language of flowers.

The evening passed rapidly, and Ronald felt something like regret when it ended. Lady Earle was too wise to

make any comments; she never asked her son if he liked Valentine or what he thought of her.

"I am afraid you are tired," she said, with a charming smile; "thank you for helping to amuse my friends."

When Ronald thought over what he had done, his share seemed very small; still his mother was pleased, and

he went to rest resolved that on the morrow he would be doubly attentive to Miss Charteris.

Three days passed, and Ronald had grown quite at ease with Valentine. They read and disputed over the same

books; Ronald brought out his large folio of drawings, and Valentine wondered at his skill. He bent over her,

explaining the sketches, laughing and talking gayly, as though there was no dark background to his life.

"You are an accomplished artist," said Miss Charteris, "you must have given much time to study."

"I am fond of it," said Ronald; "if fate had not made me an only son, I should have chosen painting as my

Ronald liked Miss Charteris. Apart from her grand beauty, she had the charm, too, of a kindly heart and an

affectionate nature. He saw how much Lady Earle loved her, and resolved to tell Valentine all about Dora,

and ask her to try to influence his mother. With that aim and end in view, he talked continually to the young

lady; he accompanied her in all her walks and drives, and they sang and sketched together. Ronald, knowing

himself so safely bound to Dora, forgot in what light his conduct must appear to others. Lady Earle had

forgotten her fears; she believed that her son was learning to love Valentine, and her husband shared her

All things just then were couleur de rose at Earlescourt. Ronald looked and felt happyhe had great faith in

Days passed by rapidly; the time for the grand ball was drawing near. Lady Earle half wondered when her

son would speak of Miss Charteris, and Valentine wondered why he lingered near her, why oftentimes he was

on the point of speaking, and then drew back. She quite believed he cared for her, and she liked him in return,

She was no tragedy queen, but a loving, affectionate girl, unable to reach the height of passionate love, or the

depth of despair. She was well disposed toward RonaldLady Earle spoke so much of him at Greenoke. She

Valentine's favorable impression of Ronald was deepened when she saw him. Despite the one great act of

duplicity which shadowed his whole life, Ronald was true and honorable. Valentine admired his clear Saxon

face and firm lips; she admired his deep bright eyes, that darkened with every passing emotion; she liked his

gentle, chivalrous manner, his earnest words, his deferential attention to herself, his affectionate devotion to

There was not a braver or more gallant man in England than this young heir of Earlescourt. He inherited the

personal beauty and courage of his race. He gave promise of a splendid manhood; and no one knew how

In her calm stately way, Valentine liked him; she even loved him, and would have been happy as his wife.

She enjoyed his keen, intellectual powers and his originality of thought. Even the "dreadful politics," that

Ronald, whose heart was full of the pretty little wife he dared neither see nor write to, gave no heed to

Valentine's manner; it never occurred to him what construction could be put upon his friendly liking for her.

The day came for the grand ball, and during breakfast the ladies discussed the important question of

bouquets; from that the conversation changed to flowers. "There are so many of them," said Valentine, "and

"I should never hesitate a moment," said Ronald, laughingly. "You will accuse me, perhaps of being

sentimental, but I must give preference to the white lilybells. Lilies of the valley are the fairest flowers that

Lady Earle overheard the remark; no one else appeared to notice it, and she was not much surprised when

Valentine entered the ball room to see white lilies in her fair hair, and a bouquet of the same flowers,

Many eyes turned admiringly upon the calm, stately beauty and her white flowers. Ronald saw them. He

could not help remarking the exquisite toilet, marred by no obtrusive colors, the pretty lily wreath and

fragrant bouquet. It never occurred to him that Valentine had chosen those delicate blossoms in compliment

to him. He thought he had never seen a fairer picture than this magnificent blonde; then she faded from his

mind. He looked round on those fair and noble ladies, thinking that Dora's shy, sweet face was far lovelier

than any there. He looked at the costly jewels, the waving plumes, the sweeping satins, and thought of Dora's

plain, pretty dress. A softened look came into his eyes, as he pictured his shy, graceful wife. Some day she,

too, would walk through these gorgeous rooms, and then would all admire the wisdom of his choice. So the

heir of Earlescourt dreamed as he watched the brilliant crowd that began to fill the ball room; but his reverie

"Ronald," said she, looking slightly impatient, "have you forgotten that it is your place to open the ball? You

"That will be no hardship," he replied, smiling at his mother's earnest manner. "I would rather dance with

Lady Earle wisely kept silence; her son went up to Valentine and made his request. He danced with her again

and againnot as Lady Earle hoped, from any unusual preference, but because it gave him less trouble than

selecting partners among strange young ladies. Valentine understood him; they talked easily, and without

restraint. He paid her no compliments, and she did not seem to expect any. With other ladies, Ronald was

always thinking, "What would they say if they knew of that fair young wife at Eastham?" With Valentine no

such idea haunted himhe had an instinctive belief in her true and firm friendship.

Lady Earle overheard a few whispered comments, and they filled her heart with delight. Old friends

whispered to her that "it would be a splendid match for her son," and "how happy she would be with such a

daughterinlaw as Miss Charteris, so beautiful and dignified;" and all this because Ronald wanted to secure

When, for the fourth time, Ronald asked Miss Charteris "for the next dance," she looked up at him with a

"What does it matter?" he replied, wondering at the flush that crimsoned her face. "Forgive me, Miss

"Yes," replied honest Ronald; "it is a great pleasure; for one good dancer there are fifty bad ones."

"They are very beautiful," he replied; but the compliment of her selection was all lost upon him.

"Yes," replied Ronald; "but they are not the flowers that resemble you." He was thinking how much simple,

loving Dora was like the pretty delicate little blossoms. "You are like the tall queenly lilies."

"Do you know you have paid me two compliments in less than five minutes?" she said. "And yesterday we

"II did not intend to pay idle compliments," he replied. "I merely said what I thought. You are like a tall,

grand, white lily, Miss Charteris. I have often thought so. If you will not dance with me again, will you walk

Many admiring glances followed thema handsomer pair was seldom seen. They passed through the long

suite of rooms and on to the conservatory, where lamps gleamed like stars between the green plants and rare

"Will you rest here?" said Ronald. "The ball room is so crowded one can not speak there."

Despite her calm dignity and serene manner, Valentine's heart beat high. She loved the gallant young

heirhis honest, kindly nature had a great charm for her. She saw that the handsome face bending over the

flowers was agitated and pale. Miss Charteris looked down at the lilies in her hand. He came nearer to her,

"I am not eloquent," said Ronald"I have no great gift of speech; but, Miss Charteris, I should like to find

He wanted to tell her of Dora, to describe her sweet face with its dimples and blushes, her graceful manner,

her timid, sensitive disposition. He wanted to make her love Dora, to help him to soften his mother's

prejudices and his father's anger; no wonder his lips quivered and his voice faltered.

"For some days past I have been longing to speak to you," continued Ronald; "now my courage almost fails

me. Miss Charteris, say something that will give me confidence." She looked up at him, and any other man

Then came an interruptionSir Harry Laurence, with a lady, entered the conservatory.

"This is refreshing," he said to Ronald. "I have been ten minutes trying to get here, the rooms are so full."

Miss Charteris smiled in replying, wishing Sir Harry had waited ten minutes longer.

"Promise me," said Ronald, detaining her, as Sir Harry passed on, "that you will give me one half hour

"And you will listen to me, Miss Charteris?" he continued. "You will hear all I have to say?"

Valentine made no reply; several other people came, some to admire the alcove filled with ferns which

drooped from the wall by which she was standing, others to breathe the fragrant air. She could not speak

without being overheard; but, with a charming smile, she took a beautiful lily from her bouquet and held it

"He loves me," thought Valentine; and, as far as her calm, serene nature was capable of passionate delight,

The most remote suspicion that Valentine had mistaken himthat she loved himnever crossed the mind of

Ronald Earle. He was singularly free from vanity. Perhaps if he had a little more confidence in himself, the

Lady Charteris looked at her daughter's calm, proud face. She had noticed the little interview in the

conservatory, and drew her own conclusions from it. Valentine's face confirmed them there was a delicate

"You like Earlescourt?" said Lady Charteris to her daughter that evening, as they sat in her drawing room

"And from what I see," continued the elder lady, "I think it is likely to be your home."

"Yes, I believe so," said Valentine, bending over her mother, and kissing her. "Ronald has asked me to give

For one so calm and stately, it was admission enough. Lady Charteris knew, from the tone of her daughter's

Ronald slept calmly, half hoping that the end of his troubles was drawing nigh. Valentine, whom his mother

loved so well, would intercede for Dora. Lord Earle would be sure to relent; and he could bring Dora home,

and all would be well. If ever and anon a cold fear crept into his heart that simple, pretty Dora would be sadly

out of place in that magnificent house, he dashed it from him. Miss Charteris slept calmly, too, but her

dreams were different from Ronald's. She thought of the time when she would be mistress of that fair domain,

and the wife of its brave young lord. She loved him well. No one had ever pleased her as he had no one

The morrow so eagerly looked for was a fair, bright day. The sun shone warm and bright, the air was soft and

fragrant, the sky blue and cloudless. Lady Charteris did not leave her room for breakfast, and Valentine

When breakfast was ended, Ronald lingered about, hoping to see Valentine. He had not waited long before he

"Will you come out into the gardens, Miss Charteris?" he asked. "The morning is so beautiful, and you

promised me one half hour. Do not take that book with you. I shall want all your attention for I have a story

He walked by her side through the pleasure gardens where the lake gleamed in the sunshine, the water lilies

sleeping on its quiet bosom; through the fragrant flower beds where the bees hummed and the butterflies

"I know a little spot just fitted for a fairy bower," said Ronald. "Let me show it to you. I can tell my story

They went through the broad gates of the park, across which the checkered sunbeams fell, where the deer

browsed and kingcups and tall foxgloves grewon to the brook side where Dora had rested so short a time

The pale primroses had all died away, the violets were gone; but in their place the deep green bank was

covered with other flowers of bright and sunny hue. The shade of tall trees covered the bank, the little brook

sang merrily, and birds chimed in with the rippling water; the summer air was filled with the faint, sweet

The green grass seemed to dance in the breeze, and Ronald made something like a throne amid it.

"You shall be queen, and I your suppliant," he said. "You promise to listen; I will tell you my story."

They sat a few minutes in deep silence, broken only by the singing brook and the music of the birds; a solemn

If Ronald Earle's heart and mind had not been filled with another and very different image, he must have seen

how fair Valentine looked; the sunlight glinting through the dense green foliage fell upon her face, while the

white dress and blue ribbons, the fair floating hair, against the dark background of the bank and the trees,

made a charming picture; but Ronald never saw it. After long years the memory of it came back to him, and

he wondered at his own blindness. He never saw the trembling of the white fingers that played carelessly with

sprays of purple foxglove; he never saw the faint flush upon her face, the quiver of her proud, beautiful lips,

"I told you, Miss Charteris, last evening, that I was not eloquent," began Ronald. "When anything lies deep in

"All sacred and deep feeling is quiet," said Valentine; "a torrent of words does not always show an earnest

"If I could only be sure that you would understand me, Miss Charteris," said Ronald"that you would see

and comprehend the motives that I can hardly explain myself! Sitting here in the summer sunshine, I can

scarcely realize how dark the cloud is that hangs over me. You are so kind and patient, I will tell you my

story in my own way." She gathered a rich cluster of bluebells, and bent over them, pulling the pretty flowers

"Three months since," continued Ronald, "I came home to Earlescourt. Lord and Lady Earle were both at

Greenoke; I, and not quite myself, preferred remaining here alone and quiet. One morning I went out into the

garden, listless for want of something to do. I saw thereah! Now I want words, Miss Charteristhe fairest

He saw the flowers fall from Valentine's grasp; she put her hand to her brow, as though to shield her face.

"A clever man," said Ronald, "might paint for you the pretty face, all smiles and dimples, the dark shining

rings of hair that fell upon a white brow, the sweet, shy eyes fringed by long lashes, seldom raised, but full of

wonderful light when once you could look into their depths. I can only tell you how in a few days I grew to

love the fair young face, and how Dora Thorne that was her name, Miss Charterisloved me."

Valentine never moved nor spoke; Ronald could see the bright flush die away, and the proud lips quiver.

"I must tell you all quickly," said Ronald. "She is not what people call a lady, this beautiful wild flower of

mine. Her father lives at the lodge; he is Lord Earle's lodge keeper, and she knows nothing of the world or its

ways. She has never been taught or trained, though her voice is like sweet music, and her laugh like the chime

of silver bells. She is like a bright April day, smiles and tears, sunshine and rainso near together that I

"I loved her very much," said Ronald, "and I told her so. I asked her to be my wife, and she promised. When

my father came home from Greenoke I asked his consent, and he laughed at me. He would not believe me

serious. I need not tell you the details. They sent my pretty Dora away, and some one who loved herwho

wanted to make her his wifecame, and quarreled with me. He my rivalswore that Dora should be his. In

his passion he betrayed the secret so well kept from me. He told me where she was, and I went to see her."

"I went to see her," he continued; "she was so unhappy, so pretty in her sorrow and love, so innocent, so fond

"You are shocked," said Ronald; "but, Miss Charteris, think of her so young and gentle! They would have

forced her to marry the farmer, and she disliked him. What else could I do to save her?"

Even then, in the midst of that sharp sorrow, Valentine could not help admiring Ronald's brave simplicity, his

"I married her," he said, "and I mean to be true to her. I thought my father would relent and forgive us, but I

fear I was too sanguine. Since my marriage my father has told me that if I do not give up Dora he will not see

me again. Every day I resolve to tell him what I have done, but something interferes to prevent it. I have

never seen my wife since our wedding day. She is still at Eastham. Now, Miss Charteris, be my friend, and

Bravely enough Valentine put away her sorrowanother time she would look it in the face; all her thoughts

"My mother loves you very much," said Ronald; "she will listen to you. When I have told her, will you, in

your sweet, persuasive way, interfere for Dora? Lady Earle will be influenced by what you say."

"If you think it wise for a stranger to interfere in so delicate a matter, I will do so cheerfully," she said; "but

let me counsel on thing. Tell Lord and Lady Earle at once. Do not delay, every hour is of consequence."

"What do you think of my story?" asked Ronald, anxiously. "Have I done right or wrong?"

"Yes," he urged, "I will ask again; you are my friend. Tell me, have I done right or wrong?"

"I can speak nothing but truth," replied Valentine, "and I think you have done wrong. Do not be angry. Honor

is everything; it ranks before life or love. In some degree you have tarnished yours by an underhand

proceeding, a private marriage, one forbidden by your parents and distasteful to them."

"I thought," said he, "I was doing a brave deed in marrying Dora. She had no one to take her part but me."

"It was a brave deed in one sense," said Valentine. "You have proved yourself generous and disinterested.

"She is young and impressionable," said Ronald; "I can easily mold her to my own way of thinking. You look

"I am thinking of you," she said, gently; "it seems to me a grave matter. Pardon mebut did you reflect

wellwere you quite convinced that the whole happiness of your life was at stake? If so, I need say no more.

"Tell your father at once," she continued. "You can never retrace the step you have taken. You may never

wish to do so, but you can and must retrieve the error of duplicity and concealment."

"That I will," replied Valentine. "You sketched her portrait well. I can almost see her. I will speak of her

"Do not overrate my influence," said Valentine. "You must learn to look your life boldly in the face.

Candidly and honestly I think that, from mistaken notions of honor and chivalry, you have done wrong. A

man must be brave. Perhaps one of the hardest lessons in life is to bear unflinchingly the effects and

consequences of one's own deeds. You must do that, you must not flinch, you must bear what follows like a

"I will," said Ronald, looking at the fair face, and half wishing that the little Dora could talk to him as this

noble girl did; such noble words as hers made men heroes. Then he remembered how Dora would weep if he

"We shall still be friends, Miss Charteris?" he said, pleadingly. "Whatever comes you will not give me up?"

"I will be your friend while I live," said Valentine, holding out her white hand, and her voice never faltered.

"You have trusted meI shall never forget that. I am your friend, and Dora's also."

Then he told Valentine of Dora's pretty, artless ways, of her love for all things beautiful in nature, always

returning to one themeher great love for him. He little dreamed that the calm, stately beauty listened as one

on the rackthat while he was talking of Dora she was trying to realize the cold, dreary blank that had

suddenly fallen over her life, trying to think what the future would be passed without him, owning to herself

that for this rash, chivalrous marriage, for his generous love, she admired him more than ever.

The hand that played carelessly among the wild flowers had ceased to tremble, the proud lips had regained

their color, and then Valentine arose, as she was going out with Lady Earle after lunch.

A feeling of something like blank despair seized Valentine when she thought of what she must say to her

other. As she remembered their few words the previous evening, her face flushed hotly.

"I can never thank you enough for your kind patience," said Ronald, as they walked back through the shady

Valentine smiled and raised her fact to the quiet summer sky, thinking of the hope that had been hers a few

"You will go at once and see your father, will you not?" she said to Ronald, as they parted.

"I am going now," he replied; but at that very moment Lady Earle came up to him.

"Ronald," she said, "come into my boudoir. Your father is there he wants to see you before he goes to

Valentine went straight to her mother's room. Lady Charteris sat waiting for her, beguiling the time with a

"I hope you have had a pleasant walk," she said; but both smile and words died away as she saw the

"Mamma," said Valentine, gently, "all I said to you last night about Earlescourt was a great mistakeit will

"No," was the calm reply. "We are excellent friends but, mamma, I was mistaken. He did want to tell me

"Hush, mamma!" said Valentine. "You forget how such words humiliate me. I have refused men of far better

position that Ronald Earle. Never let it be imagined that I have mistaken his intentions."

"Of course not," said her mother. "I only say it to yourself, Valentine; he seemed unable to live out of your

"Ah, he is selfish, like all the men!" said Lady Charteris. "With whom has he fallen in love, my dear?"

"Do not ask me," replied Valentine. "He is in a terrible dilemma. Do not talk to me about it, mamma. I made

Lady Charteris detected the suppressed pain in the tone of her child's voice, and instantly formed her plans.

"I think of returning tomorrow," she said. "Your father is getting impatient to have us with him. He can not

come to Earlescourt himself. You say Mr. Earle is in a terrible dilemma, Valentine. I hope there will be no

"Lord Earle is far too proud for anything of that kind," said Valentine. "If there should be any unpleasantness,

it will not appear on the surface. Mamma, you will not mention this to me again."

Valentine threw off her lace shawl and pretty hat; she then took up the book her mother had laid down.

She lay down upon the sofa and turned her face to the window, where the roses came nodding in.

"Stay here and read," said lady Charteris, with delicate tact. "I am going to write my letters."

Valentine lay still, looking at the summer beauty outside. No one knew of the tears that gathered slowly in

those proud eyes; no one knew of the passionate weeping that could not be stilled.

When Lady Charteris returned in two hours, Valentine had regained her calm, and there was no trace of tears

in the smiles which welcomed her. Proudly and calmly she bore the great disappointment of her life. She was

no tragedy queen; she never said to herself that her life was blighted or useless or burdensome. But she did

say that she would never marry until she found some one with Ronald's simple chivalry, his loyal, true nature,

Lady Earle's boudoir was always considered one of the prettiest rooms at Earlescourt. Few, but rare, pictures

adorned its walls. The long French windows opened on to the prettiest part of the gardens, where a large

fountain rippled merrily in the sunshine. Groups of flowers in rare and costly vases perfumed the room.

Lord Earle had but drawn a pretty lounging chair to the window, and sat there, looking happier than he had

looked for months. Lady Earle went on with her task of arranging some delicate leaves and blossoms ready

"Ronald," said his father, "I have been waiting here some time. Have you been out?"

"A pleasant and sensible method of spending your time," he continued; "and, strange to say, it is on that very

"You need have no fear this time," said Lord Earle. "Your mother tells me of the numerous comments made

last evening on your long teteatete in the conservatory. I know some of your secrets. There can be no

doubt that Miss Charteris has a great regard for you. I sent for you to say that, far from my again offering any

opposition to your marriage, the dearest wish of my heart will be gratified when I call Valentine Charteris my

"We never named our wish to you," continued Lord Earle, "but years ago your mother and I hoped you would

some day love Miss Charteris. She is very beautiful; she is the truest, noblest, the best woman I know. I am

"You need not fear for Valentine," she said. "I must not betray any secrets; she likes you, Ronald; I will say

"There is some great mistake," said Ronald, his pale lips quivering. "Miss Charteris has no thought for me."

"And I," continued Ronald, "never dreamed of making her my wife. I do not love her. I can never marry

The smiles died from Lord Earle's face, and his wife dropped the pretty blossoms she was arranging.

"Then why have you paid the girl so much attention?" asked his father, gravely. "Every one has remarked

"I wished to make her my friend," said Ronald; "I never thought of anything else."

He stood aghast when he remembered why he had tried so hard to win her friendship. What if Valentine

"Others thought for you," said Lady Earle, dryly. "Of course, if I am mistaken, there is no more to be said; I

merely intended to say how happy such a marriage would make me. If you do not love the young lady the

"Can you not love her, Ronald?" asked his mother, gently. "She is so fair and good, so well fitted to be the

"Surely," interrupted Lady Earle, "you have forgotten the idle, boyish folly that angered your father some

"Hush, mother," said Ronald, standing erect and dauntless; "I was coming to tell you my secret when you met

me. Father, I deceived and disobeyed you. I followed Dora Thorne to Eastham, and married her there."

A low cry came from Lady Earle's lips. Ronald saw his father's face grow whitelividwith anger; but no

word broke the awful silence that fell upon them. Hours seemed to pass in the space of a few minutes.

"You married her," said Lord Earle, in a low, hoarse voice, "remembering what I said?"

"I married her," replied Ronald, "hoping you would retract hard, cruel words that you never meant. I could

not help it, father; she has no one but me; they would have forced her to marry some one she did not like."

"Enough," interrupted Lord Earle. "Tell me when and where. Let me understand whether the deed is

"Yes, the marriage is legal enough," said the master of Earlescourt. "You had to choose between duty, honor,

"Yes," said Lord Earle, drearily, "you are my only son. Heaven grant no other child may pierce his father's

heart as you have done mine! Years ago, Ronald, my life was blightedmy hopes, wishes, ambitions, and

plans all melted; they lived again in you. I longed with wicked impatience for the time when you should carry

out my dreams, and add fresh luster to a grand old name. I have lived in your life; and now, for the sake of a

simple, pretty, foolish girl, you have forsaken meyou have deliberately trampled upon every hope that I

"You can not atone," said Lord Earle, gravely. "I can never trust you again. From this time forth I have no

son. My heir you must be when the life you have darkened ends. My son is dead to me."

There was no anger in the stern, grave face turned toward the unhappy young man.

"I never broke my word," he continued, "and never shall. You have chosen your own path; take it. You

preferred this Dora to me; go to her. I told you if you persisted in your folly, I would never look upon your

"Oh, Rupert!" cried Lady Earle; "be merciful. He is my only child. I shall die if you send him from me."

"He preferred this Dora to you or to me," said Lord Earle. "I am sorry for you, HelenaHeaven knows it

wrings my heartbut I shall not break my word! I will not reproach you," he continued, turning to his son,

"it would be a waste of time and words; you knew the alternative, and are doubtless prepared for it."

"We will end this scene," said Lord Earle, turning from his unhappy wife, who was weeping passionately.

"Look at your mother, Ronald; kiss her for the last time and go from her; bear with you the memory of her

love and of her tenderness, and of how you have repaid them. Take your last look at me. I have loved youI

have been proud of you, hopeful for you; now I dismiss you from my presence, unworthy son of a noble race.

The same roof will never shelter us again. Make what arrangements you will. You have some little fortune; it

must maintain you. I will never contribute one farthing to the support of my lodge keeper's daughter. Go

where you likedo as you like. You have chosen your own path. Some day you must return to Earlescourt

as its master. I thank Heaven it will be when the degradation of my home and the dishonor of my race can not

touch me. Go now; I shall expect you to have quitted the Hall before tomorrow morning."

"You can not mean it, father," cried Ronald. "Send me from you punish meI deserve it; but let me see you

"Never in life," said Lord Earle, calmly. "Remember, when you see me lying dead, that death itself was less

"It is useless," replied his father; "your choice has been made deliberately. I am not cruel. If you write to me I

shall return your letters unopened. I shall refuse to see or hear from you, or to allow you to come near

Earlescourt; but you can write to your motherI do not forbid that. She can see you under any roof save

mine. Now, farewell; the sunshine, the hope, the happiness of my life go with you, but I shall keep my word.

See my solicitor, Mr. Burt, about your money, and he will arrange everything in my place."

"Father," cried Ronald, with tears in his eyes, "say one kind word, touch my hand once again!"

"No," said Lord Earle, turning from the outstretched hand; "that is not the hand of an honorable man; I can

Then Ronald bent down to kiss his mother; her face was white and still; she was not conscious of his tears or

his passionate pleading. Lord Earle raised her face. "Go," said he, calmly; "do not let your mother find you

He never forgot the pleading of those sorrowful eyes, the anguish of the brave young face, as Ronald turned

When Lady Earle awoke to consciousness of her misery, her son had left her. No one would have called Lord

Earle hard or stern who saw him clasp his weeping wife in his arms, and console her by every kind and tender

Lord Earle did not know that in his wife's heart there was a hope that in time he would relent. It was hard to

lose her brave boy for a few months or even years; but he would return, his father must forgive him, her

sorrow would be but for a time. But Lord Earle, inflexible and unflinching, knew that he should never in life

No one knew what Lord Earle suffered; as Valentine Charteris said, he was too proud for scenes. He dined

with Lady Charteris and her daughter, excusing his wife, and never naming his son. After dinner he shut

Earlescourt was full of bustle and activity. The young heir was leaving suddenly; boxes and trunks had to be

packed. He did not say where he was going; indeed those who helped him said afterward that his face was

Everything was arranged for Ronald's departure by the night mail from Greenfield, the nearest station to

Earlescourt. He took with him neither horses nor servants; even his valet, Morton, was left behind. "My lady"

Valentine Charteris sat alone in the drawing room when Ronald came in to bid her farewell. She was amazed

at the unhappy termination of the interview. She would have gone instantly to Lord Earle, but Ronald told her

As Ronald stood here, looking into Valentine's beautiful face, he remembered his mother's words, that she

cared for him as she cared for no other. Could it be possible that this magnificent girl, with her serene,

queenly dignity, loved him? She looked distressed by his sorrow. When he spoke of his mother, and she saw

"I shall go to my wife at once," he replied, "and take her abroad. Do not look so pained and grieved for me,

Miss Charteris I must do the best I can. If my income will not support me, I must work; a few months' study

will make me a tolerable artist. Do not forget my mother, Valentine, and bid me 'Godspeed.'"

Her heart yearned for himso young, so simple, so brave. She longed to tell him how much she admired

himhow she wanted to help him, and would be his friend while she lived. But Miss Charteris rarely yielded

"Goodbye, RonaldGod bless you! Be brave; it is not one great deed that makes a hero. The man who bears

As he left his home in that quiet starlit night, Ronald little thought that, while his mother lay weeping as

though her heart would break, a beautiful face, wet with bitter tears, watched him from one of the upper

windows, and his father, shut up alone, listened to every sound, and heard the door closed behind his son as

The next day Lady Charteris and her daughter left Earlescourt. Lord Earle gave no sign of the heavy blow

which had struck him. He was their attentive host while they remained; he escorted them to their carriage,

and parted from them with smiling words. Then he went back to the house, where he was never more to hear

As the days and months passed, and the young heir did not return, wonder and surprise reigned at Earlescourt.

Lord Earle never mentioned his son's name. People said he had gone abroad, and was living somewhere in

Italy. To Lord Earl it seemed that his life was ended; he had no further plans, ambition died away; the grand

Lady Earle said nothing of the trouble that had fallen upon her. She hoped against hope that the time would

come when her husband would pardon their only son. Valentine Charteris bore her disappointment well. She

never forgot the simple, chivalrous man who had clung to her friendship and relied so vainly upon her

Many lovers sighed round Valentine. One after another she dismissed them. She was waiting until she saw

some one like Ronald Earlelike him in all things save the weakness which had so fatally shadowed his life.

In a small, pretty villa, on the banks of the Arno, Ronald Earle established himself with his young wife. He

had gone direct to Eastham, after leaving Earlescourt, his heart aching with sorrow for home and all that he

had left there, and beating high with joy at the thought that now nothing stood between him and Dora. He told

her of the quarrelof his father's stern wordsand Dora, as he had foreseen clung round his neck and wept.

She would love him all the more, she said. She must love him enough to make up for home and every one

Yet, strange to say, when Ronald told his pretty, weeping wife all that happened, he made no mention of

Ronald's arrangements were soon made. He sent for Stephen Thorne and his wife, and told them how and

"I am sorry for it," said Stephen. "No good will ever come of such an unequal match. My girl had better have

stayed at home, or married the young farmer who loved her. The distance between you is too great, Mr. Earle,

Ronald laughed at the idea that he should ever tire of Dora. How little these prosaic, commonplace people

The good lodge keeper and his wife parted from Dora with many tears. She was never to brighten their home

again with her sweet face and gay voice. She was going away to strange lands over the sea. Many dark

The first news that came to the villa on the banks of the Arno was that Stephen Thorne and his wife had left

the lodge and taken a small farm somewhere in the county of Kent. Lady Earle had found them the means,

and they had left without one word from Lord Earle. He never asked whither they had gone.

Despite his father's anger and his mother's sorrow, despite his poverty and loss of position, Ronald for some

months was very happy with his young wife. It was so pleasant to teach Dora, to watch her sweet, dimpled

face and the dark eyes grow large with wonder; to hear her simple, naive remarks, her original ideas; to see

He often thought that there never had been, never could be, a wife so loving as Dora. He could not teach her

much, although he tried hard. She sang simple little ballads sweetly and clearly; but although master after

master tried his best, she could never be taught to playnot even as much as the easy accompaniments of her

own songs. Ronald hoped that with time and attention she would be able to sketch, but Dora never managed

it. Obediently enough she took pencil and paper in her hands and tried, but the strokes would never come

straight. Sometimes the drawing she made would resemble something so comical that both she and Ronald

laughed heartily; while the consciousness of her own inferiority grieved her, and large, bright tears would

frequently fall upon the paper. Then Ronald would take the pencils away, and Dora would cling around his

"No, a thousand times, no," he would say; he loved Dora better in her artless simplicity than he could have

It was pleasant to sit amid the oleanders and myrtles, reading the great poems of the world to Dora. Even if

she did not understand them, her face lighted with pleasure as the grand words came from Ronald's lips. It

was pleasant, too, to sit on the banks of the Arno, watching the blue waters gleaming in the sun. Dora was at

home there. She would say little of books, of pictures, or music; but she could talk of beautiful Nature, and

never tire. She knew the changing colors of the sky, the varied hues of the waves, the different voices of the

wind, the songs of the birds. All these had a separate and distinct meaning for her.

Ronald could not teach her much more. She liked the beautiful poems he read, but never could remember

who had written them. She forgot the names of great authors, or mixed them up so terribly that Ronald, in

despair, told her it would be better not to talk of books just yetnot until she was more familiar with them.

But he soon found out that Dora could not read for many minutes together. She would open her book, and

make a desperate attempt; then her dark eyes would wander away to the distant mountains, or to the

Seeing that, Ronald gave up all attempts at literature in the daytime; when the lamps were lighted in the

evening, and the fair face of Nature was shut out, he tried again, and succeeded for ten minutes; then Dora's

eyes drooped, the white lids with their jetty fringe closed; and with great dismay he found that over the

Two long, bright years had passed away before Ronald began to perceive that he could educate his pretty

young wife no further. She was a strange mixture of ignorance and uncultivated poetry. She could speak well;

her voice was sweet, her accent, caught from him, good; alone he never noticed any deficiencies, but if he

met an English friend in Florence and brought him home to dine, then Ronald began to wish that Dora would

leave off blushing and grow less shy, that she could talk a little more, and that he might lose all fear of her

The third year of their married life dawned; Dora was just twenty, and Ronald twentythree. There had been

no rejoicing when he had attained his majority; it passed over unnoticed and unmarked. News came to them

from England, letters from the little farm in Kent, telling of simple home intelligence, and letters from Lady

Earle, always sad and stained with tears. She had no good news to tell them. Lord Earle was well, but he

would never allow his son's name to be mentioned before him, and she longed to see her son. In all her letters

In this, the third year of his married life, Ronald began to feel the pressure of poverty. His income was not

more than three hundred a year. To Dora this seemed boundless riches; but the heir of Earlescourt had spent

more in dress and cigars. Now debts began to press upon him, writing home he knew was useless. He would

not ask Lady Earle, although he knew that she would have parted with the last jewel in her case for him.

Ronald gave himself up to the study of painting. A pretty little studio was built, and Dora spent long hours in

admiring both her husband and his work. He gave promise of being some day a good artistnot a genius.

The world would never rave about his pictures; but, in time, he would be a conscientious, painstaking artist.

"Why not go to the Jews?" asked fashionable young men. "Earlescourt must be yours some day. You can

Ronald steadily refused to entertain the idea. He wondered at modern ideas of honorthat men saw no

shame in borrowing upon the lives of their nearest and dearest, yet thought it a disgrace to be a follower of

one of the grandest of arts. He made one compromisethat was for his father's sake. As an artist, he was

known by Dora's name of Thorne, and, before long, Ronald Thorne's pictures were in great request. There

was no dash of genius about them; but they were careful studies. Some few were sold, and the price realized

Ronald became known in Florence. People who had not thought much of Mr. Earle were eager to know the

clever artist and his pretty, shy wife. Then the trial of Ronald Earle began in earnest. Had he lived always

away from the world, out of society, the chances are that his fate would have been different; but invitations

began to pour in upon him and Dora, and Ronald, half tired of his solitude, although he never suspected it,

Dora did not like the change; she felt lonely and lost where Ronald was so popular and so much at home.

Among those who eagerly sought Ronald's society was the pretty coquette, the Countess Rosali, an English

No one in Florence was half so popular as the fair countess. Among the dark, glowing beauties of sunny Italy

she was like a bright sunbeam. Her fair, piquant face was charming from its delicate bright coloring and gay

smiles; her hair, of the rare color painted by the old masters, yet so seldom seen, was of pure golden hue,

Countess Rosali, there was no denying the fact, certainly did enjoy a little flirtation. Her grave, serious

husband knew it, and looked on quite calmly. To his grave mind the pretty countess resembled a butterfly far

more than a rational being. He knew that, though she might laugh and talk to others, though she might seek

admiration and enjoy delicate flattery, yet in her heart she was true as steel. She loved bright colors, and

everything else that was gay and brilliant. She had gathered the roses; perhaps some one else had her share of

The fair, dainty lady had a great desire to see Mr. Thorne. She had seen one of his pictures at the house of one

of her friends a simple little thing, but it had charmed her. It was merely a bouquet of English wild flowers;

but then they were so naturally painted! The bluebells looked as though they had just been gathered. One

almost fancied dew drops on the delicate wild roses; a spray of pink hawthorn, daisies and golden buttercups

mingled with woodbine and meadowsweet, told sweet stories of the English meadows.

"Whoever painted that," said the fair countess, "loves flowers, and knows what English flowers mean."

The countess did not rest until Ronald had been introduced to her, and then she would know his wife. Her

grave, silent husband smiled at her evident admiration of the handsome young Englishman. She liked his

clear, Saxon face and fair hair; she liked his simple, kindly manner, so full of chivalry and truth. She liked

pretty Dora, too; but there were times when the dainty, fastidious countess looked at the young wife in

"There is something in Mrs. Thorne that puzzles meshe does not always speak or look like a lady"

Few days passed without bringing Ronald and Dora to the Villa Rosali. It would have been better for Ronald

Going into society increased the expenses which Ronald and his wife found already heavy enough. There

were times when the money received from the sale of his pictures failed in liquidating bills; then Ronald grew

anxious, and Dora, not knowing what better to do, wept and blamed herself for all the trouble. It was a relief

then to leave the home over which the clouds lowered and seek the gay villa, where something pleasant and

The countess gathered around her the elite of Florentine society; she selected her friends and acquaintances as

carefully as she selected her dresses, jewels, and flowers. She refused to know "bores" and "nobodies"; her

lady friends must be pretty, piquant, or fashionable, any gentleman admitted into her charmed circle must

have genius, wit, or talent to recommend him. Though grave matrons shook their heads and looked prudish

when the Countess Rosali was mentioned, yet to belong to her set was to receive the "stamp of fashion." No

day passed without some amusement at the villapicnic, excursion, soiree, dance, or, what its fair mistress

"Help me," she said one morning, as Ronald and Dora, in compliance with her urgent invitation, came to

spend the day at the villa"help me; I want to do something that will surprise every one. There are some

great English people coming to Florenceone of your heiresses, who is at the same time a beauty. We must

have some grand charades or tableaus. What would you advise? Think of something original that will take

"Wishing any one to be original," said Ronald, smiling at her quick, eager ways, "immediately deprives one

of all thought. I must have time; it seems to me you have exhausted every subject."

"An artist has neverfailing resources," she replied; "when every 'fount of inspiration' is closed it will be time

to tell me there are no ideas. You must have seen many charades, Mrs. Thorne," she said, turning suddenly to

Dora blushed. She thought of the lodge and its one small parlor, and then felt wretched and uncomfortable,

The countess opened her blue eyes in surprise, and Ronald looked anxiously from one to the other.

"My wife was too young when we were married to have seen much of the world," he said, inwardly hoping

"Ah, then, she will be of no use in our council," replied the countess, quickly. "Let us go out on the terrace;

She led the way to a pretty veranda on the terrace, and they sat under the shade of a large spreading vine.

"Now we can discuss my difficulty in peace," said the lady, in her pretty, imperious way. "I will, with your

The countess was not particularly gifted, but Ronald was charmed by the series of pictures she placed before

him, all well chosen, with startling points of interest, scenes from noble poems, pictures from fine old

tragedies. She never paused or seemed tired, while Dora sat, her face still flushed, looking more awkward and

ill at ease than Ronald had ever seen her. For the first time, as they sat under the vine that morning, Ronald

contrasted his wife with his dainty, brilliant hostess, and felt that she lost by the contrast"awkward and ill

at ease," self conscious to a miserable degree. For the first time Ronald felt slightly ashamed of Dora, and

wished that she knew more, and could take some part in the conversation. Dimples and smiles, curling rings

of dark hair, and pretty rosebud lips were, he thought, all very well, but a man grew tired of them in time,

unless there was something to keep up the charm. But poor little Dora had no resources beyond her smiles

and tears. She sat shrinking and timid, half frightened at the bright lady who knew so much and told it so

well; feeling her heart cold with its first dread that Ronald was not pleased with her. Her eyes wandered to the

faroff hills. Ah! Could it be that he would ever tire of her and wished that he had married some one like

himself. The very thought pierced her heart, and the timid young wife sat with a sorrowful look upon her face

"I will show you a sketch of the costume," said the countess; "it is in my desk. Pray excuse me."

"For Heaven's sake, Dora," he said, quickly, "do look a little brighter; what will the countess think of you?

It was an injudicious speech. If Ronald had only caressed her, all would have been sunshine again; as it was,

the first impatient words she had ever heard from him smote her with a new, strange pain, and the tears

"Do notpraynever do that," said Ronald; "we shall be the laughing stock of all Florence. Wellbred

"Here is the sketch," said the countess, holding a small drawing in her hand. Her quick glance took in Dora's

With kind and graceful tact the countess gave Dora time to recover herself; but that was the last time she ever

invited the young artist and his wife alone. Countess Rosali had a great dread of all domestic scenes.

Neither Dora nor Ronald ever alluded again to this little incident; it had one bad effectit frightened the

timid young wife, and made her dread going into society. When invitations to grand houses came, she would

say, "Go alone, Ronald; if I am with you they are sure to ask me ever so many questions which I can not

answer; then you will be vexed with me, and I shall be ashamed of my ignorance."

"I can not," said Dora, shaking her pretty head. "The only lesson I ever learned in my life was how to love

"You have learned that by heart," replied Ronald. Then he would kiss her pitiful little face and go without

By slow degrees it became a settled rule that Dora should stay at home and Ronald go out. He had no

scruples in leaving hershe never objected; her face was always smiling and bright when he went away, and

the same when he returned. He said to himself that Dora was happier at home than elsewhere, that fine ladies

Their ways in life, now became separate and distinct, Ronald going more than ever into society, Dora

But society was expensive in two waysnot only from the outlay in dress and other necessaries, but in the

time taken from work. There were many days when Ronald never went near his studio, and only returned

home late in the evening to leave early in the morning. He was only human, this young hero who had

sacrificed so much for love; and there were times, after some brilliant fete or soiree, when the remembrance

of home, Dora, hard work, narrow means, would come to him like a heavy weight or the shadow of a dark

Not that he loved her lesspretty, tender Dora; but there was not one feeling or taste in common between

them. Harder men would have tired of her long before. They never cared to speak much of home, for Dora

noticed that Ronald was always sad after a letter from Lady Earle. The time came when she hesitated to speak

of her own parents, lest he should remember much that she would have liked him to forget.

If any true friend had stepped in then, and warned them, life would have been a different story for Ronald

Ronald's story became known in Florence. He was the son of a wealthy English peer, who had offended his

father by a "low" marriage; in time he would succeed to the title. Hospitalities were lavished upon him, the

best houses in Florence were thrown open to him, and he was eagerly welcomed there. When people met him

continually unaccompanied by his young wife they smiled significantly, and bright eyes grew soft with pity.

Ronald never knew how the long hours of his absence were spent by Dora. She never looked sad or weary to

him, he never saw any traces of tears, yet Dora shed many. Through the long sunny hours and far into the

night she sat alone, thinking of the home she had left in faroff Englandwhere she had been loved and

worshiped by her rough, homely, honest father and a loving mother; thinking too, of Ralph, and his pretty,

quiet homestead in the green fields, where she would have been honored as its mistress, where no fine ladies

would have vexed her with questions, and no one would have thought her ignorant or awkward; thinking of

all these things, yet loving Ronald none the less, except that a certain kind of fear began to mingle with her

Gradually, slowly, but surely, the fascination of the gay and brilliant society in which Ronald was so eagerly

courted laid hold of him. He did not sin willfully or consciously; little by little a distaste for his own home

and a weariness of Dora's society overcame him. He was never unkind to her, for Ronald was a gentleman;

but he lingered no more through the long sunny morning by her side. He gave up all attempts to educate her.

He ceased to tease her about books; he never offered to read to her; and pretty, simple Dora, taught by the

Ronald saw some little change in her. The dimples and smiles had almost vanished from her face. He seldom

heard the laugh that had once been so sweet to him. There was retiring grace in her manner that suited her

well. He thought she was catching the "tone of good society," and liked the change.

Some natures become ennobled under the pressure of adversity; but limited means and petty money cares had

no good effect upon Ronald Earle. He fretted under them. He could do nothing as other people did. He could

not purchase a magnificent bouquet for the countess; his means would not permit it. He could not afford a

horse such as all his gentlemen friends rode. Adversity developed no good qualities in him; the discipline was

Ronald went on with his painting fitfully, sometimes producing a good picture, but often failing.

The greatest patron of the fine arts in Florence was the Prince di Borgezi. His magnificent palace was like

one picture gallery. He saw some sketches of Ronald's, and gave an order to him to paint a large picture,

leaving him to choose the subject. In vain by night and by day did Ronald ponder on what that subject should

be. He longed to make his name immortal by it. He thought once of Tennyson's "Dora," and of sketching his

wife for the principal figure. He did make a sketch, but he found that he could not paint Dora's face; he could

not place the dimpling smiles and bright blushes on canvas, and they were the chief charm. He therefore

Standing one day where the sunbeams fell lightly through the thick myrtles, an inspiration came to him. He

would paint a picture of Queen Guinevere in her gay sweet youth and bright innocent beautyGuinevere

with her lovely face and golden hair, the white plumes waving and jewels flashing; the bright figure on the

milkwhite palfrey shining in the mellow sunlight that came through the green trees.

Lancelot should ride by her side; he could see every detail of the picture; he knew just the noble, brave,

tender face Sir Lancelot should have; but where could he find a model for Guinevere? Where was there a face

that would realize his artist dreams of her? The painting was half completed before he thought of Valentine

With renewed energy Ronald set to work. Every feature of that perfect face was engraved upon his mind. He

made sketch after sketch, until, in its serene, sweet loveliness, Valentine's face smiled upon him.

"Queen Guinevere" was a success far beyond Ronald's dearest hopes. Artists and amateurs, connoisseurs of

all ranks and degrees were delighted with it. The great charm of the picture was the lovely young face.

"Whom was it like? Where had he found his model?" "Was ever any woman so perfectly beautiful?:" Such

The picture was hung in the gallery of the palace, and the Prince di Borgezi became one of Ronald's best

The prince gave a grand ball in honor of a beautiful English lady, who, with her family, had just arrived in

Florence. Countess Rosali raved about her, wisely making a friend where any one else would have feared a

Ronald had contrived an invitation, but was prevented from attending. All the elite of Florence were there,

and great was the excitement when Countess Rosali entered the ball room with an exceedingly beautiful

womana queenly blondethe lady about whom all Florence was interestedan English heiress, clever as

she was fair, speaking French with a courtly grace and Italian with fluent skill; and when the prince stood

The countess was in dangera fairer, brighter star had arisen. Valentine Charteris was the belle of the most

When the prince had received his guest, and danced once with Miss Charteris, he asked her if she would like

"Nothing," she said, "would please her better;" and as the Countess Rosali stood near, the prince included her

"Certainly; I never tire of the 'Guinevere,' never weary of the artist's triumph, for he is one of the most valued

Prince di Borgesi smiled, thinking how much of the fair coquette's admiration went to the artist's talent, and

They entered the long gallery, where some of the finest pictures in Italy were hung. The prince led the ladies

to the southern end. Valentine saw before her a magnificent paintingtall forest trees, whose thick branches

were interwoven, every green leaf distinct and clear; she saw the mellow light that fell through them, the

milkwhite palfrey and the jeweled harness, the handsome knight who rode near; and then she saw her own

face, bright, smiling, glowing with beauty, bright in innocence, sweet in purity. Valentine stared in

"There can be no doubt about the resemblance," said the countess. "The artist has made you Queen

"Yes," said Valentine, wonderingly; "it is my own face. How came it there? Who is the artist?"

"His name is Ronald Thorne," replied the countess. "There is quite a romance about him."

"Yes," said Valentine, "my family and his have been on intimate terms for years. I knew that he was in Italy

"Ah," rejoined the countess, eagerly, "then perhaps you know all about his marriage? Who was Mrs. Thorne?

"Nay," said Valentine; "if Mrs. Thorne has any secrets, I shall not reveal them. I must tell mamma they are in

"I was fond of Mrs. Thorne once," said the countess, plaintively, "but really there is nothing in her."

"There must be something both estimable and lovable," replied Valentine quickly, "or Mr. Thorne would

"The more so because it is the work of an old friend," said Valentine; and again the prince admired the grace

"Any other woman in her place," he thought, "would have blushed and coquetted. How charming she is!"

Lady Charteris was half pleased, half sorry, to hear that Ronald was in Florence. No one deplored his rash,

foolish marriage more than she did. She thought Lord Earle stern and cruel; she pitied the young man she had

once liked so well, yet for all that she did not feel inclined to renew the acquaintance. When Valentine asked

her to drive next morning to the little villa on the banks of the Arno, she at first half declined.

"I promised to be Ronald's friend years ago," said Valentine, calmly; "and now, mamma, you must allow me

to keep my word. We must visit his wife, and pay her every attention. To refuse would imply a doubt of me,

"You shall do as you like, my dear," replied Lady Charteris; "the young man's mother is my dearest friend,

It was one of those Italian mornings when the fair face of Nature seemed bathed in beauty. The air was full of

the music of birds; the waters of the Arno rolled languidly on; oleanders and myrtles were in full bloom;

It was not yet noon when Lady Charteris and her daughter reached the little villa. Before they came to the

house, Valentine caught one glimpse of a pretty, pale face with large dark eyes. Could that be pretty, smiling

Dora? There were the shining rings of dark hair; but where were the smiles Ronald had described? That was

They were told that Mr. Thorne was in his studio, and would see them there. They had sent no card, and

Ronald believed the "two ladies" to have called on some business connected with pictures. He started with

surprise when Lady Charteris and Valentine entered. There were a few words of confused greeting, a hurried

explanation of the circumstances that led Sir Hugh to Florence; and then Valentine looked long and steadily

at the only man she had ever cared for. He was altered; the frank, handsome face looked worn and thin; it had

a restless expression. He did not look like a man who had found peace. Lady Charteris told him of her last

visit to Earlescourthow his mother never ceased speaking of him, and his father still preserved the same

"I have seen your picture," said Lady Charteris. "How well you remembered my daughter's face."

"It is one not easily forgotten," he replied; and then another deep silence fell upon him.

"Where is Mrs. Earle?" asked Valentine. "Our visit is chiefly to her. Pray introduce her to mamma. I know

They followed him into the pretty sunlit garden, where Valentine had seen the pale, sad face.

Dora was sitting under the shade of a large flowering tree, her hands folded, and her eyes riveted on the

distant hills; there was something in her listless manner that touched both ladies more than any words could

have done. A deep flush crimsoned her face when Ronald and his guests stood before her. She rose, not

ungracefully; her eyelids drooped in their old shy manner. As Ronald introduced his wife, something in the

girl's wistful face went straight to Lady Charteris's heart. She spoke not a word, but folded Dora in her arms

"You must learn to love us," said Valentine; "we are your husband's dearest friends."

Poor Dora had no graceful words ready; her heart was full of gratitude, but she knew not how to express it.

"Now," thought Dora, "he will not be pleased." She tried to say something of her pleasure in seeing them, but

A luncheon of fruit and wine was brought out into the garden, and they talked merrilyof Earlescourt and

the dear old friends there; of the ball and Prince di Borgesi; in all of which Dora felt that she had no share.

The same face she saw that Ronald had painted in his picture, and every one admired. How graceful she was!

How she talked! The words seemed to ripple like music over her perfect lips. Where had Ronald known her?

"Ah!" thought Dora, "if I could be like her!" And a sudden sense of wonder struck her that Ronald had not

Valentine neither forgot nor neglected her. She tried to draw her into their conversation, but Dora replied so

uneasily and so briefly to all her remarks that she saw the truest kindness was to leave her alone.

They spent a few hours pleasantly, and Lady Charteris would not leave until Ronald promised to take his wife

"Mrs. Earle will not refuse me," said Valentine, with that smile which no one ever resisted. "She will come

When the day was settled, the ladies drove away, and Ronald watched the carriage until it was out of sight.

"My dear Valentine," cried Lady Charteris when they were out of hearing, "my dear child, what could

possess Ronald Earle? What could he see in that shy, awkward girl to induce him to give up everything and

"Altered!" interrupted Lady Charteris. "I should imagine she is, and unhappy, too. She is frightened to

"That is just the mystery," replied her mother"a clever man like he is, accustomed to intelligent and

"Do not try," said Valentine, calmly. "She is evidently nervous and sensitive. I mean to be a true friend to

Poor Dora! She was already trained and formed, but no one would understand that. People do not expect the

perfume of the rose in a wild strawberry blossom, or the fragrance of the heliotrope in a common bluebell.

Yet they wondered that in this simple girl, ignorant of the world and it ways, they did not find a cultivated

mind, a graceful manner, and a dignified carriage. Their only thought was to train and form her, whereas

"Dora," said Ronald, as the carriage disappeared from view, "try to like Lady Charteris and her daughter; they

are so kindly disposed toward you. I shall be so pleased to see you good friends"

"I will try," she replied, cheerfully. "How beautiful she is, Ronald! Tell me about her. You remember her face

"Far better," said Ronald, with a smile; and then he looked up in alarm, for Dora was weeping wildly, and

"Oh, Ronald!" she said, "for your sake I wish I was like her. Shall you ever tire of me, or wish you had not

Ronald soothed and comforted his wife, and did not return to his studio that day, but sat talking to her, telling

It is very seldom that a man of good disposition goes wrong willfully. Ronald Earle would have felt indignant

if any one had accused him of dishonor or even neglect. He thought Dora enjoyed herself more at home than

in society, consequently he left her there. Habits soon grow. The time came when he thought it was the wiser

course. He felt more at ease without her. If Dora by chance accompanied him, he watched her anxiously,

fearful lest others should discover and comment upon the little deficiencies she felt so acutely.

The visit to Lady Charteris was duly paida day that Ronald enjoyed, and Dora thought would never end.

She could not feel at home with these fine ladies, although Lady Charteris was kind to her and Valentine laid

herself out to please; not even when Valentine, pitying her shy, timid manner and evident constraint, took her

out into the garden and tried hard to win her confidence. Dora's heart seemed to close against the beautiful,

brilliant lady who knew her husband and all his friends so well. A fierce, hot breath of jealousy stirred the

simple nature. Ronald talked to Miss Charteris of things all unknown to her; they seemed to have the same

thoughts and feelings, while she was outside the charmed circle, and could never enter it. She watched the

growing admiration on Ronald's face when Valentine played and sang, and her restless heart grew weary and

faint. She had never felt jealous before. When Countess Rosali talked and laughed with her husband, treating

him sometimes as a captive and again as a victor, Dora never cared; but every smile on this woman's fair face

When Miss Charteris, under pretense of showing her favorite flower, took Dora away from the others, and

condescended to her as she had never done to any other, actually caressing the anxious little face and herself

offering to be Mrs. Earle's true friend, Dora's heart closed against her. She only replied by faint

monosyllables, and never raised her dark eyes to the face turned so kindly upon her.

When Ronald had taken his young wife away, Lady Charteris sat with her daughter in an unbroken silence.

"Poor boy!" said the other lady at length, "and poor Dora! This is one more added to the list of unhappy

As she watched the sun set in the golden west, Valentine asked herself the same question: "How will it end?"

If any one had told Dora she was jealous, she would have denied it indignantly, although Valentine was

From pure kindness Lady Charteris wished Ronald to paint her daughter's portrait; it was to be a large picture

they could take back to Greenoke. He was pleased with the commission, and began to work at it eagerly.

Lady Charteris came with Valentine, and remained with her during the long sittings, doing everything in her

The fair face, in its calm, Grecian beauty, grew upon the canvas. Many a long hour, when Ronald was absent,

Dora lingered over it. The portrait had a strange fascination for her. She dwelt upon every feature until, if the

lips had opened and smiled a mocking smile at her, she would not have felt greatly surprised. It was less a

picture to her than a living, breathing reality. She would watch Ronald as he worked at it, eager and

enthusiastic; then, looking up and finding her dark eyes riveted upon him with so strange an expression, he

would call her to see what progress he had made; and, never dreaming of the growing jealousy in Dora's

Without any great or sudden change, day by day Dora grew more silent and reserved. She was learning to

hide her thoughts, to keep her little troubles in her own heart and ponder them. The time was past when she

Ronald did not notice the change. Home seemed very dull. It was a great pleasure to leave the solitary little

villa and sit in the brilliant salon of Lady Charteris's wellappointed home. It was pleasant to exchange dull

Valentine had many admirers. Every one knew the Prince di Borgesi would gladly have laid his fortune and

title at her feet; but she cared for neither. Ronald often watched her as noble and learned men offered their

homage to her. She smiled brightly, spoke well and gracefully; but he never saw in her face the look he once

remembered there. Lady Charteris deplored her daughter's obstinacy. She took Ronald into her confidence,

Ronald was not particularly vain. Like most men, he had a pleasing consciousness of his own worth; but he

could not help remembering his mother's assurance that Valentine cared for him. Could it have been true?

Was there ever a time when that beautiful girl, so indifferent to all homage, cared for him? Could there have

been a time when the prize for which others sighed in vain was within his grasp and he slighted it?

He did not dwell upon these thoughts, but they would come into his mind. It was seldom that a day passed

without his calling at the pretty home where Lady Charteris always welcomed him kindly. She was sorry for

him. He was never de trop with her. Occasionally, too, she drove out to see his wife; but the visits were rather

Then Dora's health failed. She grew weak and languidirritable at timesas unlike the smiling, blushing

girl Ronald had met at Earlescourt gardens as it was possible for her to be. He wrote to tell his mother that at

length there was hope of an heir to their ancient house. He was very kind and patient to his ailing, delicate

wife, giving up parties and soirees to sit with her, but never able to guess why Dora's dark eyes looked so

Lady Charteris had planned an excursion to some picturesque ruin that had pleased her daughter, who wished

to make a sketch of it. Ronald was asked to join them, and he had been looking forward for many days to a

few pleasant hours away from all care and anxietyout in the beautiful country with Valentine. But when

the morning came Dora looked pale and ill. She did not ask him to stay with her, but he read the wish in her

"I will not go, Dora," said her husband; "I will not leave you. I shall send a note of excuse to Lady Charteris,

Ronald might have guessed there was something wrong from the tone of her voice, but Ronald was not of a

"Now, Dora," he said, gently, "you know I would give up every pleasure in the world for you."

He bent over her, and kissed her pale little face. Time had been when the simple heart would have thrilled

"It used to be always so," she thought, "before she came with her beauty and took him from me."

How much misery would have been averted had she told Ronald of her jealous thoughts and fears! He never

suspected them. When he returned home, looking bright and happy, she would ask him, "Have you seen Miss

Charteris today?" and he, glad of her interest in his friends, would reply that he had been to her mother's

house, and tell her of music he had heard or people he had met, or of Valentine's messages to her. So Dora

It was a proud but anxious day for Ronald when he wrote to tell his mother that he was now the father of little

twin daughters, two pretty, fair babies, in place of the long lookedfor heir of Earlescourt.

Lady Charteris was very kind to the lonely young motherso kind that, had she borne any other name, Dora

must have loved her. A glimpse of the old happiness came back, for Ronald was proud and pleased with the

One bright morning, when Dora had been taken down into the pretty room where the infants lay sleeping,

Lady Charteris and her daughter came in. Ronald joined them and there was a long discussion as to the

"You must have an eye to the future," said Valentine, smiling. "These little ladies will be very grand

personages some day. It would be a nice compliment to Lady Earle if you called one Helena."

"I have made my choice," said Dora, in a clear, ringing voice. "I shall call this little one with the fair hair

A faint flush rose to her face as she spoke. She would allow of no interference here. This smiling beauty

"I admire your choice," said Lady Charteris; "Beatrice and Lillian are very pretty names."

When Valentine bent over the cradle and kissed the children before taking leave, Dora said, "I have had my

own way, you see, Miss Charteris, with my little ones. Mr. Earle did not oppose me."

Valentine thought the words harsh and strange; she had no clew to their meaning. She could not have

imagined Dora jealous of her. She made some laughing reply, and passed on. Dora was not lonely now, the

care of the little ones occupying her whole time; but, far from their binding Ronald to his home, he became

The pretty, picturesque villa was very small; there was no room available for a nursery. Wherever Dora sat,

there must the little ones be; and although they were very charming to the mother and the nurse, the

continued cries and noise irritated Ronald greatly. Then he grew vexed; Dora cried, and said he did not love

them, and so the barrier grew day by day between those who should have been all in all to each other.

The children grew. Little Beatrice gave promise of great beauty. She had the Earle face, Ronald said. Lillian

was a fair, sweet babe, too gentle, her mother thought, to live. Neither of them resembled her, and at times

Perhaps in all Ronald Earle's troubled life he never spent a more unsettled or wretched year than this. "It is

impossible to paint," he said to himself, "when disturbed by crying babies." So the greater part of his time

was spent away from home. Some hours of every day were passed with Valentine; he never stopped to ask

himself what impulse led him to seek her society; the calm repose of her fair presence contrasted so

pleasantly with the petty troubles and small miseries of home. When Miss Charteris rode out he accompanied

her; he liked to meet her at parties and balls. He would have thought a day sad and dark wherein he did not

When the little ones reached their first birthday, Valentine, with her usual kind thought, purchased a grand

assortment of toys, and drove over quite unexpectedly to the villa. It was not a very cheerful scene which met

Ronald was busily engaged in writing. Dora, flushed and worn, was vainly trying to stop the cries of one

child, while the other pulled at her dress. The anxious, dreary face struck Valentine with pain. She laid the

parcel of toys down, and shook hands with Ronald, who looked somewhat ashamed of the aspect of affairs.

Then, turning to Dora, she took the child from her arms, and little Beatrice, looking at her with wondering

"You are not strong enough, Dora, to nurse this heavy child," said Miss Charteris. "Why do you not find

"We spend too much in gloves and horses," added Dora, bitterly; but no sooner were the words spoken than

Ronald made no reply, and Valentine, anxious to avert the storm she had unwittingly raised, drew attention to

When Valentine left them, Dora and Ronald had their first quarrel long and bitter. He could ill brook the

insult her words impliedspoken before Valentine, too!and she for the first time showed him how an

undisciplined, untrained nature can throw off the restraint of good manners and good breeding. It was a

quarrel never to be forgotten, when Ronald in the height of his rage wished that he had never seen Dora, and

she reechoed the wish. When such a quarrel takes place between man and wife, the bloom and freshness are

gone from love. They may be reconciled, but they will never again be to each other what they once were. A

The angry, passionate words spoken by Ronaldalmost the first he had ever utteredsoon faded from his

mind, but they rankled like poisoned arrows in Dora's heart. She believed them. Before evening her husband

repented of his anger, and called himself a coward for having scolded Dora. He went up to her and raised her

"Little wife," He said, "we have both been wrong. I am very sorrylet us make friends."

There was just a suspicion of sullenness in Dora's nature, and it showed itself in full force now.

"It is no matter," she replied, coolly; "I knew long ago that you were tired of me."

Ronald would not answer, lest they should quarrel again, but he thought to himself that perhaps she was not

From that day the breach between them widened. In after years Dora saw how much she was to blame. She

understood then how distasteful her quiet, sullen reserve must have been to a high bred, fastidious man like

Ronald. She did not see it then, but nursed in her heart imaginary wrongs and injuries; and, above all, she

For some weeks Miss Charteris saw the cloud deepening on Ronald's face. He grew silent, and lost the flow

of spirit that had once seemed never to fail; and during the few weeks that followed, a strong resolution grew

in her mind. She was his true friend, and she would try to restore peace and harmony between him and his

wife. She waited for some days, but at her mother's house it was impossible to see him alone. Yet she

honestly believed that, if she could talk to him, remind him of his first love for Dora, of her simplicity and

many virtues, she might restore peace and harmony to her old friend's house. She thought Ronald to blame.

He had voluntarily taken active duties upon himself, and to her clearly, rightly judging mind, there was no

earthly reason why he should not fulfill them. He would not feel hurt at her speaking, she felt sure, for he had

voluntarily sought her aid years ago. So Valentine waited day after day, hoping to find a chance for those few

words she thought would do so much good; but, as no opportunity came, she resolved to make one. Taking

her little jeweled pencil, she wrote the following lines that were in after time a death warrant:

"Dear Mr. Earle,I wish to speak to you particularly and privately. I shall be in our grounds tomorrow

morning about ten; let me see you there before you enter the house. Your sincere friend, Valentine Charteris."

All the world might have read the notethere was nothing wrong in itgood intentions and a kindly heart

dictated it, but it worked fatal mischief. When Ronald was leaving her mother's house, Miss Charteris openly

"This is the first note I have ever written to you," she said, with a smile. "You must not refuse the request it

"I will send him home happy tomorrow," she thought, "he is easily influenced for good. He must make up the

Ronald did not open the letter until he reached home. Then he read it with a halfconsciousness of what

"She is a noble woman," he thought. "Her words made me brave beforethey will do me good again."

He left the folded paper upon the table in his studio; and jealous little Dora, going in search of some work she

had left, found it there. She read it word by word, the color dying slowly out of her face as she did so, and a

bitter, deadly jealousy piercing her heart like a twoedged sword. It confirmed her worst fears, her darkest

doubts. How dared this brilliant, beautiful woman lure Ronald from her? How dared she rob her of his love?

Ronald looked aghast at his wife's face as she reentered the sitting room. He had been playing with the

children, and had forgotten for the time both Valentine and her note. He cried out in alarm as she turned her

"What is the matter, Dora?" he cried. "Are you ill or frightened? You look like a ghost."

She made no reply, and her husband, thinking she had relapsed into one of her little fits of temper, sighed

She had quite resolved she would go and meet the husband who was tired of her and the woman who lured

him away. She would listen to all they had to say, and then confront them. No thought of the dishonor of such

a proceeding struck her. Poor Dora was not gifted with great refinement of feelingshe looked upon the step

she contemplated rather as a triumph over an enemy than a degradation to herself. She knew the place in the

grounds where they should be sure to meet. Miss Charteris called it her bower; it was a thick cluster of trees

under the shade of which stood a pretty, rustic seat; and Dora thought that, if she placed herself behind the

Before Ronald partook of breakfast, Dora had quitted the house on her foolish errand. She knew the way to

the house and the entrance to the garden. She had no fear; even were she discovered there, no one could

surmise more than that she was resting on her way to the house. She crouched behind the trees and waited. It

was wrong, weak, and wicked; but there was something so pitiful in the white face full of anguish, that one

The sunshine reached her, the birds were singing in the trees, the flowers were all bloomingshe, in her

sorrow and desolation, heeded nothing. At length she saw themValentine in her white morning dress, her

beautiful face full of deep, earnest emotion, and Ronald by her side. As she surmised, they walked straight to

the trees, and Valentine signed to Ronald to take a seat by her side. Sweetly and clearly every word she

uttered sounded to Ronald, but they fell like drops of molten lead on the jealous heart of Ronald's wife.

"You must try," Valentine was saying; "I used to think you would be a hero. You are proving yourself a very

Dora could not distinguish Ronald's words so plainly; he said something about life and its mistakes.

"I told you once," said Valentine, "that the man who could endure so bravely the consequences of his own

actions was a true hero. Grant the worstthat you have made a mistake. You must make the best you can of

"No," he said gravely. "I am very unhappymore so than you can imagine, Valentine. Life seems to have

lost all its charms for me. I had such great hopes once, but they are all dead now."

"You are too young to say that," she replied; "a little courage, a little patience, and all will be well. If it

Valentine Charteris never finished her sentence; a pale, angry face and dark, gleaming eyes full of passion

"You may spare your pity, Miss Charteris," cried a hoarse voice. "Why have you made my husband

dissatisfied with me? Why have you taken his love from me? Why do you write notes asking him to meet

"Hush!" said Ronald, sternly, grasping her arm. "Stop those wild words, Dora! Are you mad?"

Then Miss Charteris rose, her calm, grand face unruffled, not a quiver on her proud lips.

"Stay, Miss Charteris, one moment, I pray you," said Ronald, "while my wife apologizes for her folly."

"Dora," said her husband, gravely, "did you read the letter Miss Charteris wrote to me?"

"And you deliberately came here to listen to what she had to say to me?" he continued. "You deliberately

His grave, stern dignity calmed her angry passion, and she looked halffrightened into his quiet white face.

"Answer me!" he said. "Have you crouched behind those trees deliberately and purposely to listen?

"Yes," she said; "and I would do so again if any one tried to take my husband from me."

"Then may I be forgiven for the dishonor I have brought to my name and race!" said Ronald. "May I be

forgiven for thinking such a woman fit to be my wife! Hear me," he continued, and the passion in his voice

changed to contempt: "Miss Charteris is your friend; she asked me to meet her here that she might plead your

cause, Dorathat she might advise me to remain more at home with you, to go less into society, to look

more at the bright side of our married life, and be a better husband than I have been lately; it was for that she

"That is at your option," he replied coolly. "Miss Charteris, I should kneel to ask your pardon for the insults

you have received. If a man had uttered them, I would avenge them. The woman who spoke them bears my

"It is granted," she replied; "your wife must have been mad, or she would have known I was her friend. I

deeply regret that my good intentions have resulted so unhappily. Forget my annoyance, Mr. Earle, and

"I forgive her," said Ronald; "but I never wish to look upon her face again. I see nothing but dishonor there.

My love died a violent death ten minutes since. The woman so dead to all delicacy, all honor as to listen and

"Be pitiful," said Valentine, for Dora was weeping bitterly now; all her fire and passion, all her angry

"I am pitiful," he replied. "Heaven knows I pity her. I pity myself. We Earles love honorable women when we

love at all. I will escort you to your house, Miss Charteris, and then Mrs. Earle and myself will make our

"Try to believe that you are wrong and mistaken, Mrs. Earle," she said gently. "I had no thought save to be

They spoke no word as they passed through the pretty grounds. Valentine was full of pity for her companion,

When Ronald reached the cluster of trees again, Dora was not there. Just at that moment he cared but little

whither she had gone. His vexation and sorrow seemed almost greater than he could bear.

The passion and despair of that undisciplined heart were something painful to see. Reason, sense, and honor,

for a time were all dead. If Dora could have stamped out the calm beauty of Valentine's magnificent face, she

would have done so. Ronald's anger, his bitter contempt, stung her, until her whole heart and soul were in

angry revolt, until bitter thoughts raged like a wild tempest within her. She could not see much harm in what

she had done; she did not quite see why reading her own husband's letter, or listening to a private

conversation of his was a breach of honor. She thought but little at the time of what she had done; her heart

was full of anger against Ronald and Valentine. She clasped her hands angrily after Mrs. Charteris had kissed

her, crying out that she was false, and had lured Ronald from her. Any one passing her on the highroad

would have thought her mad, seeing the white face, the dark, gleaming eyes, the rigid lips only opening for

moans and cries that marred the sweet silence. He should keep his word; nevercome what might never

should he look upon her fair face againthe face he had caressed so often and thought so fair. She would go

awayhe was quite tired of her, and of her children, too. They would tease him and intrude upon him no

The little nursemaid, a simple peasant girl, looked on in mute amazement when her mistress entered the

"Maria," she said, "I am going home, over the seas to England. Will you come with me?"

The only thing poor Dora had learned during those quiet years was a moderate share of Italian. The young

nurse looked up in wonder at the hard voice, usually soft as the cooing of a ringdove.

"I will go," she replied, "if the signora will take me. I leave none behind that I love."

With trembling, passionate hands and white, stern face, Dora packed her trunks and boxesthe children's

little wardrobe and her own, throwing far from her every present, either of dress or toys, that Valentine had

She never delayed to look round and think of the happy hours spent in those pretty rooms. She never thought

of the young lover who had given up all the world for her. All she remembered was the wrathful husband

who never wished to see her morewho, in presence of another, had bitterly regretted having made her his

wife. She could not weepthe burning brain and jealous, angry heart would have been better for that, but the

dark eyes were bright and full of strange, angry light. The little ones, looking upon her, wept for fear. With

eager, passionate love she caught them in her arms, crying the while that they should never remain to be

In the whitefaced, angry woman, roused to the highest pitch of passion, there was no trace of pretty,

blushing Dora. Rapidly were the boxes packed, corded, and addressed. Once during that brief time Maria

asked, "Where are you going, signora?" And the hard voice answered, "To my father'smy own home in

When everything was ready, the wondering children dressed, and the little maid waiting, Dora sat down at

her husband's desk and wrote the following lines. No tears fell upon them; her hand did not tremble, the

"I have not waited for you to send me away. Your eyes shall not be pained again by resting on the face where

you read dishonor. I saw months ago that you were tired of me. I am going to my father's house, and my

children I shall take with meyou care no more for them than for me. They are minenot yours. I leave

you with all you love in the world. I take all I love with me. If you prayed for long years, I would never return

She folded the note and addressed it to her husband. She left no kiss warm from her lips upon it. As she

passed forever from the little villa, she never turned for one last look at its vineclad walls.

The gaunt, silent Italian servant who had lived with Dora since the first day she reached Florence came to her

in wonder and alarm, barely recognizing her pretty, gentle mistress in the pale, determined woman who

looked like one brought to bay. To her Dora spoke of the letter; it was to be given to her husband as soon as

he returned. Not one word did she utter in reply to the woman's question. She hurried with the keen

Soon after noon, and while Ronald lingered with some friends upon the steps of the Hotel d'Italia, his wife

reached the busy railway station at Florence. She had money enough to take her home, but none to spare. She

knew no rest; every moment seemed like an age to her, until the train was in motion, and fair, sunny Florence

Without the stimulus of anger Dora would have shrunk in terror from the thought of a long journey

aloneshe who had never been without the escort of a kind and attentive husband. But no prospect daunted

her nowthe wide seas, the dangers of rail and road had no terror for her. She was flying in hot haste and

anger from one who had said before her rival that he never wished to see her face again.

The sun shining so brightly on the waters of the Arno lingered almost lovingly on the fair, quiet English

landscape. Far down in the fertile and beautiful county of Kent, where the broad channel washes the shore,

The world is full of beauty, every country has its share Switzerland its snowclad mountains, Germany its

dark woods and broad streams, France its sunny plains, Italy its "thousand charms of Nature and Art;" but for

quiet, tranquil loveliness, for calm, fair beauty, looking always fresh from the mighty hand that created it,

The white cliffs of Knutsford, like "grand giants," ran along the shore; there was a broad stretch of yellow

sand, hidden when the tide was in, shining and firm when it ebbed. The top of the cliff was like a carpet of

thick green grass and springing heather. Far away, in the blue distance, one could see, of a bright, sunny day,

the outline of the French coast. The waves rolled in, and broke upon the yellow sands; the seabirds flew by

with busy wings, white sails gleamed in the sunshine. Occasionally a large steamer passed; there was no

sound save the rich, neverchanging music of Nature, the rush of wind and waves, the grand, solemn anthem

Far down the cliff ran the zigzag path that led to the village; there was no sign of the sea on the other side of

the white rocks. There the green fields and pretty hopgardens stretched out far and wide, and the

Farthinglow Woods formed a belt around them. In the midst of a green, fertile valley stood the lovely village

of Knutsford. It had no regular street; there were a few cottages, a few farm houses, a few little villas, one

grand mansion, three or four shops, and quiet homesteads with thatched roofs and eaves of straw.

The prettiest and most compact little farm in the village was the one where Stephen Thorne and his wife

dwelt. It was called the elms, a long avenue of elms leading to the little house and skirting the broad green

meadows. It was at a short distance from the village, so quiet, so tranquil, that, living there, one seemed out

Stephen Thorne and his wife were not rich. In spite of Lady Earle's bounty, it was hard for them at times to

make both ends meet. Crops, even in that fair and fertile county, would fail, cattle would die, rain would fall

when it should not, and the sun refuse to shine. But this year everything had gone on well; the hay stood in

great ricks in the farm yard, the golden corn waved in the fields ripe and ready for the sickle, the cows and

sheep fed tranquilly in the meadows, and all things had prospered with Stephen Thorne. One thing only

weighed upon his hearthis wife would have it that Dora's letters grew more and more sad; she declared her

It was a fair August evening. Ah! How weak and feeble are the words. Who could paint the golden flush of

summer beauty that lay over the meadows and corn fieldsthe hedge rows filled with wild flowers, the long,

thick grass studded with gay blossoms, the calm, sullen silence only broken by the singing of the birds, the

Stephen Thorne had gone with his guest and visitor, Ralph Holt, to fetch the cattle home. In Ralph's honor,

good, motherly Mrs. Thorne had laid out a beautiful teagolden honey that seemed just gathered from the

flowers, ripe fruits, cream from the dairy everything was ready; yet the farmer and his guest seemed long in

coming. She went to the door and looked across the meadows. The quiet summer beauty stole like a spell

Suddenly, down in the meadows, Mrs. Thorne caught sight of a lady leading a little child by the hand. She

was followed by a young maid carrying another. As the lady drew nearer, Mrs. Thorne stood transfixed and

bewildered. Could the summer sun or the flickering shade be mocking her? Was she dreaming or awake? Far

off still, through the summer haze, she saw a white, wan face; dark eyes, shadowed and veiled, as though by

long weeping; lips, once rosy and smiling, rigid and firm. She saw what seemed to her the sorrowful ghost of

the pretty, blooming child that had left her long ago. She tried to call out, but her voice failed her. She tried to

run forward and meet the figure coming slowly through the meadows, but she was powerless to move. She

never heard the footsteps of her husband and his guest. She only stirred when Stephen Thorne placed his hand

"Look," she said, hoarsely, "look down the meadow there and tell meif that is Dora or Dora's ghost?"

She drew near more swiftly now, for she had seen the three figures at the door. The white face and wild eyes

"It is," said a faint, bitter voice. "I am come home, mother. My heart is broken and I long to die."

They crowded around her, and Ralph Holt, with his strong arms, carried the fragile, drooping figure into the

house. They laid her upon the little couch, and drew the curling rings of dark hair back from her white face.

Mrs. Thorne wept aloud, crying out for her pretty Dora, her poor, unhappy child. The two men stood

watching her with grave, sad eyes. Ralph clenched his hand as he gazed upon her, the wreck of the simple,

"If he has wronged her," he said to Stephen Thorne, "if he has broken her heart, and sent her home to die, let

When Dora opened her eyes, and saw the three anxious faces around her, for a moment she was bewildered.

They knew when the torture of memory returned to her, for she clasped her hands with a low moan.

"Dora," said her mother, "what has happened? Trust us, dear childwe are your best friends. Where is your

"Because he has grown tired of me," she cried, with passion and anger flaming again in her white, worn face.

"I did something he thought wrong, and he prayed to Heaven to pardon him for making me his wife."

"Nothing that I thought wrong," she replied. "Ask me no questions, father. I would rather die any death than

return to him or see him again. Yet do not think evil of him. It was all a mistake. I could not think his

thoughts or live his lifewe were quite different, and very unhappy. He never wishes to see me again, and I

The farmer and his wife looked at each other in silent dismay. This proud, angry woman and her passionate

words frightened them. Could it be their Dora, who had ever been sunshine and music to them?

"If you do not like to take me home, father," she said, in a hard voice, "I can go elsewhere; nothing can

Ralph had raised the little one in his arms, and was looking with wondering admiration at the proud, beautiful

face of the little Beatrice, and the fair loveliness of Lillian. The children looked with frank, fearless eyes into

"This one with dark hair has the real Earle face," said Stephen Thorne, proudly; "that is just my lord's

lookproud and quiet. And the little Lillian is something like Dora, when she was quite a child."

"Never say that!" cried the young mother. "Let them grow like any one else, but never like me!"

They soothed her with gentle, loving words. Her father said she should share his home with her children, and

he would never give her up again. They bade her watch the little ones, who had forgotten their fears, and

laughed over the ripe fruit and golden honey. They also drew aside the white curtain, and let her tired eyes

fall upon the sweet summer beauty of earth and sky. Was not everything peaceful? The sun sinking in the

west, the birds singing their evening song, the flowers closing their bright eyes, the wind whispering "good

night" to the shimmering, graceful elmsall was peace, and the hot, angry heart grew calm and still. Bitter

tears rose to the burning eyestears that fell like rain, and seemed to take away the sharpest sting of her

With wise and tender thought they let Dora weep undisturbed. The bitter sobbing ceased at last. Dora said

farewell to her love. She lay white and exhausted, but the anger and passion had died away.

"Let me live with you, father," she said, humbly. "I will serve you, and obey you. I an content, more than

content, with my own home. But for my little children, let all be as it was years ago."

When the little ones, like the flowers, had gone to sleep, and Dora had gone into the pretty white room

"Surely," said Thorne, "you are not leaving us. You promised to stay a whole week."

"I know," said the young farmer; "but you have many to think for now, Mr. Thorne. The time will come when

the poor, wearied girl sleeping above us will be Lady Earle. Her husband knew I loved her. No shadow even

of suspicion must rest upon her. While your daughter remains under your roof, I shall not visit you again."

"Let me see the little ones sometimes," continued Ralph; "and if large parcels of toys and books find their

way to the Elms, you will know who sent them. But I must not come in Dora's way; she is no loner Dora

As Stephen watched the young man walking quickly through the long gray fields, he wished that Dora had

Poor Dora's troubles were not yet ended. When the warm August sun peeped into her room on the following

morning, she did not see it shine; when the children crept to her side and called for mamma, she was deaf to

their little voices. The tired head tossed wearily to and fro, the burning eyes would not close. A raging fever

had her in its fierce clutches. When Mrs. Thorne, alarmed by the children's cries, came in, Dora did not know

her, but cried out loudly that she was a false woman, who had lured her husband from her.

They sent in all haste for aid; but the battle was long and fierce. During the hours of delirium, Mrs. Thorne

gleaned sorrowfully some portions of her daughter's story. She cried out incessantly against a fair

womanone Valentinewhom Ronald lovedcried in scorn and anger. Frequently she was in a garden,

behind some trees; then confronting some one with flaming eyes, sobbing that she did not believe it; then

But the time came when the fierce fever burned itself out, and Dora lay weak and helpless as a little child.

She recovered slowly, but she was never the same again. Her youth, hope, love, and happiness were all dead.

No smile or dimple, no pretty blush, came to the changed face; the old coy beauty was all gone.

Calm and quiet, with deep, earnest eyes, and lips that seldom smiled, Dora seemed to have found another self.

Even with her children the sad restraint never wore off nor grew less. If they wanted to play, they sought the

farmer in the fields, the good natured nurse, or the indulgent grandmammanever the sad, pale mother. If

Dora asked for work. She would have been dairy maid, house maid, or anything else, but her father said

"No." A pretty little room was given to her, with woodbines and roses peeping in at the window. Here for

long hours every day, while the children played in the meadows, she sat and sewed. There, too, Dora, for the

first time, learned what Ronald, far away in sunny Italy, failed to teach herhow to think and read. Big

boxes of books came from the town of Shorebeach. Stephen Thorne spared no trouble or expense in pleasing

his daughter. Dora wondered that she had never cared for books, now that deeper and more solemn thoughts

came to her. The pale face took a new beauty; no one could have believed that the thoughtful woman with the

sweet voice and refined accent was the daughter of the blunt farmer Thorne and his homely wife.

A few weeks passed, and but for the little ones Dora would have believed the whole to have been but a long,

dark dream. She would not think of Ronald; she would not remember his love, his sacrifices for her; she

The children grew and throve. Dora had no care at present as to their education. From her they learned good

English, and between herself and the faithful young nurse they could learn, she thought, tolerable Italian. She

would not think of a future that might take these beloved children from her. She ignored Ronald's claim to

themthey were hers. He had tired of them when he tired of her. She never felt the days monotonous in that

quiet farm house, as others might have done. A dead calm seemed to surround her; but it was destined soon to

Ronald did not return in the evening to the pretty villa where he had once been so happy. In the warmth of his

anger, he felt that he never could look again upon his wife. To his sensitive, refined nature there was

something more repulsive in the dishonorable act she had committed than there would have been in a crime

of deeper dye. He was shocked and startledmore so than if he awoke some fair summer morning to find

Dora dead by his side. She was indeed dead to him in one sense. The ideal girl, all purity, gentleness, and

truth, whom he had loved and married, had, it appeared, never really existed after all. He shrank from the idea

of the angry, vehement words and foul calumnies. He shrank from the woman who had forgotten every rule

How was he ever to face Miss Charteris again? She would never mention one word of what had happened,

but he could ill brook the shame Dora had brought upon him. He remembered the summer morning in the

woods when he told Valentine the story of his love, and had pictured his pretty, artless Dora to her. Could the

angry woman who had dared to insult him, and to calumniate the fairest and truest lady in all England,

Ronald had never before been brought into close contact with dishonor. He had some faint recollection at

college of having seen and known a young man, the son of a wealthy nobleman, scorned and despised, driven

from all society, and he was told that it was because he had been detected in the act of listening at the

principal's door. He remembered how old and young had shunned this young man as though he were

plaguestricken; and now his own wife Dora had done the very same thing under circumstances that rendered

the dishonor greater. He asked himself, with a cynical smile, what he could expect? He had married for love

of a pretty, childlike face, never giving any thought to principle, mind, or intellect. The only wonder was

that so wretched and unequal a match had not turned out ten times worse. His father's warning rang in his

Every hope of his own life was wrecked, every hope and plan of his father's disappointed and dead. There

seemed to him nothing left to care for. His wifeoh, he would not think of her! The name vexed him. He

could not stand in Valentine's presence again, and for the first time he realized what she had been to him.

Home, and consequently England, was closed to him; the grand mansion he had once believed his had faded

Thinking of all these things, Ronald's love for his young wife seemed changed to dislike. Three days passed

before he returned home; then he was somewhat startled to find her really gone. He had anticipated sullen

temper, renewed quarrels, and then perhaps a separation, but he was startled to find her actually gone. The

servant gave him the cold farewell letter, written without tears, without sorrow. He tore it into shreds and

"The last act in the farce," he said, bitterly. "If I had not been mad, I should have foreseen this."

The silent, deserted rooms did not remind him of the loving young wife parted from him forever. He was too

angry, too annoyed, for any gentle thoughts to influence him. She had left himso much the better; there

could never again be peace between them. He thought with regret of the little onesthey were too young for

him to undertake charge of them, so that they were best left with their mother for a time. He said to himself

that he must make the best use he could of his life; everything seemed at an end. He felt very lonely and

unhappy as he sat in his solitary home; and the more sorrow present upon him, the more bitter his thoughts

Ronald wrote to his mother, but said no word to her of the cause of their quarrel.

"Dora and I," he said, "will never live together againperhaps never meet. She has gone home to her father;

I am going to wander over the wide earth. Will you induce my father to receive my children at Earlescourt?

And will you see Mr. Burt, and arrange that half of my small income is settled upon Dora?"

But to all his wife's entreaties Lord Earle turned a deaf ear. He declared that never during his life time should

the children of Dora Thorne enter Earlescourt. His resolution was fixed and unalterable. How, he asked, was

he to trust the man who had once deceived him? For aught he knew, the separation between Ronald and his

wife might be a deeply laid scheme, and, the children once with him, there would be a grand reconciliation

"I am not surprised," he said, "that the unhappy boy is weary of his pretty toy. It could not be otherwise; he

must bear the consequences of his own folly. He had time for thought, he made his own choicenow let him

abide by it. You have disregarded my wish, Lady Helena, in even naming the matter to me. Let all mention of

it cease. I have no son. One thing rememberI am not hard upon youyou can go where you like, see

Lady Earle was not long in availing herself of the permission. There was great excitement at the Elms one

morning, caused by the receipt of a letter from Lady Earle saying that she would be there on the same day to

The little ones looked up to her with wondering eyes. To them she was like a vision, with her noble face and

Stephen Thorne and his wife received the great lady not without some trepidation; yet they were in no way to

blame. The fatal marriage had been as great a blow to them as to Lord and Lady Earle. With the quiet dignity

and graceful ease that never deserted her, Lady Earle soon made them feel at home. She started in utter

surprise, when a quiet, grave woman, on whose face sweetness and sullen humor were strangely mingled,

entered the room. This could not be pretty, coy, blushing Dora! Where were the dimples and smiles? The

large dark eyes raised so sadly to hers were full of strange, pathetic beauty. With sharp pain the thought

struck Lady Earle, "What must not Dora have suffered to have changed her so greatly!" The sad eyes and

worn face touched her as no beauty could have done. She clasped Dora in her arms and kissed her.

"You are my daughter now," she said, in that rich, musical voice which Dora remembered so well. "We will

not mention the past; it is irrevocable. If you sinned against duty and obedience, your face tells me you have

suffered. What has come between you and my son I do not seek to know. The shock must have been a great

one which parted you, for he gave up all the world for you, Dora, years ago. We will not speak of Ronald.

"While it is possible," said Dora, wearily. "I shall never leave home again; but I can not hope to keep them

"I should have liked to adopt them," said Lady Earle; "to take them home and educate them, but"

"Lord Earle will not permit it," interrupted Dora, calmly. "I knowI do not wonder."

"You must let me do all I can for them here," continued Lady Earle; "I have made all plans and arrangements.

We will give the children an education befitting their position, without removing them from you. Then we

shall see what time will do. Let me see the little ones. I wish you had called one Helena, after me."

They were beautiful children, and Dora brought them proudly to the stately lady waiting for them. Lady Earle

"Why, Dora," she said admiringly, "she has the Earle face, with a novel charm all its own. The child will

"She has the Earle spirit and pride," said the young mother; "I find it hard to manage her even now."

Then Lady Earle looked at the fair, spirituelle face and golden hair of little Lillian. The shy, dovelike eyes

"There is a great contrast between them," she said, thoughtfully. "They will require careful training, Dora;

Dora noticed that, long as she remained, Lady Earle never let Beatrice leave her arms; occasionally she bent

over Lillian and touched her soft golden curls, but the child with the "Earle face" was the one she loved best.

Together with Stephen Thorne and his wife, Lady Earle went over the Elms. The situation delighted her;

nothing could be better or more healthy for the children, but the interior of the house must be altered. Then

with delicate grace that could only charm, never wound, Lady Earle unfolded her plans. She wished a new

suite of rooms to be built for Dora and the children, to be nicely furnished with everything that could be

required. She would bear the expense. Immediately on her return she would send an efficient French maid for

the little ones, and in the course of a year or two she would engage the services of an accomplished

governess, who would undertake the education of Beatrice and Lillian without removing them from their

"I shall send a good piano and harp," said Lady Earle, "it will be my pride and pleasure to select books,

music, drawings, and everything else my grandchildren require. I should wish them always to be nicely

dressed and carefully trained. To you, Dora, I must leave the highest and best training of all. Teach them to

be good, and to do their duty. They have learned all when they have learned that."

For the first time in her life, the thought came home to Dora: How was she to teach what she had never

learned and had failed to practice? That night, long after Lady Earle had gone away, and the children had

fallen to sleep, Dora knelt in the moonlight and prayed that she might learn to teach her children to do their

As Lady Earle wished, the old farm house was left intact, and a new group of buildings added to it. There was

a pretty sitting room for Dora, and a larger one to serve as a study for the children, large sleeping rooms, and

a bathroom, all replete with comfort. Two years passed before all was completed, and Lady Earle thought it

During those years little or nothing was heard from Ronald. After reading the cold letter Dora left for him, it

seemed as though all love, all care, all interest died out of his heart. He sat for many long hours thinking of

He was only twentythreethe age at which life opens to most men; yet he was worn, tired, weary of

everythingthe energies that once seemed boundless, the ambition once so fierce and proud, all gone. His

whole nature recoiled from the shock. Had Dora, in the fury of her jealousy and rage, tried to kill him, he

would have thought that but a small offense compared with the breach of honor in crouching behind the trees

to listen. He thought of the quiet, grand beauty of Valentine's face while Dora was convulsed with passion.

He remembered the utter wonder in Valentine's eyes when Dora's flamed upon them. He remembered the

sickening sense of shame that had cowed him as he listened to her angry, abusive words. And this untrained,

ignorant, illbred woman was his wife! For her he had given up home, parents, position, wealthall he had

in life worth caring for. For her, and through her, he stood there alone in the world.

Those thoughts first maddened him, then drove him to despair. What had life left for him? He could not

return to England; his father's doors were closed against him. There was no path open to him; without his

father's help he could not get into Parliament. He could not work as an artist at home. He could not remain in

Florence; never again, he said to himself, would he see Valentine CharterisValentine, who had been the

witness of his humiliation and disgrace. Sooner anything than that. He would leave the villa and go

somewherehe cared little where. No quiet, no rest came to him. Had his misfortunes been accidentalhad

they been any other than they were, the result of his boyish folly and disobedience, he would have found

them easier to bear; as it was, the recollection that it was all his own fault drove him mad.

Before morning he had written a farewell note to Lady Charteris, saying that he was leaving Florence at once,

and would not be able to see her again. He wrote to Valentine, but the few stiff words expressed little of what

he felt. He prayed her to forget the miserable scene that would haunt him to his dying day; to pardon the

insults that had driven him nearly mad; to pardon the mad jealousy, the dishonor of Dora; to forget him and

all belonging to him. When Miss Charteris read the letter she knew that all effort to restore peace would for a

time be in vain. She heard the day following that the clever young artist, Mr. Earle, had left.

Countess Rosali loudly lamented Ronald's departure. It was so strange, she said; the darkeyed little wife and

her children had gone home to England, and the husband, after selling off his home, had gone with Mr.

She lamented him for two days without ceasing, until Valentine was tired of her many conjectures. He was

missed in the brilliant salons of Florence, but by none so much as by Valentine Charteris.

What the pretty, coquettish countess had said was true. After making many plans and forming many

resolutions, Ronald met Mr. Standon, who was on the point of joining an exploring expedition in South

Africa. He gladly consented to accompany him. There was but little preparation needed. Four days after the

neverto beforgotten garden scene, Ronald Earle left Italy and became a wanderer upon the face of the

Valentine Charteris never told the secret. She listened to the wonder and conjectures of all around her, but not

even to her mother did she hint what had passed. She pitied Ronald profoundly. She knew the shock Dora had

inflicted on his sensitive, honorable disposition. For Dora herself she felt nothing but compassion. Her calm,

serene nature was incapable of such jealousies. Valentine could never be jealous or mean, but she could

"Jealous of me, poor child!" said Valentine to herself. "Nothing but ignorance can excuse her. As though I,

with half Florence at my feet, cared for her husband, except as a dear and true friend."

So the little villa was deserted; the gaunt, silent servant found a fresh place. Ronald's pictures were eagerly

bought up; the pretty countess, after looking very sentimental and sad for some days, forgot her sorrow and

its cause in the novelty of making the acquaintance of an impassive unimpressionable American. Florence

Two months afterward, as Miss Charteris sat alone in her favorite nookthe bower of trees where poor

Dora's tragedy had been enactedshe was found by the Prince di Borgezi. Every one had said that sooner or

later it would come to this. Prince di Borgezi, the most fastidious of men, who had admired many women but

loved none, whose verdict was the rule of fashion, loved Valentine Charteris. Her fair English face, with its

calm, grand beauty, her graceful dignity, her noble mind and pure soul had captivated him. For many long

weeks he hovered round Valentine, longing yet dreading to speak the words which would unite or part them

Lately there had been rumors that Lady Charteris and her daughter intended to leave Florence; then Prince di

Borgezi decided upon knowing his fate. He sought Valentine, and found her seated under the shade of her

"Miss Charteris," he said, after a few words of greeting, "I have come to ask you the greatest favor, the

"Your permission to keep for my own the original 'Queen Guinevere'," he replied; "that picture is more to me

than all that I possess. Only one thing is dearer, the original. May I ever hope to make that mine also?"

Valentine opened her magnificent eyes in wonder. It was an offer of marriage then that he was making.

"Have you no word for me, Miss Charteris?" he said. "I lay my life and my love at your feet. Have you no

Valentine had recovered her selfpossession. Her lover gazed anxiously at her beautiful face, its proud calm

"I will tell you how it is," resumed Valentine, after a short pause; "I like you better, perhaps, than any man I

"No," was the calm reply. "I esteem you very highly, prince. I can not say more."

"But you will in time," he replied. "I would not change your quiet friendly liking, Miss Charteris, for the love

Under the bright sky the handsome Italian told the story of his love in words that were poetry itselfhow he

worshiped the fair calm girl so unlike the women of his own clime. As she listened, Valentine thought of that

summer morning years ago when Ronald had told her the story of his love; and then Valentine owned to her

own heart, that, if Ronald were in Prince di Borgezi's place, she would not listen so calmly nor reply so

"How cold and stately these English girls are!" thought her lover. "They are more like goddesses than

women. Would any word of mine ever disturb the proud coldness of that perfect face?"

It did not then, but before morning ended Prince di Borgezi had obtained permission to visit England in the

spring and ask again the same question. Valentine liked him. She admired his noble and generous character,

his artistic tastes, his fastidious exclusiveness had a charm for her; she did not love him, but it seemed to her

Lady Charteris and her daughter left Florence and returned to Greenoke. Lady Earle paid them a long visit,

and heard all they had to tell of her idolized son. Lady Charteris spoke kindly of Dora; and Valentine,

believing she could do something to restore peace, sent an affectionate greeting, and asked permission to visit

Lady Earle saw she had made a mistake when she repeated Valentine's words to Dora. The young wife's face

"Pray bring me no more messages from Miss Charteris," she replied. "I do not like hershe would only

Then, for the first time, an inkling of the truth came to Lady Earle. Evidently Dora was bitterly jealous of

Valentine. Had she any cause for it? Could it be that her unhappy son had learned to love Miss Charteris

when it was all too late? From that day Lady Earle pitied her son with a deeper and more tender compassion;

she translated Dora's curt words into civil English, and then wrote to Miss Charteris. Valentine quite

understood upon reading them that she was not yet pardoned by Ronald Earle's wife.

Time passed on without any great changes, until the year came when Lady Earle thought her grandchildren

should begin their education. She was long in selecting one to whom she could intrust them. At length she

met with Mrs. Vyvian, the widow of an officer who had died in India, a lady qualified in every way for the

task, accomplished, a good linguist, speaking French and Italian as fluently as Englishan accomplished

musician, an artist of no mean skill, and, what Lady Earl valued still more, a woman of sterling principles and

It was not a light task that Mrs. Vyvian undertook. The children had reached their fifth year, and for ten years

she bound herself by promise to remain with them night and day, to teach and train them. It is true the reward

promised was great. Lady Earle settled a handsome annuity upon her. Mrs. Vyvian was not dismayed by the

lonely house, the complete isolation from all society, or the homely appearance of the farmer and his wife. A

piano and a harp were sent to the Elms. Every week Lady Earle dispatched a large box of books, and the

Mrs. Vyvian, to whom Lady Earle intrusted every detail of her son's marriage, was well pleased to find that

Dora liked her and began to show some taste for study. Dora, who would dream of other things when Ronald

read, now tried to learn herself. She was not ashamed to sit hour after hour at the piano trying to master some

simple little air, or to ask questions when anything puzzled her in her reading. Mrs. Vyvian, so calm and

wise, so gentle, yet so strong, taught her so cleverly that Dora never felt her own ignorance, nor did she grow

The time came when Dora could play pretty simple ballads, singing them in her own birdlike, clear voice,

and when she could appreciate great writers, and speak of them without any mistake either as to their names

It was a simple, pleasant, happy life; the greater part of the day was spent by mother children in study. In the

evening came long rambles through the green woods, where Dora seemed to know the name and history of

every flower that grew; over the smiling meadows, where the kine stood kneedeep in the long, scented

grass; over the rocks, and down by the sea shore, where the waves chanted their grand anthem, and broke in

No wonder the young girls imbibed a deep warm love for all that was beautiful in Nature. Dora never wearied

of itfrom the smallest blade of grass to the most stately of forest trees, she loved it all.

The little twin sisters grew in beauty both in body and mind; but the contrast between them was great;

Beatrice was the more beautiful and brilliant; Lillian the more sweet and lovable. Beatrice was all fire and

spirit; her sister was gentle and calm. Beatrice had great faults and great virtues; Lillian was simply good and

charming. Yet, withal, Beatrice was the better loved. It was seldom that any one refused to gratify her wishes.

Dora loved both children tenderly; but the warmest love was certainly for the child who had the Earle face.

She was imperious and willful, generous to a fault, impatient of all control; but her greatest fault, Mrs.

Vyvian said, was a constant craving for excitement; a distaste for and dislike of quiet and retirement. She

would ride the most restive horse, she would do anything to break the ennui and monotony of the long days.

Beautiful, daring, and restless, every day running a hundred risks, and loved the better for the dangers she

ran, Beatrice was almost worshiped at the Elms. Nothing ever daunted her, nothing ever made her dull or sad.

Lillian was gentle and quiet, with more depth of character, but little power of showing it; somewhat timid and

diffidenta more charming ideal of an English girl could not have been foundspirituelle, graceful, and

Lady Earle often visited the Elms; no mystery had been made to the girlsthey were told their father was

abroad and would not return for many years, and that at some distant day they might perhaps live with him in

his own home. They did not ask many questions, satisfied to believe what was told them, not seeking to know

Lady Earle loved the young girls very dearly. Beatrice, so like her father, was undoubtedly the favorite. Lord

Earle never inquired after them; when Lady Earle asked for a larger check than usual, he gave it to her with a

smile, perfectly understanding its destination, but never betraying the knowledge.

So eleven years passed like a long tranquil dream. The sun rose and set, the tides ebbed and flowed, spring

flowers bloomed, and died, the summer skies smiled, autumn leaves of golden hue withered on the ground;

and winter snows fell; yet no change came to the quiet homestead in the Kentish meadows.

Beatrice and Lillian had reached their sixteenth year, and two fairer girls were seldom seen. Mrs. Vyvian's

efforts had not been in vain; they were accomplished far beyond the ordinary run of young girls. Lillian

inherited her father's talent for drawing. She was an excellent artist. Beatrice excelled in music. She had a

magnificent contralto voice that had been carefully trained. Both were cultivated, graceful, elegant girls, and

Lady Earle often sighed to think they should be living in such profound obscurity. She could do nothing;

seventeen years had not changed Lord Earle's resolution. Time, far from softening, imbittered him the more

against his son. Of Ronald Lady Earle heard but little. He was still in Africa; he wrote at rare intervals, but

Lady Earle did what she could for her grandchildren, but it was a strange, unnatural life. They knew no other

girls; they had never ben twenty miles from Knutsford. All girlish pleasures and enjoyments were a sealed

book to them. They had never been to a party, a picnic, or a ball; no life was ever more simple, more quiet,

more devoid of all amusement than theirs. Lillian was satisfied and happy; her rich, teeming fancy, her

artistic mind, and contented, sweet disposition would have rendered her happy under any circumstancesbut

it was different with brilliant, beautiful Beatrice. No wild bird in a cage ever pined for liberty or chafed under

restraint more than she did. She cried out loudly against the unnatural solitude, the isolation of such a life.

Eleven years had done much for Dora. The coy, girlish beauty that had won Ronald Earle's heart had given

place to a sweet, patient womanhood. Constant association with one so elegant and refined as Mrs. Vyvian

had done for her what nothing else could have achieved. Dora had caught the refined, highbred accent, the

graceful, cultivated manner, the easy dignity. She had become imbued with Mrs. Vyvian's noble thoughts and

Dora retained two peculiaritiesone was a great dislike for Ronald, the other a sincere dread of all love and

lovers for her children. From her they heard nothing but depreciation of men. All men were alike, false,

insincere, fickle, cruel; all love was nonsense and folly. Mrs. Vyvian tried her best to counteract these ideas;

they had this one evil consequencethat neither Lillian nor Beatrice would ever dream of even naming such

subjects to their mother, who should have been their friend and confidante. If in the books Lady Earle sent

there was any mention of this love their mother dreaded so, they went to Mrs. Vyvian or puzzled over it

themselves. With these two exceptions Dora had become a thoughtful, gentle woman. As her mind became

more cultivated she understood better the dishonor of the fault which had robbed her of Ronald's love. Her

It was a fair and tranquil womanhood; the dark eyes retained their wondrous light and beauty; the curling

rings of dark hair were luxuriant as ever; the lips wore a patient, sweet expression. The clear, healthy country

air had given a delicate bloom to the fair face. Dora looked more like the elder sister of the young girls than

The quiet, halfdreamy monotony was broken at last. Mrs. Vyvian was suddenly summoned home. Her

mother, to whom she was warmly attached, was said to be dying, and she wished her last few days to be spent

with her daughter. At the same time Lady Earle wrote to say that her husband was so ill that it was impossible

for her to look for any lady to supply Mrs. Vyvian's place. The consequence was that, for the first time in

their lives, the young girls were left for a few weeks without a companion and without surveillance.

One beautiful morning in May, Lillian went out alone to sketch. The beauty of the sky and sea tempted her;

fleecywhite clouds floated gently over the blue heavens; the sun shone upon the water until, at times, it

resembled a huge sea of rippling gold. Far off in the distance were the shining white sails of two boats; they

looked in the golden haze like the brilliant wings of some bright bird. The sun upon the white sails struck her

It was the kind of morning that makes life seem all beauty and gladness, even if the heart is weighed down

with care. It was a luxury merely to live and breathe. The leaves were all springing in the woods; the

meadows were green; wild flowers blossomed by the hedgerows; the birds sang gayly of the coming

summer; the white hawthorn threw its rich fragrance all around, and the yellow broom bloomed on the cliffs.

As she sat there, Lillian was indeed a fair picture herself on that May morning; the sweet, spirituelle face; the

noble head with its crown of golden hair; the violet eyes, so full of thought; the sensitive lips, sweet yet firm;

the white forehead, the throne of intellect. The little fingers that moved rapidly and gracefully over the

drawing were white and shapely; there was a delicate roseleaf flush in the pretty hand. She looked fair and

The pure, sweet face had no touch of fire or passion; its serenity was all unmoved; the world had never

breathed on the innocent, childlike mind. A white lily was not more pure and stainless than the young girl

So intent was Lillian upon her drawing that she did not hear light, rapid steps coming near; she was not

aroused until a rich musical voice called, "Lillian, if you have not changed into stone or statue, do speak."

"Lay down your pencils and talk to me," said Beatrice, imperiously. "How unkind of you, the only human

being in this place who can talk, to come here all by yourself! What do you think was to become of me?"

"Reading!" exclaimed Beatrice. "You know I am tired of reading, tired of writing, tired of sewing, tired of

"Do not look 'good' at me," said Beatrice, impatiently. "I am tired to death of it all. I want some change. Do

you think any girls in the world lead such lives as we doshut up in a rambling old farm house, studying

from morn to night; shut in on one side by that tiresome sea, imprisoned on the other by fields and woods?

"That is like mamma," cried Beatrice; "just her very tone and words. She does not understand, you do not

understand; mamma's life satisfies her, your life contents you; mine does not content meit is all vague and

empty. I should welcome anything that changed this monotony; even sorrow would be better than this dead

"I am tired of thinking," said Beatrice; "for the last ten years I have been told to 'think' and 'reflect.' I have

"Think how beautiful those faroff white sails look," said Lillian"how they gleam in the sunshine. See,

"Such ideas are very well for you, Lillian," retorted Beatrice. "I see nothing in them. Look at the stories we

read; how different those girls are from us! They have fathers, brothers, and friends; they have jewels and

dresses; they have handsome admirers, who pay them homage; they dance, ride, and enjoy themselves. Now

"Not in years, perhaps," replied Beatrice; "but she seems to me old in sorrow. She is never gay nor

lighthearted. Mrs. Vyvian is very kind, but she never laughs. Is every one sad and unhappy, I wonder? Oh,

Lillian, I long to see the worldthe bright, gay worldover the sea there. I long for it as an imprisoned bird

"Spare me all truism," cried Beatrice. "Ah, sister, I am tired of all this; for eleven years the sea has been

singing the same songs; those waves rise and fall as they did a hundred years since; the birds sing the same

story; the sun shines the same; even the shadow of the great elms fall over the meadow just as it did when we

first played there. I long to away from the sound of the sea and the rustling of the elm trees. I want to be

where there are girls of my own age, and do as they do. It seems to me we shall go on reading and writing,

sewing and drawing, and taking what mamma calls instructive rambles until our heads grow gray."

"It is not so bad as that, Beatrice," laughed Lillian. "Lady Earle says papa must return some day; then we

"I never believe one word of it," said Beatrice, undauntedly. "At times I could almost declare papa himself

was a myth. Why do we not live with him? Why does he never write? We never hear of or from him, save

through Lady Earle; besides, Lillian, what do you think I heard Mrs. Vyvian say once to grandmamma? It

was that we might not go to Earlescourt at allthat if papa did not return, or died young, all would go to a

Mr. Lionel Dacre, and we should remain here. Imagine that fateliving a long life and dying at the Elms!"

"It is all conjecture," said her sister. "Try to be more contented, Beatrice. We do not make our own lives, we

"Try to be contented, darling," continued the sweet, pleading voice. "We all love and admire you. No one was

ever loved more dearly or better than you are. The days are rather long at times, but there are all the wonders

She turned her beautiful, restless face from the smiling sea; the south wind dancing over the yellow gorse

caught up the words uttered in that clear, musical voice and carried them over the cliff to one who was lying

with halfclosed eyes under the shade of a large treea young man with a dark, halfSpanish face

handsome with a coarse kind of beauty. He was lying there, resting upon the turf, enjoying the beauty of the

morning. As the musical voice reached him, and the strange words fell upon his ear, he smiled and raised his

head to see who uttered them. He saw the young girls, but their faces were turned from him; those words

Who was it longed for life? He understood the longing; he resolved to wait there until the girls went away.

"I shall leave you to your sails, Lillian. I wish those same boats would come to carry us awayI wish I had

wings and could fly over the sea and see the bright, grand world that lies beyond it. Goodbye; I am tired of

He saw a young girl rise from the fragrant heather and turn to descend the cliff. Quick as thought he rushed

down by another path, and, turning back, contrived to meet her halfway. Beatrice came singing down the

cliff. Her humor, never the same ten minutes together, had suddenly changed. She remembered a new and

beautiful song that Lady Earle had sent, and determined to go home and try it. There came no warning to her

that bright summer morning. The south wind lifted the hair from her brow and wafted the fragrance of

hawthorn buds and spring flowers to greet her, but it brought no warning message; the birds singing gayly,

the sun shining so brightly could not tell her that the first link in a terrible chain was to be forged that

Halfway down the cliff, where the path was steep and narrow, Beatrice suddenly met the stranger. A

stranger was a rarity at the Elms. Only at rare intervals did an artist or a tourist seek shelter and hospitality at

the old farm house. The stranger seemed to be a gentleman. For one moment both stood still; then, with a low

bow, the gentleman stepped aside to let the young girl pass. As he did so, he noted the rare beauty of that

"No wonder," he thought; "it is a sin for such a face as that to be hidden here."

The beauty of those magnificent eyes startled him. Who was she? What could she be doing here? Beatrice

turning again, saw the stranger looking eagerly after her, with profound admiration expressed in every feature

of his face; and that admiring gaze, the first she had ever received in her life, sank deep into the vain, girlish

He watched the graceful, slender figure until the turn of the road hid Beatrice from his view. He followed her

at a safe distance, and saw her cross the long meadows that led to the Elms. Then Hugh Fernely waited with

patience until one of the farm laborers came by. By judicious questioning he discovered much of the history

of the beautiful young girl who longed for life. Her face haunted himits brilliant, queenly beauty, the dark,

radiant eyes. Come what might, Hugh Fernely said to himself, he must see her again.

On the following morning he saw the girls return to the cliff. Lillian finished her picture. Ever and anon he

heard Beatrice singing, in a low, rich voice, a song that had charmed her with its weird beauty:

"For men must work, and women must weep; And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep And goodbye to

"I like those words, Lillian," he heard her say. "I wonder how soon it will be 'over' for me. Shall I ever weep,

This morning the goldenhaired sister left the cliff first, and Beatrice sat reading until the noonday sun shone

upon the sea. Her book charmed her; it was a story telling of the life she loved and longed forof the gay,

glad world. Unfortunately all the people in the book were noble, heroic, and ideal. The young girl, in her

simplicity, believed that they who lived in the world she longed for were all like the people in her book.

When she left the path that led to the meadows, she saw by her side the stranger who had met her the day

before. Again he bowed profoundly, and, with many wellexpressed apologies, asked some trifling question

Beatrice replied briefly, but she could not help seeing the wonder of admiration in his face. Her own grew

crimson under his gazehe saw it, and his heart beat high with triumph. As Beatrice went through the

meadows he walked by her side. She never quite remembered how it happened, but in a few minutes he was

telling her how many years had passed since he had seen the spring in England. She forgot all restraint, all

"Ah, then," she cried, "you have seen the great world that lies over the wide sea."

"Yes," he replied, "I have seen it. I have been in strange, bright lands, so different from England that they

seemed to belong to another world. I have seen many climes, bright skies, and glittering seas, where the spice

As he spoke, in words that were full of wild, untutored eloquence, he saw the young girl's eyes riveted upon

him. Sure of having roused her attention, he bowed, apologized for his intrusion, and left her.

Had Dora been like other mothers, Beatrice would have related this little adventure and told of the handsome

young traveler who had been in strange climes. As it was, knowing her mother's utter dread of all menher

fear lest her children should ever love and marryBeatrice never named the subject. She thought much of

Hugh Fernelynot of him himself, but of the world he had spoken aboutand she hoped it might happen to

"If we had some one here who could talk in that way," she said to herself, "the Elms would not be quite so

Two days afterward, Beatrice, wandering on the sands, met Hugh Fernely. She saw the startled look of

"Pray forgive me," he said. "II can not pass you without one word. Time has seemed to me like one long

He held in his hand some beautiful lilies of the valleyevery little white warm bell was perfect. He offered

"This is the most beautiful flower I have seen for many years," he said. "May I be forgiven for begging

Beatrice took it from him, blushing at his words. He walked by her side along the yellow sands, the waves

rolling in and breaking at their feet. Again his eloquence charmed her. He told her his name, and how he was

captain of a trading vessel. Instinctively he seemed to understand her characterher romantic, ideal way of

looking at everything. He talked to her of the deep seas and their many wonders; of the ocean said to be

fathomless; of the coral islands and of waters in whose depths the oyster containing the pale, gleaming pearl

is found; of the quiet nights spent at sea, where the stars shine as they never seem to shine on land; of the

strange hush that falls upon the heaving waters before a storm. He told of long days when they were

With her marvelous fancy and quick imagination she followed him to the wondrous depth of silent waters

where strange shapes, never seen by human eye, abound. She hung upon his words; he saw it, and rejoiced in

his success. He did not startle her by any further compliment, but when their walk was ended he told her that

After a few days it seemed to become a settled thing that Beatrice should meet Hugh Fernely. Lillian

wondered that her sister so often preferred lonely rambles, but she saw the beautiful face she loved so dearly

For many long days little thought of Hugh Fernely came to Beatrice. Her mind ran always upon what he had

told herupon his description of what he had seen and heard. He noted this, and waited with a patience born

Words were weak in which to express the passionate love he felt for this beautiful and stately young girl. It

seemed to him like a fairy tale. On the morning he first saw Beatrice he had been walking a long distance,

and had lain down to rest on the cliffs. There the beautiful vision had dawned upon him. The first moment he

gazed into that peerless face he loved Beatrice with a passion that frightened himself. He determined to win

At last and by slow degrees he began to speak of her and himself, slowly and carefully, his keen eyes noting

every change upon her face; he began to offer her delicate compliments and flattery so well disguised that it

did not seem to her flattery at all. He made her understand that he believed her to be the most beautiful girl he

had ever beheld. He treated her always as though she were a queen, and he her humblest slave.

Slowly but surely the sweet poison worked its way; the day came when that graceful, subtle flattery was

necessary to the very existence of Beatrice Earle. There was much to excuse her; the clever, artful man into

whose hands she had fallen was her first admirerthe first who seemed to remember she was no longer a

child, and to treat her with deferential attention. Had she been, as other girls are, surrounded by friends,

accustomed to society, properly trained, prepared by the tender wisdom of a loving mother, she would never

have cast her proud eyes upon Hugh Fernely; she would never have courted the danger or run the risk.

As it was, while Dora preferred solitude, and nourished a keen dislike to her husband in her heartwhile

Ronald yielded to obstinate pride, and neglected every dutywhile both preferred the indulgence of their

own tempers, and neglected the children the Almighty intrusted to them, Beatrice went on to her fate.

It was so sad a story, the details so simple yet so pitiful. Every element of that impulsive, idealistic nature

helped on the tragedy. Hugh Fernely understood Beatrice as perhaps no one else ever did. He idealized

himself. To her at length he became a hero who had met with numberless adventuresa hero who had

traveled and fought, brave and generous. After a time he spoke to her of love, at first never appearing to

suppose that she could care for him, but telling her of his own passionate worship how her face haunted him,

filled his dreams at night, and shone before him all dayhow the very ground she stood upon was sacred to

himhow he envied the flowers she touchedhow he would give up everything to be the rose that died in

her hands. It was all very pretty and poetical, and he knew how to find pretty, picturesque spots in the woods

Beatrice found it very pleasant to be worshiped like a queen; there was no more monotony for her. Every

morning she looked forward to seeing Hughto learning more of those words that seemed to her like

sweetest music. She knew that at some time or other during the day she would see him; he never tired of

admiring her beauty. Blameworthy was the sad mother with her stern doctrines, blameworthy the proud,

neglectful father, that she knew not how wrong all this was. He loved her; in a thousand eloquent ways he

told her so. She was his loadstar, beautiful and peerless. It was far more pleasant to sit on the sea shore, or

under the greenwood trees, listening to such words than to pass long, dreary hours indoors. And none of those

So this was the love her mother dreaded so much. This was the love poets sung of and novelists wrote about.

It was pleasant; but in after days, when Beatrice herself came to love, she knew that this had been but child's

It was the romance of the stolen meeting that charmed Beatrice. If Hugh had been admitted to the Elms she

would have wearied of him in a week; but the concealment gave her something to think of. There was

something to occupy her mind; every day she must arrange for a long ramble, so that she might meet Hugh.

So, while the corn grew ripe in the fields, and the blossoms died awaywhile warm, luxurious summer ruled

At length there came an interruption to Hugh Fernely's love dream. The time drew near when he must leave

Seabay. The vessel he commanded was bound for China, and was to sail in a few days. The thought that he

must leave the beautiful girl he loved so dearly and so deeply struck him with unendurable pain; he seemed

only to have lived since he had met her, and he knew that life without her would be a burden too great for

him to bear. He asked himself a hundred times over: "Does she love me?" He could not tell. He resolved to

The time drew near; the day was settled on which the "Seagull" was to set sail, and yet Hugh Fernely had

One morning Hugh met her at the stile leading from the field into the meadow lanethe prettiest spot in

Knutsford. The ground was a perfectly beautiful carpet of flowerswild hyacinths, purple foxgloves, pretty,

pale strawberry blossoms all grew there. The hedges were one mass of wild roses and woodbine; the tall elm

trees that ran along the lane met shadily overhead; the banks on either side were radiant in different colored

Beatrice liked the quiet, pretty, green meadow lane. She often walked there, and on this eventful morning

Hugh saw her sitting in the midst of the fern leaves. He was by her side in a minute, and his dark, handsome

"How the sun shines!" he said. "I wonder the birds begin to sing and the flowers to bloom before you are out,

"But you are mine," cried Hugh; and before she could reply he was kneeling at her feet, her hands clasped in

No one could listen to such words unmoved; they were true and eloquent, full of strange pathos. He told her

how dark without her the future would be to him, how sad and weary his life; whereas if she would only love

him, and let him claim her when he returned, he would make her as happy as a queen. He would take her to

the bright sunny landswould show her all the beauties and wonders she longed to seewould buy her

jewels and dresses such as her beauty deservedwould be her humble, devoted slave, if she would only love

It was very pleasantthe bright morning, the picturesque glade, the warmth and brightness of summer all

around. Beatrice looked at the handsome, pale face with emotion, she felt Hugh's warm lips pressed to her

hand, she felt hot tears rain upon her fingers, and wondered at such love. Yes, this was the love she had read

"Beatrice," cried Hugh, "do not undo me with one word. Say you love me, my darlingsay I may return and

claim you as my own. Your whole life shall be like one long, bright summer's day."

She was carried away by the burning torrent of passionate words. With all her spirit and pride she felt weak

and powerless before the mighty love of this strong man. Almost unconscious of what she did, Beatrice laid

"Hush, Hugh," she said, "you frighten me. I do love you; see, you tears wet my hand."

It was not a very enthusiastic response, but it satisfied him. He clasped the young girl in his arms, and she did

not resist; he kissed the proud lips and the flushed cheek. Beatrice Earle said no word; he was half frightened,

"Now you are mine," cried Hugh"mine, my own peerless one; nothing shall part us but death!"

"Hush!" cried Beatrice, again shuddering as with cold fear. "That is a word I dislike and dread so much,

"I will not," he replied; and then Beatrice forgot her fears. He was so happyhe loved her so dearlyhe

was so proud of winning her. She listened through the long hours of that sunny morning. It was the fifteenth

of Julyhe made her note the day and in two years he would return to take her forever from the quiet house

That was the view of the matter that had seized upon the girl's imagination. It was not so much love for

Hughshe liked him. His flatterythe excitement of meeting himhis love, had become necessary to her;

but had any other means of escape from the monotony she hated presented itself, she would have availed

herself of it quite as eagerly. Hugh was not so much a lover to her as a medium of escape from a life that

She listened with bright smiles when he told her that in two years he should return to fetch her; and she,

thinking much of the romance, and little of the dishonor of concealment, told him how her sad young mother

"Then you must never tell her," he said"leave that for me until I return. I shall have money then, and

perhaps the command of a fine vessel. She will not refuse me when she knows how dearly I love you, and

even should your fatherthe father you tell ofcome home, you will be true to me, Beatrice, will you not?"

"Yes, I will be true," she repliedand, to do her justice, she meant it at the time. Her father's return seemed

vague and uncertain; it might take place in ten or twenty yearsit might never be. Hugh offered her freedom

"If others should seek your love," he said, "should praise your beauty, and offer you rank or wealth, you will

"Two years will soon pass away," said he. "Ah, Beatrice," he continued, "I shall leave you next Thursday;

give me all the hours you can. Once away from you, all time will seem to me a long, dark night."

It so happened that the farmer and his men were at work in a field quite on the other side of Knutsford. Dora

and Lillian were intent, the one upon a box of books newly arrived, the other upon a picture; so Beatrice had

every day many hours at her disposal. She spent them all with Hugh, whose love seemed to increase with

Hugh was to leave Seabay on Thursday, and on Wednesday evening he lingered by her side as though he

could not part with her. To do Hugh Fernely justice, he loved Beatrice for herself. Had she been a penniless

beggar he would have loved her just the same. The only dark cloud in his sky was the knowledge that she was

far above him. Still, he argued to himself, the story she told of her father was an impossible one. He did not

believe that Ronald Earle would ever take his daughters homehe did not quite know what to think, but he

On the Wednesday evening they wandered down the cliff and sat upon the shore, watching the sun set over

the waters. Hugh took from his pocket a little morocco case and placed it in Beatrice's hands. She opened it,

and cried out with admiration; there lay the most exquisite ring she had ever seen, of pure pale gold,

delicately and elaborately chased, and set with three gleaming opals of rare beauty.

She held the ring in her dainty white fingers, and read: "Until death parts us."

"Oh, Hugh," she cried, that word again?" I dread it; why is it always coming before me?"

He smiled at her fears, and asked her to let him place the ring upon her finger.

"In two years," he said, "I shall place a plain gold ring on this beautiful hand. Until then wear this, Beatrice,

"It shall not leave my finger," she said. "Mamma will not notice it, and every one else will think she has

"And now," said Hugh, "promise me once more, Beatrice, you will be true to meyou will wait for

Beatrice never forgot the hour that followed. Proud, impetuous, and imperial as she was, the young man's

love and sorrow touched her as nothing had ever done. The sunbeams died away in the west, the glorious

mass of tinted clouds fell like a veil over the evening sky, the waves came in rapidly, breaking into sheets of

"Once more, only once more," he said. "Beatrice, my love, when I return you will be my wife?"

"I should either kill myself or you," he replied, "perhaps both. Do not make me say such terrible things. It

could not be. The sun may fall from the heavens, the sea rolling there may become dry land.

Natureeverything may prove false, but not you, the noblest, the truest of women. Say 'I love you, Hugh,'

and let those be your last words to me. They will go with me over the wide ocean, and be my rest and stay."

Something like a deep, bitter sob came from his white lips. Death itself would have been far easier than

leaving her. He raised her beautiful face to hishis tears and kisses seemed to burn itand then he was

Gone! The romance of the past few weeks, the engrossing interest, all suddenly collapsed. Tomorrow the old

monotonous life must begin again, without flattery, praise, or love. He had gone; the whole romance was

ended; nothing of it remained save the memory of his love and the ring upon her finger.

At first there fell upon Beatrice a dreadful blank. The monotony, the quiet, the simple occupations, were more

unendurable than ever; but in a few days that feeling wore off, and then she began to wonder at what she had

done. The glamour fell from before her eyes; the novelty and excitement, the romance of the stolen meetings,

the pleasant homage of love and worship no longer blinded her. Ah, and before Hugh Fernely had been many

days and nights upon the wide ocean, she ended by growing rather ashamed of the matter, and trying to think

of it as little as she could! Once she half tried to tell Lillian; but the look of horror on the sweet, pure face

Then there came a letter from Mrs. Vyvian announcing her return. The girls were warmly attached to the

lady, who had certainly devoted the ten best years of her life to them. She brought with her many novelties,

new books, new music, amusing intelligence from the outer world. For some days there was no lack of

Mrs. Vyvian saw a great change in Beatrice. Some of the old impetuosity had died away; she was as brilliant

as ever, full of life and gayety, but in some way there was an indescribable change. At times a strange calm

would come over the beautiful face, a faroff, dreamy expression steal into the dark, bright eyes. She had lost

her old frankness. Time was when Mrs. Vyvian could read all her thoughts, and very rebellious thoughts they

often were. But now there seemed to be a sealed chamber in the girl's heart. She never spoke of the future,

and for the first time her watchful friend saw in her a nervous fear that distressed her. Carefully and

cautiously the governess tried to ascertain the cause; she felt sure at last that, young as she was, carefully as

she had been watched, Beatrice Earle had a secret in her life that she shared with no one else.

There were confusion and dismay in the stately home of the Earles. One sultry morning in August Lord Earle

went out into the garden, paying no heed to the excessive heat. As he did not return to luncheon, the butler

went in search of him and found his master lying as one dead on the ground. He was carried to his own room,

doctors were summoned in hot haste from far and near; everything that science or love, skill or wisdom could

suggest was done for him, but all in vain. The hour had come when he must leave home, rank, wealth,

positionwhatever he valued mostwhen he must answer for his life and what he had done with itwhen

he must account for wealth, talent, for the son given to himwhen human likings, human passions, would

But while Lord Earle lay upon the bed, pale and unconscious, Lady Earle, who knelt by him and never left

him, felt sure that his mind and heart were both active. He could not speak; he did not seem to understand.

Who knows what passes in those dread moments of silence, when the light of eternity shows so clearly all

that we have done in the past? It may be that while he lay there, hovering as it were between two worlds, the

remembrance of his son struck him like a twoedged swordhis son, his only child given to him to train, not

only for earth but for heaventhe boy he had loved and idolized, then cast off, and allowed to become a

wanderer on the face of the earth. It may be that his stern, sullen pride, his imperious selfwill, his resolute

trampling upon the voice of nature and duty, confronted him in the new light shining upon him. Perhaps his

own words returned to him, that until he lay dead Ronald should never see Earlescourt again; for suddenly the

voice they thought hushed forever sounded strangely in the silence of that death chamber.

Those who saw it never forgot the blank, awful terror that came upon the dying face as he uttered his last

They bore the weeping wife from the room. Lady Earle, strong, and resolute though she was, could not drive

that scene from her mind. She was ill for many days, and so it happened that the lord of Earlescourt was laid

in the family vault long ere the family at the Elms knew of the change awaiting them.

Ronald was summoned home in all haste; but months passed ere letters reached him, and many more before

Lord Earle's will was brief, there was no mention of his son's name. There was a handsome provision for

Lady Earle, the pretty little estate of Roslyn was settled upon her; the servants received numerous legacies;

Sir Harry Laurence and Sir Hugh Charteris were each to receive a magnificent mourning ring; but there was

As the heir at law, everything was Ronald'sthe large amount of money the late lord had saved, title, estates,

everything reverted to him. But Ronald would have exchanged all for one line of forgiveness, one word of

It was arranged that until Ronald's return his mother should continue to reside at Earlescourt, and the

Lady Earle resolved to go to the Elms herself; great changes must be made there. Ronald's wife and children

must take their places in the world; and she felt a proud satisfaction in thinking that, thanks to her sensible

and judicious management, Dora would fill her future position with credit. She anticipated Ronald's delight

when he should see his beautiful and accomplished daughters. Despite her great sorrow, the lady of

Earlescourt felt some degree of hope for the future. She wrote to the Elms, telling Dora of her husband's

death, and announcing her own coming; then the little household understood that their quiet and solitude had

The first thing was to provide handsome mourning. Dora was strangely quiet and sad through it all. The girls

asked a hundred questions about their father, whom they longed to see. They knew he had left home in

consequence of some quarrel with his fatherso much Lady Earle told thembut they never dreamed that

his marriage had caused the fatal disagreement; they never knew that, for their mother's sake, Lady Earle

Lady Earle reached the Elms one evening in the beginning of September. She asked first to see Dora alone.

During the long years Dora had grown to love the stately, gentle lady who was Ronald's mother. She could

not resist her sweet, gracious dignity and winning manners. So, when Lady Earle, before seeing her

granddaughters, went to Dora's room, wishing for a long consultation with her, Dora received her with gentle,

"I wish to see you first," said Lady Helena Earle, "so that we may arrange our plans before the children know

anything of them. Ronald will return to England in a few months. Dora, what course shall you adopt?"

"But, surely," said lady Helena, "for the children's sake you will not refuse at least an outward show of

"Mr. Earle has not asked it," said Dora"he never will do so, Lady Helena. It is as far from his thoughts as

"I never inquired the cause of your separation, Dora," she said, gently, "and I never wish to know it. My son

told me you could live together no longer. I loved my own husband; I was a devoted and affectionate wife to

him. I bore with his faults and loved his virtues, so that I can not imagine what I should do were I in your

place. I say to you what I should say to Ronaldthey are solemn words'What therefore God hath joined

together, let no man put asunder.' Now let me tell you my opinion. It is this, that nothing can justify such a

separation as yoursnothing but the most outrageous offenses or the most barbarous cruelty. Take the right

course, Dora; submit to your husband. Believe me, woman's rights are all fancy and nonsense; loving, gentle

submission is the fairest ornament of woman. Even should Ronald be in the wrong, trample upon all pride

"Ronald was always generous and chivalrous," continued Lady Earle. "Oh, Dora, have you forgotten how my

The remembrance of what she thought her wrongs rose visibly before her. She saw again the magnificent face

of Valentine Charteris, with its calm, highbred wonder. She saw her husband's white, angry, indignant

countenancegestures full of unutterable contempt. Ah, no, never again! Nothing could heal that quarrel.

"You must take your place in the world," continued Lady Earle. "You are no longer simply Mrs. Earle of the

Elms; you are Lady Earle, of Earlescourt, wife of its lord, the mother of his children. You have duties too

"I refuse all," she replied, calmly; "I refuse to share your son's titles, his wealth, his position, his duties; I

refuse to make any advances toward a reconciliation; I refuse to be reconciled."

"Because your son said words to me that I never can and never will forget," she cried. "I did wrongLady

Helena, I was mad, jealous, blindI did wrongI did what I now know to be dishonorable and degrading. I

knew no better, and he might have pardoned me, remembering that. But before the woman I believe to be my

"Very hard," replied Dora; "they broke my heartthey slew me in my youth; I have never lived since then."

"Never," she replied; "they are burned into my heart and on my brain. I shall never forget them; your son and

"I can say no more," sighed Lady Earle. "Perhaps a mightier voice will call to you, Dora, and then you will

A deep silence fell upon them. Lady Helena was more grieved and disconcerted than she cared to own. She

had thought of taking her son's wife and children home in triumph, but it was not to be.

"Shall we speak of the children now?" she asked at length. "Some arrangements must be made for them."

"Yes," said Dora, "their father has claims upon them. I am ready to yield to them. I do not believe he will

ever love them or care for them, because they are mine. At the same time, I give them up to him and to you,

Lady Earle. The sweetest and best years of their lives have been spent with me; I must therefore not repine. I

have but one stipulation to make, and it is that my children shall never hear one word against me."

"You know little of me," said Lady Helena, "if you think such a thing is possible. You would rather part with

"Far rather," she replied. "I know you will allow them to visit me, Lady Earle. I have known for many years

"But, my dear Dora," said Lady Earle, warmly, "have you considered what parting with your children

"I know it all," replied Dora. "It will be hard, but not so hard nor so bitter as living under the same roof with

Carefully and quietly Dora listened to Lady Earle's plans and arrangementshow her children were to go to

Earlescourt and take the position belonging to them. Mrs. Vyvian was to go with them and remain until Lord

Earle returned. Until then they were not to be introduced into society; it would take some time to accustom

them to so great a change. When Lord Earl returned he could pursue what course he would.

"He will be so proud of them!" said Lady Earle. "I have never seen a girl so spirited and beautiful as Beatrice,

nor one so fair and gentle as Lillian. Oh, Dora, I should be happy if you were going with us."

Never once during the few days of busy preparation did Dora's proud courage give way. The girls at first

refused to leave her; they exhausted themselves in conjectures as to her continued residence at the Elms, and

were forced to be satisfied with Lady Earle's offhand declaration that their mother could not endure any but

"Mamma has a title now," said Beatrice, wonderingly; "why will she not assume it?"

"Your mother's tastes are simple and plain," replied Lady Earle. "Her wishes must be treated with respect."

Dora did not give way until the two fair faces that had brightened her house vanished. When they were gone,

and a strange, hushed silence fell upon the place, pride and courage gave way. In that hour the very bitterness

It was a proud moment for Lady Earle when she led the two young girls through the long line of servants

assembled to receive them. They were both silent from sheer wonder. They had left Florence at so early an

age that they had not the faintest remembrance of the pretty villa on the banks of the Arno. All their ideas

Lady Earle watched the different effect produced upon them by the glimpse of Earlescourt. Lillian grew pale;

she trembled, and her wondering eyes filled with tears. Beatrice, on the contrary, seemed instantly to take in

the spirit of the place. Her face flushed; a proud light came into her glorious eyes; her haughty head was

carried more regally than ever. There was no timidity, no shyly expressed wonder, no sensitive shrinking

They were deeply impressed with the magnificence of their new home. For many long days Lady Earle

employed herself in showing the numerous treasures of art and vertu the house contained. The picture gallery

pleased Beatrice most; she gloried in the portraits of the grand old ancestors, "each with a story to his name."

One morning she stood before Lady Helena's portrait, admiring the striking likeness. Suddenly turning to the

stately lady by her side, she said: "All the Ladies Earle are here; where is my own mamma? Her face is sweet

"There will be one some day," said Lady Helena. "When your father returns all these things will be seen to."

"We have no brother," continued Beatrice. "Every baron here seems to have been succeeded by his

"His next of kin," replied Lady Earle, sadly"Lionel Dacre; he is a third cousin of Lord Earle. He will have

She signed deeply; it was a real trouble to Lady Helena that she should never see her son's son, never love

Lillian delighted most in the magnificent gardens, the thickly wild wooded park, where every dell was filled

with flowers and ferns, every knoll crowned with noble trees. The lake, with white lilies sleeping on its

tranquil bosom and weeping willows touching its clear surface, pleased her most of all. As they stood on its

banks, Beatrice, looking into the transparent depths, shuddered, and turned quickly away.

"I am tired of water," she said; "nothing wearied me so much at Knutsford as the wide, restless sea. I must

Many days passed before they were familiar with Earlescourt. Every day brought its new wonders.

A pretty suite of rooms had been prepared for each sister; they were in the western wing, and communicated

with each other. The Italian nurse who had come with them from Florence had preferred remaining with

Dora. Lady Earle had engaged two fashionable ladies' maids, had also ordered for each a wardrobe suitable to

Mrs. Vyvian had two rooms near her charges. Knowing that some months might elapse before Ronald

returned, Lady Helena settled upon a course of action. The young girls were to be kept in seclusion, and not

to be introduced to the gay world, seeing only a few old friends of the family; they were to continue to study

for a few hours every morning, to drive or walk with Lady Earle after luncheon, to join her at the seven

It was a new and delightful life. Beatrice reveled in the luxury and grandeur that surrounded her. She amused

"I feel at home here," she said, "and I never did there. At times I wake up, half dreading to hear the rustling of

the tall elm trees, and old Mrs. Thorne's voice asking about the cows. Poor mamma! I can not understand her

When they became more accustomed to the new life, the strange incongruity in their family struck them both.

On one side a grand old race, intermarried with some of the noblest families in Englanda stately house,

title, wealth, rank, and position; on the other a simple farmer and his homely wife, the plain old homestead,

How could it be? How came it that their father was lord of Earlescourt and their mother the daughter of a

plain country farmer? For the first time it struck them both that there was some mystery in the life of their

parents. Both grew more shy of speaking of the Elms, feeling with the keen instinct peculiar to youth that

Visitors came occasionally to Earlescourt. Sir Harry and Lady Laurence of Holtham often called; Lady

Charteris came from Greenoke, and all warmly admired the lovely daughters of Lord Earle.

Beatrice, with her brilliant beauty, her magnificent voice, and gay, graceful manner, was certainly the

There was an unusual stir of preparation once when Lady Earle told them that the daughter of her devoted

friend, Lady Charteris, was coming to spend a few days at Earlescourt. Then, for the first time, they saw the

Valentine Charteris was no longer "the queen of the county." Prince di Bergezi had won the beautiful English

woman. He had followed her to Greenoke and repeated his question. There was neither coquetry nor

affectation in Valentineshe had thought the matter over, and decided that she was never likely to meet with

any one else she liked and respected so much as her Italian lover. He had the virtues, without the faults, of the

children of the South; a lavishly generous, princely disposition; well cultivated artistic tastes; good

principles and a chivalrous sense of honor. Perhaps the thing that touched her most was his great love for her.

In many respects he resembled Ronald Earle more nearly than any one else she had ever met.

To the intense delight of both parents, Miss Charteris accepted him. For her sake the prince consented to

Three times had the whole country side welcomed the stately Italian and his beautiful wife. This was their

fourth visit to England, and, when the princess heard from Lady Charteris that Ronald's two daughters, whom

she remembered as little babes, were at Earlescourt, nothing would satisfy her but a visit there.

The young girls looked in admiring wonder at the lady. They had never seen any one so dazzling or so bright.

The calm, grand, Grecian face had gained in beauty; the magnificent head, with its wealth of golden hair, the

tall, stately figure, charmed them. And when Valentine took them in her arms and kissed them her thoughts

went back to the white, wild face in the garden and the dark eyes that had flamed in hot anger upon her.

"I knew your mother years ago," she said; "has she never mentioned my name? I used to nurse you both in

No, they had never heard her name; and Beatrice wondered that her mother could have known and forgotten

The week she remained passed like a long, bright dream. Beatrice almost worshiped Valentine; this was what

she had dreamed of long ago; this was one of the ideal ladies living in the bright, gay world she was learning

When the prince and princess left Earlescourt they made Lady Helena promise that Beatrice and Lillian

should visit them at Florence. They spoke of the fair and coquettish Countess Rosali, still a reigning belle,

"You talk so much of Italy," said Valentine to Beatrice. "It is just the land for the romance you love. You

shall see blue skies and sunny seas, vines, and myrtles, and orange trees in bloom; you shall see such

luxuriance and beauty that you will never wish to return to this cold, dreary England."

It was thus arranged that, when Lord Earle returned, the visit should be paid. The evening after their guests'

"I will write to mamma," said Beatrice; "it is strange she never told us anything of her friend. I must tell her

Not daring to ask the girls to keep any secret from Dora, Lady Earle was obliged to let the letter go. The

passionate, lonely heart brooded over every word. Beatrice dwelt with loving admiration on the calm, grand

beauty of the princess, her sweet and gracious manner, her kindly recollection of Dora, and her urgent

invitation to them. Dora read it through calmly, each word stabbing her with cruel pain. The old, fierce

jealousy rose in her heart, crushing every gentle thought. She tore the letter, so full of Valentine, into a

"She drew my husband from me," she cried, "with the miserable beauty of her fair face, and now she will win

Then across the fierce tempest of jealous anger came one thought like a ray of light. Valentine was married;

she had married the wealthy, powerful prince who had been Ronald's patron; so that, after all, even if she had

lured Ronald from her, he had not cared for her, or she had soon ceased to care for him.

Beatrice thought it still more strange when her mother's reply to that long, enthusiastic letter came. Dora said

simply that she had never named the Princess di Borgesi because she was a person whom she did not care to

Fifteen months passed, and at length came a letter from Lord Earle, saying that he hoped to reach England

before Christmas, and in any case would be with them by Christmas day. It was a short letter, written in the

hurry of traveling; the words that touched his children most, were "I am glad you have the girls at

Earlescourt; I am anxious to see what they are like. Make them happy, mother; let hem have all they want;

The letter contained no mention of their mother; no allusion was made to her. The girls marked the weeks go

by in some little trepidation. What if, after all, this father, whom they did not remember, should not like them:

Beatrice did not think such a thing very probable, but Lillian passed many an hour in nervous, fanciful alarm.

It was strange how completely all the old life had died away. Both had felt a kind of affection for the homely

farmer and his wifethey sent many presents to thembut Beatrice would curl her proud lip in scorn when

she read aloud that "Mr. And Mrs. Thorne desired their humble duty to Lady Earle."

Lady Earle felt no anxiety about her son's return; looking at his daughters, she saw no fault in them.

Beautiful, accomplished, and graceful, what more could he desire? She inwardly thanked Providence that

neither of them bore the least resemblance to the Thornes. Beatrice looked like one of the Ladies Earle just

stepped out from a picture; Lillian, in her fair, dovelike loveliness, was quite as charming. What would

Lady Earleso truthful, so honorablehave thought or said had she known that their bright favorite with

the Earle face had plighted her troth, unknown to any one, to the captain of a trading vessel, who was to claim

Lady Earl had formed her own plans for Beatrice; she hoped the time would come when she would be Lady

Earle of Earlescourt. Nothing could be more delightful, nothing easier, provided Beatrice would marry the

One morning, as the sisters sat in Lillian's room, Lady Earle entered with an unusual expression of emotion

"My dear children," she said, "you must each look your very best this evening. I have a note hereyour

The calm, proud voice faltered then, and the stately mistress of Earlescourt wept at the thought of her son's

Once more Ronald Earle stood upon English shores; once again he heard his mother tongue spoken all around

him, once again he felt the charm of quiet, sweet English scenery. Seventeen years had passed since he had

taken Dora's hand in his and told her he cared nothing for all he was leaving behind him, nothing for any one

in the world save herselfseventeen years, and his love dream had lasted but two! Then came the cruel

shock that blinded him with anger and shame; then came the rude awakening from his dream when, looking

his life bravely in the face, he found it nothing but a burdenhope and ambition gonethe grand political

mission he had once believed to be his own impossible nothing left to him of his glorious dreams but

existenceand all for what? For the mad, foolish love of a pretty face. He hated himself for his weakness

and folly. For thatfor the fair, foolish woman who had shamed him so sorelyhe had half broken his

mother's heart, and had imbittered his father's life. For that he had made himself an exile, old in his youth,

These thoughts flashed through his mind as the express train whirled through the quiet English landscape.

Winter snows had fallen, the great bare branches of the tall trees were gaunt and snowladen, the fields were

one vast expanse of snow, the frost had hardened the icicles hanging from hedges and trees. The scene

seemed strange to him after so many years of the tropical sun. Yet every breath of the sharp, frosty air

At length the little station was reached, and he saw the carriage with his liveried servants awaiting him. A

warm flush rose to Lord Earle's face; for a moment he felt almost ashamed of meeting his old domestics.

They must all know now why he had left home. His own valet, Morton, was there. Lord Earle had kept him,

Ronald was pleased to see him; there were a few words of courteous greeting from Lord Earle to all around,

Once again Ronald saw the old trees of which he had dreamed so often, the stately cedars, the grand

spreading oaks, the tall aspens, the lady beeches, the groves of poplarsevery spot was familiar to him. In

the distance he saw the lake shining through the trees; he drove past the extensive gardens, the orchards now

bare and empty. He was not ashamed of the tears that rushed warmly to his eyes when the towers and turrets

A sharp sense of pain filled his heartkeen regret, bitter remorse, a longing for power to undo all that was

done, to recall the lost miserable yearsthe best of his life. He might return; he might do his best to atone for

his error; but neither repentance nor atonement would give him back the father whose pride he had humbled

As the carriage rolled up the broad drive, a hundred instances of his father's love and indulgence flashed

across himhe had never refused any request save one. He wisely and tenderly tried to dissuade him from

He remembered his father's face on that morning when, with outstretched hands, he bade him leave his

presence and never seek it morewhen he told him that whenever he looked upon his dead face he was to

remember that death itself was less bitter than the hour in which he had been deceived.

Sad, bitter memories filled his heart when the carriage stopped at the door and Ronald caught sight of the old

The library door was thrown open. Hardly knowing whither he went, Lord Earle entered, and it was closed

behind him. His eyes, dimmed with tears, saw a tall, stately lady, who advanced to meet him with open arms.

The face he remembered so fair and calm bore deep marks of sorrow; the proud, tender eyes were shadowed;

the glossy hair was threaded with silver; but it was his mother's voice that cried to him, "My son, my son,

He never remembered how long his mother held him clasped in her arms. Earth has no love like a mother's

lovenone so tender, so true, so full of sweet wisdom, so replete with pity and pardon. It was her own son

whom Lady Earle held in her arms. She forgot that he was a man who had incurred just displeasure. He was

her boy, her own treasure, and so it was that her words of greeting were all of loving welcome.

"How changed you are," she said, drawing him nearer to the fast fading light. "Your face is quite bronzed,

and you look so many years olderso sad, so worn! Oh, Ronald, I must teach you to grow young and happy

He sighed deeply, and his mother's heart grew sad as she watched his restless face.

"Oldfashioned copybooks say, mother, that 'to be happy one must be good.' I have not been good," he said

In the faint waning light, through which the snow gleamed strangely, mother and son sat talking. Lady Earle

told Ronald of his father's deathof the last yearning cry when all the pent up love of years seemed to rush

forth and overpower him with its force. It was some comfort to him, after all, that his father's last thoughts

His heart was strangely softened; a new hope came to him. Granted that the best part of his life was wasted,

"And my children," he said, "my poor little girls! I will not see them until I am calm and refreshed. I know

Then, taking advantage of his mood, Lady Helena said what she had been longing to say.

"Ronald," she began, "I have had much to suffer. You will never know how my heart has been torn between

"There can be no rest for me," continued his mother, "unless all division in our family ends. Ronald, I, who

never asked you a favor before, ask one now. Seek Dora and bring her home reconciled and happy."

A dark angry frown such as she had never seen there before came into Lord Earle's face.

"Anything but that," he replied, hastily; "I can not do it, mother. I could not, if I lay upon my death bed."

"For a hundred reasons, the first and greatest of which is that she has outraged all my notions of honor,

shamed and disgraced me in the presence of one whom I esteemed and revered; she hasBut no, I will not

speak of my wife's errors, it were unmanly. I can not forgive her, mother. I wish her no harm; let her have

every luxury my wealth can procure, but do not name her to me. I should be utterly devoid of all pride if I

"Pride on your side," said Lady Earle, sadly, "and temper on hers! Oh, Ronald, how will it end? Be wise in

time; the most honest and noble man is he who conquers himself. Conquer yourself, my son, and pardon

"Then," said Lady Earle, sorrowfully, "I must say to you as I said to Dorabeware; pride and temper must

"Mother," interrupted Ronald, bending over the pale face so full of emotion, "let this be the last time. You

distress yourself and me; do not renew the subject. I may forgive her in the hour of deathnot before."

Lady Helena's last hope died away; she had thought that in the first hour of his return, when old memories

had softened his heart, she would prevail on him to seek his wife whom he had ceased to love, and for their

children's sake bring her home. She little dreamed that the coming home, the recollection of his father, the

ghost of his lost youth and blasted hopes rising every instant, had hardened him against the one for whom he

"You will like to see the children now," said Lady Helena. "I will ring for lights. You will be charmed with

both. Beatrice is much like youshe has the Earle face, and, unless I am mistaken, the Earle spirit, too."

"Beatrice," said Lillian, as they descended the broad staircase, "I am frightened. I wish I could remember

something of papa his voice or his smile; it is like going to see a stranger. And suppose, after all, he does not

"Suppose what is of greater importance," said Beatrice proudly "that we do not like him!"

But, for all her high spirits and hauteur, Beatrice almost trembled as the library door opened and Lady Earle

came forward to met them. Beatrice raised her eyes dauntlessly and saw before her a tall, stately gentleman

with a handsome face, the saddest and noblest she had ever seenclear, keen eyes that seemed to pierce

"There is Beatrice," said Lady Helena, as she took her hand gently; and Ronald looked in startled wonder at

"Beatrice," he said, kissing the proud, bright face, "can it be possible? When I saw you last you were a little,

"I am not helpless now," she replied, with a smile; "and I hope you are going to love me very much, papa.

You have to make up for fifteen years of absence. I think it will not be very difficult to love you."

He seemed dazzled by her beautyher frank, high spirit and fearless words. Then he saw a golden head,

"I am Lillian, papa," said a clear, musical voice. "Look at me, pleaseand love me too."

He did both, charmed with the gentle grace of her manner, and the fair, pure face. Then Lord Earle took both

"I wish," he said, in a broken voice and with tears in his eyes, "that I had seen you before. They told me my

And again, when she saw his proud happiness, Lady Helena longed to plead for the mother of his children,

that she might also share in his love; but she dared not. His words haunted her. Dora would be forgiven only

The evening of his return was one of the happiest of Lord Earle's life. He was charmed with his daughters.

Lady Helena thought, with a smile, that it was difficult to realize the relationship between them. Although her

son looked sad and careworn, he seemed more like an elder brother than the father of the two young girls.

There was some little restraint between them at first. Lord Earle seemed at a loss what to talk about; then

Lady Helena's gracious tact came into play. She would not have dinner in the large dining room, she ordered

it to be served in the pretty morning room, where the fire burned cheerfully and the lamps gave a flow of

mellow light. It was a picture of warm, cozy English comfort, and Lord Earle looked pleased when he saw it.

Then, when dinner was over, she asked Beatrice to sing, and she, only pleased to show Lord Earle the extent

of her accomplishments, obeyed. Her superb voice, with its clear, ringing tones, amazed him. Beatrice sang

song after song with a passion and fire that told how deep the music lay in her soul.

Then Lady Helena bade Lillian bring out her folio of drawings, and again Lord Earle was pleased and

surprised by the skill and talent he had not looked for. He praised the drawings highly. One especially

attracted his attentionit was the pretty scene Lillian had sketched on the May day now so long passedthe

sun shining upon the distant white sails, and the broad, beautiful sweep of sea at Knutsford.

"That is an excellent picture," he said; "it ought to be framed. It is too good to be hidden in a folio. You have

just caught the right coloring, Lillian; one can almost see the sun sparkling on the water. Where is this

"Do you not know it?" she asked, looking at him with wonder in her eyes. "It is from Knutsfordmamma's

"Mamma's home!" The words smote him like a blow. He remembered Dora's offenseher cold letter, her

hurried flight, his own firm resolve never to receive her in his home againbut he had not remembered that

the children must love herthat she was part of their lives. He could not drive her memory from their minds.

"This," said Lillian, "is the Elms. See those grand old trees, papa! This is the window of Mamma's room, and

He looked with wonder. This, then, was Dora's homethe pretty, quaint homestead standing in the midst of

the green meadows. As he gazed, he half wondered what the Dora who for fifteen years had lived there could

be like. Did the curling rings of black hair fall as gracefully as ever? Had the blushing dimpled face grown

pale and still? And then, chasing away all softened thought, came the remembrance of that hateful garden

scene. Ah, no, he could never forgivehe could not speak of her even to these, her children! The two

Lord Earle said to himself, after his daughters had retired, that both were charming; but, though he hardly

owned it to himself, if he had a preference, it was for brilliant, beautiful Beatrice. He had never seen any one

to surpass her. After Lady Helena had left him, he sat by the fire dreaming, as his father long years ago had

It was not too late yet, he thought, to retrieve the fatal mistake of his life. He would begin at once. He would

first give all his attention to his estate; it should be a model for all others. He would interest himself in social

duties; people who lamented his foolish, wasted youth should speak with warm admiration of his manhood;

above all matters he dreamed of great things for his daughters, especially Beatrice. With her beauty and

grace, her magnificent voice, her frank, fearless spirit, and piquant, charming wit, she would be a queen of

society; through his daughter his early error would be redeemed. Beatrice was sure to marry well; she would

bring fresh honors to the grand old race ha had shamed. When the annals of the family told, in years to come,

the story of his mistaken marriage, it would be amply redeemed by the grand alliance Beatrice would be sure

His hopes rested upon her and centered in her. As he sat watching the glowing embers, there came to him the

thought that what Beatrice was to him he had once been to the father he was never more to see. Ah! If his

daughter should be like himself if she should ruin his hopes, throw down the air castle he had builtshould

love unworthily, marry beneath her, deceive and disappoint him! But no, it should not behe would watch

During breakfast on the morning following his return Lady Helena asked what his plans were for the

"No," said Lord Earle. "I wish to have a long conversation with my daughters. We shall be engaged during

Ronald, Lord Earle, had made up his mind. In the place where his father had warned him, and made the

strongest impression upon him, he would warn his children, and in the same way; so he took them to the

With gentle firmness he said: "I have brought you here as I have something to say to you which is best said

here. Years ago, children, my father brought me, as I bring you, to warn and advise meI warn and advise

you. We are, though so closely related, almost strangers. I am ready to love you and do love you. I intend to

make your happiness my chief study. But there is one thing I must havethat is, perfect openness, one thing

I must forbidthat is, deceit of any kind, on any subject. If either of you have in your short lives a secret, tell

it to me now; if either of you love any one, even though it be one unworthy, tell me now. I will pardon any

imprudence, any folly, any want of cautioneverything save deceit. Trust me, and I will be gentle as a

Both fair faces had grown paleBeatrice's from sudden and deadly fear; Lillian's from strong emotion.

"The men of our race," said Lord Earle, "have erred at times, the women never. You belong to a long line of

noble, pure, and high bred woman; there must be nothing in your lives less high, and less noble than in

theirs; but if there had beenif, from want of vigilance, of training, and of caution there should be anything

"I committed one act of deceit in my life," continued Lord Earle; "it drove me from home, and it made me an

exile during the best years of my life. It matters little what it wasyou will never know; but it has made me

merciless to all deceit. I will never spare it; it has made me harsh and bitter. You will both find in me the

truest, the best of friends; if in everything you are straightforward and honorable; but, children, dearly as I

"I never told a lie in my life," said Lillian, proudly. "My mother taught us to love the truth."

"And you, my Beatrice?" he asked, gently as he turned to the beautiful face half averted from him.

Even as she spoke her lips grew pale with fear, as she remembered the fatal secret of her engagement to Hugh

"I believe it," replied Lord Earle. "I can read truth in each face. Now tell mehave no fearhave you any

secret in that past life? Remember, no matter what you may have done, I shall freely pardon it. If you should

be in any trouble or difficulty, as young people are at times, I will help you. I will do anything for you, if you

"I have no secret," she said, simply. "I do not think I know a secret, or anything like one. My past life is an

"Thank Heaven!" said Lord Earle, as he placed his hand caressingly upon the fair head.

It was strange, and he remembered the omission afterward, that he did not repeat the question to

Beatricehe seemed to consider that Lillian's answer included her. He did not know her heart was beating

"I know," he continued, gently, "that some young girls have their little love secrets. You tell me you have

none. I believe you. I have but one word more to say. You will be out in the great world soon, and you will

doubtless both have plenty of admirers. Then will come the time of trial and temptation; remember my

wordsthere is no curse so great as a clandestine love, no error so great or degrading. One of our race was

so cursed, and his punishment was great. No matter whom you love and who loves you, let all be fair,

honorable, and open as the day. Trust me, do not deceive me. Let me in justice say I will never oppose any

"However dearly I might love the one who so transgressed," continued Lord Earle, "even if it broke my heart

to part from her, I should send her from me at once; she should never more be a child of mine. Do not think

me harsh or unkind; I have weighty reasons for every word I have uttered. I am half ashamed to speak of such

"I should laugh, papa," she replied, "if you did not look so very grave. We must see people in order to love

them. Beatrice, how many do we know in the world? Farmer Leigh, the doctor at Seabay, Doctor Goode, who

came to the Elms when mamma was ill, two farm laborers, and the shepherdthat was the extent of our

acquaintance until we came to Earlescourt. I may now add Sir Henry Holt and Prince Borgesi to my list. You

Lord Earle remembered with pleasure that it was true. "You will soon be in the midst of a new world," he

said, "and before you enter society I thought it better to give you this warning. I place no control over your

affections; the only thing I forbid, detest, and will never pardon, is any underhand, clandestine love affair.

He remembered afterward how strangely silent Beatrice was, and how her beautiful, proud face was turned

"It is a disagreeable subject," said Lord Earle, "and I am pleased to have finished with itit need never be

renewed. Now I have one more thing to sayI shall never control or force your affections, but in my heart

Lord Earle paused for a few minutes; he was looking at the face of Lady Alicia Earle, whom Beatrice

"I have no son," he continued, "and you, my daughters, will not inherit title or estateboth go to Lionel

Dacre. If ever the time should come when Lionel asks either of you to be his wife, my dearest wish will be

accomplished. And now, as my long lecture is finished, and the bell has rung, we will prepare for a visit to Sir

There was not much time for thought during the rest of the day; but when night came, and Beatrice was

She had been strongly tempted, when Lord Earle had spoken so kindly, to tell him all. She now wished she

had done so; all would have been over. He would perhaps have chided her simple, girlish folly, and have

forgiven her. He would never forgive her now that she had deliberately concealed the fact; the time for

forgiveness was past. A few words, and all might have been told; it was too late now to utter them. Proud of

her and fond of her as she saw Lord Earle was, there would be no indulgence for her if her secret was

She would have to leave the magnificent and luxurious home, the splendor that delighted her, the glorious

prospects opening to her, and return to the Elms, perhaps never to leave it again. Ah, no! The secret must be

kept! She did not feel much alarmed; many things might happen. Perhaps the "Seagull" might be lost she

thought, without pain or sorrow, of the possible death of the man who loved her as few love.

Even if he returned, he might have forgotten her or never find her. She did not feel very unhappy or ill at

easethe chances, she thought, were many in her favor. She had but one thing to do to keep all knowledge

As time passed on all constraint between Lord Earle and his daughters wore away; Ronald even wondered

himself at the force of his own love for them. He had made many improvements since his return. He did

wonders upon the estate; model cottages seemed to rise by magic in place of the wretched tenements

inhabited by poor tenants; schools, almshouses, churches, all testified to his zeal for improvement. People

began to speak with warm admiration of the Earlescourt estate and of their master.

Nor did he neglect social duties; old friends were invited to Earlescourt; neighbors were hospitably

entertained. His name was mentioned with respect and esteem; the tide of popularity turned in his favor. As

the spring drew near, Lord Earle became anxious for his daughters to make their debut in the great world.

They could have no better chaperone than his own mother. Lady Helena was speaking to him one morning of

"I put them all away," said Lady Earle, "when your father died. I shall never wear them again. The Earle

jewels are always worn by the wife of the reigning lord, not by the widow of his predecessor. Those jewels

"Shall we look them over?" asked Ronald. "Some of them might be reset for Beatrice and Lillian."

Lady Helena rang for her maid, and the heavy cases of jewelry were brought down. Beatrice was in raptures

The jewels might have sufficed for a king's ransom; the diamonds were of the first water; the rubies flashed

crimson; delicate pearls gleamed palely upon their velvet beds; there were emeralds of priceless value. One of

the most beautiful and costly jewels was an entire suite of opals intermixed with small diamonds.

"These," said Lord Earle, raising the precious stones in his hands, "are of immense value. Some of the finest

opals ever seen are in this necklace; they were taken from the crown of an Indian price and bequeathed to one

of our ancestors. So much is said about the unlucky stonethe pierre du malheur, as the French call the

"Give me the opals, papa," said Beatrice, laughing; "I have no superstitious fears about them. Bright and

beautiful jewels always seemed to me one of the necessaries of life. I prefer diamonds, but these opals are

She held out her hands, and for the first time Lord Earle saw the opal ring upon her finger. He caught the

"That is a beautiful ring," he said. "These opals are splendid. Who gave it to you, Beatrice?"

The question came upon her suddenly like a deadly shock; she had forgotten all about the ring, and wore it

For a moment her heart seemed to stand still and her senses to desert her. Then with a selfpossession worthy

"It was given to me at the Elms," she said, so simply that the same thought crossed the minds of her three

listenersthat it had been given by Dora and her daughter did not like to say so.

Lord Earle looked on in proud delight while his beautiful daughters chose the jewels they liked best. The

difference in taste struck and amused him. Beatrice chose diamonds, fiery rubies, purple amethysts; Lillian

"Some of those settings are very oldfashioned," said Lord Earle. "We will have new designs from Hunt and

The first thing Beatrice did was to take off the opal ring and lock it away. She trembled still from the shock of

her father's question. The fatal secret vexed her. How foolish she had been to risk so much for a few stolen

The time so anxiously looked for came at last. Lord Earle took possession of his town mansion, and his

daughters prepared for their debut. It was in every respect a successful one. People were in raptures with the

beautiful sisters, both so charming yet so unlike. Beatrice, brilliant and glowing, her magnificent face haunted

those who saw it like a beautiful dreamLillian, fair and graceful, as unlike her sister as a lily to a rose.

They soon became the fashion. No ball or soiree, no dance or concert was considered complete without them.

Artists sketched them together as "Lily and Rose," "Night and Morning," "Sunlight and Moonlight." Poets

indited sonnets to them; friends and admirers thronged around them. As Beatrice said, with a deep drawn

That same year the Earl of Airlie attained his majority, and became the center of all fashionable interest.

Whether he would marry and whom he would be likely to marry were two questions that interested every

mother and daughter in Belgravia. There had not been such an eligible parti for many years. The savings of a

The young earl had vast estates in Scotland. Lynnton Hall and Craig Castle, two of the finest seats in

Young, almost fabulously wealthy, singularly generous and amiable, the young Earl of Airlie was the center

of at least half a hundred of matrimonial plots; but he was not easily managed. Mammas with blooming

daughters found him a difficult subject. He laughed, talked, danced, walked, and rode, as society wished him

to do; but no one had touched his heart, or even his fancy. Lord Airlie was heartwhole, and there seemed no

prospect of his ever being anything else. Lady Constance Tachbrook, the prettiest, daintiest coquette in

London, brought all her artillery of fascination into play, but without success. The beautiful brunette, Flora

Cranbourne, had laid a wager that, in the course of two waltzes, she would extract three compliments from

The fact was that his lordship had been sensibly brought up. He intended to marry when he could find some

one to love him for himself, and not for his fortune. This ideal of all that was beautiful, noble, and true in

On all sides he had heard of the beauty of Lord Earle's daughters, but it did not interest him. He had been

hearing of, seeing, and feeling disappointed in beautiful women for some years. Many people made the point

of meeting the "new beauties," but he gave himself no particular trouble. They were like every one else, he

One morning, having nothing else to do, Lord Airlie went to a fete given in the beautiful grounds of Lady

Downham. He went early, intending to remain only a short time. He found but a few guests had arrived. After

paying the proper amount of homage to Lady Downham, the young earl wandered off into the grounds.

It was all very pretty and pleasant, but he had seen the same before, and was rather tired of it. The day was

more Italian than English, bright and sunny, the sky blue, the air clear and filled with fragrance, the birds

Flags were flying from numerous tents, bands of music were stationed in different parts of the grounds, the

fountains played merrily in the sunlit air. Lord Airlie walked mechanically on, bowing in reply to the

A pretty little bower, a perfect thicket of roses, caught his attention. From it one could see all over the lake,

with its gay pleasure boats. Lord Airlie sat down, believing himself to be quite alone; but before he had

removed a large bough that interfered with the full perfection of the view he heard voices on the other side of

He listened involuntarily, for one of the voices was clear and pure, the other more richly musical than any he

had ever heard at times sweet as the murmur of the cushat dove, and again ringing joyously and brightly.

"I hope we shall not have to wait here long, Lillian," the blithe voice was saying. "Lady Helena promised to

"It is very pleasant," was the reply; "but you always like to be in the very center of gayety."

"Yes," said Beatrice; "I have had enough solitude and quiet to last me for life. Ah, Lillian, this is all

"I am charmed, Lillian, with this London life; this is worth calling lifeevery moment is a golden one. If

"Do you not understand?" was the reply. "Lady Helena is always talking to me about cultivating what she

calls 'elegant repose.' Poor, dear grandmamma! Her perfect idea of good manners seems to me to be a simple

absencein society, at leastof all emotion and all feeling. I, for one, do not admire the nil admirari

"Yes," was the careless reply. "Only imagine, Lillian, yesterday, when Lady Cairn told me some story about a

favorite young friend of hers the tears came to my eyes. I could not help it, although the drawing room was

full. Lady Helena told me I should repress all outward emotion. Soon after, when Lord Dolchester told me a

ridiculous story about Lady Everton, I laughedheartily, I must confess, though not loudlyand she looked

"Then it is so tempting to say at times what one really thinks! I can not resist it. When Lady Everton tells me,

with that tiresome simper of hers, that she really wonders at herself, I long to tell her other people do the

same thing. I should enjoy, for once, the luxury of telling Mrs. St. John that people flatter her, and then laugh

at her affectation. It is a luxury to speak the truth at all times, is it not, Lily? I detest everything false, even a

false word; therefore I fear Lady Helena will never quite approve of my manner."

"You are so frank and fearless! At the Elms, do you remember how every one seemed to feel that you would

"Do not mention that place," replied Beatrice; "this life is so different. I like it so much, Lilyall the

brightness and gayety. I feel good and contented now. I was always restless and longing for life; now I have

There was a pause then, and Lord Airlie longed to see who the speakers werewho the girl was that spoke

such frank, bright wordsthat loved truth, and hated all things falsewhat kind of face accompanied that

voice. Suddenly the young earl remembered that he was listening, and he started in horror from his seat. He

pushed aside the clustering roses. At first he saw nothing but the golden blossoms of a drooping laburnum;

then, a little further on, he saw a fair head bending over some fragrant flowers; then a face so beautiful, so

He had seen many beauties, but nothing like this queenly young girl. Her dark, bright eyes were full of fire

and light; the long lashes swept her cheek, the proud, beautiful lips, so haughty in repose, so sweet when

smiling, were perfect in shape. From the noble brow a waving mass of dark hair rippled over a white neck

and shapely shoulders. It was a face to think and dream of, peerless in its vivid, exquisite coloring and

"Who can she be?" thought Lord Airlie. "I believed that I had seen every beautiful woman in London."

Satisfied with having seen what kind of face accompanied the voice, the young earl left the pretty rose

thicket. His friends must have thought him slightly deranged. He went about asking every one, "Who is here

"I can scarcely tell you,"replied his lordship. "I am somewhat in a puzzle. If you want to know who is the

queen of the fete, I can tell you. It is Lord Earle's daughter, Miss Beatrice Earle. She is over there, see with

"Yes," said Lord Dolchester, with a gay laugh; "and if I were young and unfettered, she would not be Miss

Lord Airlie gazed long and earnestly at the beautiful girl who looked so utterly unconscious of the admiration

"I must ask Lady Downham to introduce me," he said to himself, wondering whether the proud face would

smile upon him, and, if she carried into practice her favorite theory of saying what she thought, what she

"I have been besieged by gentlemen requesting introductions to Miss Earle," she said. "Contrary to your

He would have gone anywhere for one word from those perfect lips. Lady Downham led him to the spot

Lord Airlie was celebrated for his amiable, pleasing manner. He always knew what to say and how to say it,

but when those magnificent eyes looked into his own, the young earl stood silent and abashed. In vain he

tried confusedly to utter a few words; his face flushed, and Beatrice looked at him in wonder.Could this

He managed at length to say something about the beauty of the grounds and the brightness of the day. Plainly

He lingered by her side, charmed and fascinated by her grace; she talked to Lillian and to Lady Helena; she

received the homage offered to her so unconscious of his presence and his regard that Lord Airlie was piqued.

"No," replied Beatrice, "I could never grow tired of flowers who could? As for fetes, I have seen few, and

"I have lived among flowers," she replied, "but not among fetes; they have all the charm of novelty for me."

"I should like to enjoy them as you do," he said. "I wish you would teach me, Miss Earle."

She laughed gayly, and the sound of that laugh, like a sweet, silvery chime, charmed Lord Airlie still more.

He found out the prettiest pleasure boat, and persuaded Beatrice to let him row her across the lake. He

gathered a beautiful water lily for her. When they landed, he found out a seat in the prettiest spot and placed

Her simple, gay manner delighted him. He had never met any one like her. She did not blush, or look

conscious, or receive his attentions with the halffluttered sentimental air common to most young ladies of

She never appeared to remember that he was Lord Airlie, nor sought by any artifice to keep him near her. The

bright, sunny hours seemed to pass rapidly as a dream. Long before the day ended, the young earl said to

himself that he had met his fate; that if it took years to win her he would count them well spent that in all the

Lord Earle was somewhat amused by the solicitude the young nobleman showed in making his acquaintance

and consulting his tastes. After Lady Downham's fete he called regularly at the house. Lady Helena liked

him, but could hardly decide which of her grandchildren it was that attracted him.

The fastidious young earl, who had smiled at the idea of love and had disappointed half the fashionable

He was diffident of his own powers, hardly daring to hope that he should succeed in winning the most

beautiful and gifted girl in London. He was timid in her presence, and took refuge with Lillian.

All fashionable London was taken by surprise when Lord Airlie threw open his magnificent house, and,

under the gracious auspices of his aunt, Lady Lecomte, issued invitations for a grand ball.

Many were the conjectures, and great was the excitement. Lord Earle smiled as he showed Lady Helena the

"Of course you will go," he said. "We have no engagement for that day. See that the girls look their best,

He felt very proud of his daughtersLillian, looking so fair and sweet in her white silk dress and favorite

pearls! Beatrice, like a queen, in a cloud of white lace, with coquettish dashes of crimson. The Earle

diamonds shone in her dark hair, clasped the fair white throat, and encircled the beautiful arms. A

magnificent pomegranate blossom lay in the bodice of her dress, and she carried a bouquet of white lilies

The excitement as to the ball had been great. It seemed like a step in the right direction at last. The great

question was, with whom would Lord Airlie open the ball? Every girl was on the qui vive.

The question was soon decided. When Beatrice Earle entered the room, Lord Airlie went straight to meet her

and solicited her hand for the first dance. She did not know how much was meant by that one action.

He wondered, as he looked upon her, the queen of the most brilliant ball of the season, whether she would

ever love him if it was within the bounds of possibility that she should ever care for him. That evening, for

the first time, he touched the proud heart of Beatrice Earle. On all sides she had heard nothing but praises of

Lord Airlie his wealth, his talents, his handsome person and chivalrous manner. The ladies were eloquent in

praise of their young host. She looked at him, and for the first time remarked the noble, dignified carriage, the

tall, erect figure, the clearcut patrician facenot handsome according to the rules of beauty, but from the

Then she sawand it struck her with surprise how Lord Airlie, so courted and run after, sought her out. She

"My dear Miss Earle," said Lady Everton, "you have accomplished wondersconquered the unconquerable.

I believe every eligible young lady in London has smiled upon Lord Airlie, and all in vain. What charm have

"I did not know that he was at my feet," replied Beatrice. "You like figurative language, Lady Everton."

"You will find I am right," returned lady Everton. "Remember I was the first to congratulate you."

Beatrice wondered, in a sweet, vague way, if there could be anything in it. She looked again at Lord Airlie.

Surely any one might be proud of the love of such a man. He caught her glance, and her face flushed. In a

"Miss Earle," he said, eagerly, "you told me the other day you liked flowers. If you have not been in the

She silently accepted his arm, and they went through the magnificent suite of rooms into the cool, fragrant

The pretty fountain in the midst rippled musically, and the lamps gleamed like pale stars among masses of

Beatrice was almost bewildered by the profusion of beautiful plants. Tier upon tier of superb flowers rose

until the eye was dazzled by the varied hues and brightnessdelicate white heaths of rare perfection, flaming

azaleas, fuchsias that looked like showers of purplered wine. The plant that charmed Beatrice most was one

from faroff Indian climesdelicate, perfumed blossoms, hanging like golden bells from thick, sheltering

In a moment he gathered the fairest sprays from the precious tree. She cried out in dismay at the destruction.

"Nay," said Lord Airlie, "if every flower here could be compressed into one blossom, it would hardly be a

She smiled at the very French compliment, and he continued"I shall always have a great affection for that

They stood by the pretty plant, Beatrice touching the golden bells softly with her fingers. Something of the

magic of the scene touched her. She did not know why the fountain rippled so musically, why the flowers

seemed doubly fair as her young lover talked to her. She had been loved. She had heard much of love, but she

herself had never known what it really meant. She did not know why, after a time, her proud, bright eyes

drooped, and had never met Lord Airlie's gaze, why her face flushed and grew pale, why his words woke a

"I ask for one sprayonly oneto keep in memory of this pleasant hour," said Lord Airlie, after a pause.

"I should like to be curious and rude," he said, "and ask if you ever gave any one a flower before?"

That evening Lord Airlie placed the golden blossom carefully away. The time came when he would have

But his question had suddenly disturbed Beatrice. For a moment her thoughts flew to the sea shore at

Knutsford. The present faded from her; she saw Hugh Fernely's face as it looked when he offered her the

beautiful lily. The very remembrance of it made her shudder as though seized with deathly coldand Lord

"You are cold," he said; "how careless I am to keep you standing here!" He helped her to draw the costly lace

shawl around her shoulders, and Beatrice was quickly herself again, and they returned to the ball room; but

"You have enjoyed the ball, Beatrice," said Lord Earle, as he bade his daughters good night.

"I have, indeed, papa," she replied. "This has been the happiest evening of my life."

"I can guess why," thought Lord Earle, as he kissed the bright face upraised to him; "there will be no

He was not much surprised on the day following when Lord Airlie was the first morning caller, and the last to

leave, not going until Lady Helena told him that they should all be at the opera that evening and should

perhaps see him there. He regretted that he had promised Lady Morton his box for the night, when Lady Earle

All night Beatrice had dreamed of the true, noble face which began to haunt her. She, usually so regardless of

all flattery, remembered every word Lord Airlie had spoken. Could it be true, as Lady Everton had said, that

Her lover would have been spared many anxious hours could he have seen how the golden blossoms were

tended and cared for. Long afterward they were found with the little treasures which young girls guard so

When Lord Airlie had taken his departure and Lord Earle found himself alone with his mother, he turned to

"That seems to me a settled affair," he said. "Beatrice will make a grand countessLady Airlie of Lynnton.

He is the finest young fellow and the best match in England. Ah, mother, my folly might have been punished

"No," said Lady Earle, "I have no fears for Beatrice; she is too proud ever to do wrong."

It was a pretty love story, although told in crowded London ball rooms instead of under the shade of green

trees. Beatrice Earle began by wondering if Lord Airlie cared for her; she ended by loving him herself.

It was no child's play this time. With Beatrice, to love once was to love forever, with fervor and intensity

The time came when Lord Airlie stood out distinct from all the world, when the sound of his name was like

music, when she saw no other face, heard no other voice, thought of nothing else save him. He began to think

there might be some hope for him; the proud, beautiful face softened and brightened for him as it did for no

other, and the glorious dark eyes never met his own, the frank, bright words died away in his presence.

For the first time he felt proud and pleased with the noble fortune and high rank that were his by birthright.

He had not cared much for them before; now he rejoiced that he could lavish wealth and luxury upon one so

Lord Airlie was not a confident lover. There were times when he felt uncertain as to whether he should

succeed. Perhaps true and reverential love is always timid. Lord Earle had smiled to himself many long

weeks at the "pretty play" enacted before him, and Lady Helena had wondered when the young man would

"speak out" long before Lord Airlie himself presumed to think that the fairest and proudest girl in London

No day ever passed during which he did not manage to see her. He was indefatigable in finding out the balls,

soirees, and operas she would attend. He was her constant shadow, never happy out of her sight, thinking of

her all day, dreaming of her all night, yet half afraid to risk all and ask her to be his wife, lest he should lose

To uninterested speculators Lord Airlie was a handsome, kindly, honorable young man. Intellectual,

somewhat fastidious, lavishly generous, a great patron of fine arts; to Beatrice Earle he was the ideal of all

that was noble and to be admired. He was a prince among men. The proud heart was conquered. She loved

him and said to herself that she would rather love him as a neglected wife than be the worshiped wife of any

She had many admirers; "the beautiful Miss Earle" was the belle of the season. Had she been inclined to

coquetry or flirtation she would not have been so eagerly sought after. The gentlemen were quite as much

charmed by her utter indifference and haughty acceptance of their homage as by her marvelous beauty.

At times Beatrice felt sure that Lord Airlie loved her; then a sudden fit of timidity would seize her young

lover, and again she would doubt it. One thing she never doubtedher own love for him. If her dreams were

all false, and he never asked her to be his wife, she said to herself that she would never be the wife of any

The remembrance of Hugh Fernely crossed her mind at timesnot very often, and never with any great fear

or apprehension. It seemed to her more like a dark, disagreeable dream than a reality. Could it be possible

that she, Beatrice Earle, the daughter of that proud, noble father, so sternly truthful, so honorable, could ever

have been so mad or so foolish? The very remembrance of it made the beautiful face flush crimson. She

The fifteenth of July was drawing near; the two years had nearly passed, yet she was not afraid. He might

never return, he might forget her, although, remembering his looks and words, that, she feared, could not be.

If he went to Seabayif he went to the Elms, it was not probable that he would ever discover her

whereabouts, or follow her to claim the fulfillment of her absurd promise. At the very worst, if he discovered

that she was Lord Earle's daughter, she believed that her rank and position would dazzle and frighten him.

Rarely as those thoughts came to her, and speedily as she thrust them from her, she considered them a dear

price for the little novelty and excitement that had broken the dead level calm of life at the Elms.

Lord Airlie, debating within himself whether he should risk, during the whirl and turmoil of the London

season, the question upon which the happiness of his life depended, decided that he would wait until Lord

The summer began to grow warm; the hawthorn and apple blossoms had all died away; the corn waved in the

fields, ripe and golden; the hay was all gathered in; the orchards were all filled with fruit. The fifteenth of

Julythe day that in her heart Beatrice Earle had half fearedwas past and gone. She had been nervous and

half frightened when it came, starting and turning deathly pale at the sound of the bell or of rapid footsteps.

She laughed at herself when the day ended. How was it likely he would find her? What was there in common

between the beautiful daughter of Lord Earle and Hugh Fernely, the captain of a trading vessel? Nothing,

Three days before Lord Earle left London, he went by appointment to meet some friends at Brookes's. While

there, a gentleman entered the room who attracted his attention, most forciblya young man of tall and

stately figure, with a noble head, magnificently set upon broad shoulders; a fine, manly face, with proud,

mobile featuresat times all fire and light, the eyes clear and glowing, again, gentle as the face of a smiling

woman. Lord Earle looked at him attentively; there seemed to be something familiar in the outline of the head

"Who is that?" he inquired of his friend, Captain Langdon. "I have seen that gentleman before, or have

"Is it possible that you do not know him?" cried the captain. "That is Lionel Dacre, 'your next of kin,' if I am

Pleasure and pain struggled in Lord Earle's heart. He remembered Lionel many years ago, long before he

committed the foolish act that had cost him so much. Lionel had spent some time with him at Earlescourt; he

remembered a handsome and highspirited boy, proud and impetuous, brave to rashness, generous to a fault;

a fierce hater of everything mean and underhand; truthful and honorablehis greatest failing, want of cool,

Lionel Dacre was poor in those days; now he was heir to Earlescourt, heir to the title that, with all his strange

political notions, Ronald Earle ever held in high honor; heir to the grand old mansion and fair domain his

father had prized so highly. Pleasure and pain were strangely intermingled in his heart when he remembered

that no son of his would every succeed him, that he should never train his successor. The handsome boy that

Lord Earle crossed the room, and going up to the young man, laid one hand gently upon his shoulder.

"Lionel," he said, "it is many years since we met. Have you no remembrance of me?"

The frank, clear eyes looked straight into his. Lord Earle's heart warmed as he gazed at the honest, handsome

"Not the least in the world," replied Mr. Dacre, slowly. "I do not remember ever to have seen you before."

"Then I must have changed," said Lord Earle. "when I saw you last, Lionel, you were not much more than

twelve years old, and I gave you a 'tip' the day you went back to Eton. Charlie Villiers was with you."

"Then you are Lord Earle," returned Lionel. "I came to London purposely to see you," and his frank face

"I have been anxious to see you," said Lord Earle; "but I have not been long in England. We must be better

"My heir," replied Lord Earle. "I have no son; my estates are entailed, and you are my next of kin."

"I thought you had half a dozen heirs and heiresses," said Lionel. "I remember some story of a romantic

"I have no son," interrupted Lord Earle, sadly. "I wrote to you last week, asking you to visit me. Have you

"No," replied the young man gayly. "My mother is at Cowes, and I have been staying with her."

"I am with Captain Poyntz, at his chambers; I promised to spend some days with him," replied Lionel, who

"I must not ask you to break an engagement," said Lord Earle, "but will you dine with us this evening, and,

"I shall be very pleased," said Lionel, and the two gentlemen left Brookes's together.

"I must introduce you to Lady Earle and my daughters," said Ronald, as they walked along. "I have been so

long absent from home and friends that it seems strange to claim relationship with any one."

"I could never understand your fancy for broiling in Africa, when you might have been happier at home,"

"Did you not know? Have you not heard why I went abroad?" asked Lord Earle, gravely.

"No," replied Lionel. "Your father never invited me to Earlescourt after you left."

In a few words Lord Earle told his heir that he had married against his father's wish, and in consequence had

"And you gave up everything," said Lionel Dacre"home, friends, and position, for the love of a woman.

Lord Earle grew pale, as with sudden pain. Had Dora been so well worth loving? Had she been worth the

"You are my heir," he said gravely"one of my own race; before you enter our circle, Lionel, and take your

place there, I must tell you that my wife and I parted years ago, never to meet again. Do not mention her to

"Not one word more," interrupted Lord Earle. "In your thoughts lay no unjust blame on her. She left me of

her own free will. My mother lives with me; she will be pleased to see you. Rememberseven sharp."

As Lord Earle went home for the first time during the long years, a softer and more gentle thought of Dora

came to him. "She must have been" Whatwhat did Lionel suspect of her? Could it be that, seeing their

divided lives, people judged as his young kinsman had judgedthat they thought Dora to blamecriminal,

perhaps? And she had never in her whole life given one thought to any other than himself; nay, her very

errorsthe deed he could not pardonsprung from her great affection for him. Poor Dora! The pretty,

blushing face, with its sweet, shy eyes, and rosy lips, came before himthe artless, girlish love, the tender

worship. If it had been anything else, any other fault, Ronald must have forgiven her in that hour. But his

"No," he said, "I can not forgive it. I can not forget it. Men shall respect Dora; no one must misjudge her; but

I can not take her to my heart or my home again. In the hour of death," he murmured, "I will forgive her."

Lady Earle thought her son looked graver and sadder that day than she had ever seen him. She had not the

clew to his reflections; she did not know how he was haunted by the thought of the handsome, gallant young

man who must be his heirhow he regretted that no son of his would ever succeed himhow proud he

would have been of a son like Lionel. He had but two children, and they must some day leave Earlescourt for

homes of their own. The grand old house, the fair domain, must all pass into the hands of strangers unless

Lady Helena understood a little of what was passing in his mind when he told her that he had met Lionel

"I used to hope Beatrice might like him," said Lady Earle; "but that will never beLord Airlie has been too

quick. I hope he will not fall in love with her; it would only end in disappointment."

"Yes," assented Lady Helena. "Sweet Lilyshe seems almost too pure and fair for this dull earth of ours."

"Yes," she returned, "quite alone," and the words smote her with pain. She looked at the handsome face, with

its sad, worn expression. Was life indeed all over for her sonat the age, too, when other men sunned

themselves in happiness, when a loving wife should have graced his home, cheered and consoled him, shared

his sorrows, crowned his life with love? In the midst of his wealth and prosperity, how lonely he was! Could

it be possible that one act of disobedience should have entailed such sad consequences? Ah, if years ago

Ronald had listened to reason, to wise and tender counselif he had but given up Dora and married

Valentine Charteris, how different his life would have been, how replete with blessings and happiness, how

Lady Earle's eyes grew dim with tears as these thoughts passed through her mind. She went up to him and

"Ronald," she said, "I will do my best to make home happy after our bonny birds are caged. For your sake, I

"Hush, mother," he replied gently. "Words are all useless. I must reap as I have sown; the fruits of

disobedience and deceit could never beget happiness. I shall always believe that evil deeds bring their own

Lady Helena was pleased to see Lionel again. She had always liked him, and rejoiced now in his glorious

manhood. He stood before the two sisters, half dazzled by their beauty. The fair faces smiled upon him;

"I am bewildered by my good fortune," he said. "I shall be the envy of every man in London; people will no

longer call me Lionel Dacre. I shall be known as the cousin of 'Les Demoiselles Earle.' I have neither brother

nor sister of my own. Fancy the happiness of falling into the midst of such a family group."

"And being made welcome there!" interrupted Beatrice. Lionel bowed profoundly. At first he fancied he

preferred this brilliant, beautiful girl to her fair, gentle sister. Her frank, fearless talk delighted him. After the

general run of young ladiesall fashioned, he thought, after one modelit was refreshing to meet her. Her

Lord Airlie joined the little dinner party, and then Lionel Dacre read the secret which Beatrice hardly owned

"I shall not be shipwrecked on that rock," he said to himself. "When Beatrice Earle speaks to me her eyes

meet mine; she smiles, and does not seem afraid of me; but when Lord Airlie speaks she turns from him, and

her beautiful eyes droop. She evidently cares more for him than for all the world besides."

But after a time the fair, spirituelle loveliness of Lillian stole into his heart. There was a marked difference

between the two sisters. Beatrice took one by storm, so to speak; her magnificent beauty and queenly grace

dazzled and charmed one. With Lillian it was different. Eclipsed at first sight by her more brilliant sister, her

fair beauty grew upon one by degrees. The sweet face, the thoughtful brow, the deep dreamy eyes, the golden

ripples of hair, the ethereal expression on the calm features, seemed gradually to reveal their charm. Many

who at first overlooked Lillian, thinking only of her brilliant sister, ended by believing her to be the more

They stood together that evening, the two sisters, in the presence of Lord Airlie and Lionel Dacre. Beatrice

had been singing, and the air seemed still to vibrate with the music of her passionate voice.

"You sing like a siren," said Mr. Dacre; he felt no diffidence in offering so old a compliment to his

"No," replied Beatrice; "I may sing wellin fact, I believe I do. My heart is full of music, and it overflows

on my lips; but I am no siren, Mr. Dacre. No one ever heard of a siren with dusky hair and dark brows like

"I should have said you sing like an enchantress," interposed Lord Airlie, hoping that he was apter in his

"You have been equally wrong, my lord," she replied, but she did not laugh at him as she had done at Lionel.

"If I were an enchantress," she continued, "I should just wave my wand, and that vase of flowers would come

to me; as it is, I must go to it. Who can have arranged those flowers? They have been troubling me for the last

half hour." She crossed the room, and took from a small side table an exquisite vase filled with blossoms.

"See," she cried, turning to Lionel, "white heath, white roses, white lilies, intermixed with these pale gray

flowers! There is no contrast in such an arrangement. Watch the difference which a glowing pomegranate

"You do not like such quiet harmony?" said Lionel, smiling, thinking how characteristic the little incident

"No," she replied; "give me striking contrasts. For many years the web of my life was graycolored, and I

"Yes," she said, as she turned her beautiful, bright fact to him; "I have it now, never to lose it again."

Lord Airlie, looking on and listening, drinking in every word that fell from her lips, wondered whether love

was the scarlet thread interwoven with her life. He sighed deeply as he said to himself that it would not be;

this brilliant girl could never care for him. Beatrice heard the sigh and turned to him.

As Mr. Dacre walked home that evening, he thought long and anxiously about the two young girls, his

kinswomen. What was the mystery? he asked himselfwhat skeleton was locked away in the gay mansion?

Where was Lord Earle's wifethe lady who ought to have been at the head of his tablethe mother of his

children? Where was she? Why was her place empty? Why was her husband's face shadowed and lined with

"Lillian Earle is the fairest and sweetest girl I have ever met," he said to himself. "I know there is danger for

me in those sweet, true eyes, but if there be anything wrongif the mother is blameworthyI will fly from

the danger. I believe in hereditary virtue and in hereditary vice. Before I fall in love with Lillian, I must know

So he said, and he meant it. There was no means of arriving at the knowledge. The girls spoke at times of

their mother, and it was always with deep love and respect. Lady Helena mentioned her, but her name never

passed the lips of Lord Earle. Lionel Dacre saw no way of obtaining information in the matter.

There was no concealment as to Dora's abode. Once, by special privilege, he was invited into the pretty room

where the ladies sat in the morninga cozy, cheerful room, into which visitors never penetrated. There, upon

the wall, he saw a picture framed a beautiful landscape, a quiet homestead in the midst of rich, green

meadows; and Lillian told him, with a smile, that was the Elms, at Knutsford, "where mamma lived."

Lionel was too true a gentleman to ask why she lived there; he praised the painting, and then turned the

As Lady Earle foresaw, the time had arrived when Dora's children partly understood there was a division in

the family, a breach never to be healed. "Mamma was quite different from papa," they said to each other; and

Lady Helena told them their mother did not like fashion and gayety, that she had been simply brought up,

used always to quietness and solitude, so that in all probability she would never come to Earlescourt.

But as time went on, and Beatrice began to understand more of the great world, she had an instinctive idea of

the truth. It came to her by slow degrees. Her father had married beneath him, and her mother had no home in

the stately hall of Earlescourt. At first violent indignation seized her; then calmer reflection told her she could

not judge correctly. She did not know whether Lord Earle had left his wife, or whether her mother had

It was the first cloud that shadowed the life of Lord Earle's beautiful daughter. The discovery did not

diminish her love for the quiet, sad mother, whose youth and beauty had faded so soon. If possible, she loved

"Poor mamma!" thought the young girl"poor, gentle mamma! I must be doubly kind to her, and love her

Dora did not understand how it happened that her beautiful Beatrice wrote so constantly and so fondly to

herhow it happened that week after week costly presents found their way to the Elms.

"The child must spend all her pocket money on me," she said to herself. "How well and dearly she loves

Lady Helena remembered the depth of her mother's love. She pitied the lonely, unloved wife, deprived of

husband and children. She did all in her power to console her. She wrote long letters, telling Dora how

greatly her children were admired, and how she would like their mother to witness their triumph. She told

how many conquests Beatrice had made; how the proud and exclusive Lord Airlie was always near her, and

"Neither Lord Earle nor myself could wish a more brilliant future for Beatrice," wrote Lady Helena. "As

But even Lady Helena was startled when she read Dora's reply. It was a wild prayer that her child should be

savedspared the deadly perils of love and marriageleft to enjoy her innocent youth.

"There is no happy love," wrote poor Dora, "and never can be. Men can not be patient, gentle, and true. It is

ever self they worshipselfreflected in the woman they love. Oh, Lady Helena, let my child be spared! Let

no socalled love come near her! Love found me out in my humble home, and wrecked all my life. Do not let

my bright, beautiful Beatrice suffer as I have done. I would rather fold my darlings in my arms and lie down

with them to die than live to see them pass through the cruel mockery of love and sorrow which I have

endured. Lady Helena, do not laugh; your letter distressed me. I dreamed last night, after reading it, that I

placed a wedding veil on my darling's head, when, as it fell round her, it changed suddenly into a shroud. A

"I have been abroad long enough," said Lord Earle, in reply to some remark made by Lady Helena. "The girls

do not care for the seaBeatrice dislikes it even; so I think we can not do better than to return to Earlescourt.

"Yes," said Lady Earle; "there is no place I love so well as home. We owe our neighbors something, too. I am

almost ashamed when I remember how noted Earlescourt once was for its gay and pleasant hospitality. We

must introduce the girls to our neighbors. I can foresee quite a cheerful winter."

"Let us get over the summer and autumn," said Ronald with a smile, "then we will look the winter bravely in

the face. I suppose, mother, you can guess who has managed to procure an invitation to Earlescourt!"

"Yes," was the laughing reply. "It did me good, motherit made me feel young and happy again to see and

hear him. His handsome, frank face clouded when I told him we were going; then he sighed said London

would be like a desertdeclared he could not go to Lynnton, the place was full of workpeople. He did not

like Scotland, and was as homeless as a wealthy young peer with several estates could well be. I allowed him

to bewilder himself with confused excuses and blunders, and then asked him to join us at Earlescourt. He

almost 'jumped for joy,' as the children say. He will follow us in a week or ten days. Lionel will come with

"I am very pleased," said Lady Earle. "Next to you, Ronald, I love Lionel Dacre; his frank, proud, fearless

disposition has a great charm for me. He is certainly like Beatrice. How he detests everything false, just as

"Yes," said Ronald, gravely; "I am proud of my children. There is no taint of untruth or deceit there, mother;

they are worthy of their race. I consider Beatrice the noblest girl I have ever known; and I love my sweet Lily

"I would sooner part with my life!" he replied. "I am not given to strong expressions, mother, but even you

"Then let me say one word, Ronald," said his mother; "remember Dora loves them as dearly and as deeply as

you do. Just think for a moment what it has cost her to give them up to you! She must see them soon, with

"You are right, mother," he said, after a few minutes. "They are Dora's children, and she ought to see them;

but they must not return to that farm houseI can not bear the thought of it. Surely they can meet on neutral

"It had better be in London," said Lady Helena. "I will write to Dora, and tell her. The very anticipation of it

And again a softened thought of Dora came to her husband. Of course she loved them. The little villa at

Florence rose before him; he saw vividly, as though he had left it but yesterday, the pretty vineshaded room

where Dora used to sit nursing the little ones. He remembered her sweet patience, her neverfailing, gentle

love. Had he done right to wound that sad heart afresh by taking those children from her? Was it a just and

He would fain have pardoned her, but he could not; and he said to himself again: "In the hour of death! I will

The glowing August, so hot and dusty in London, was like a dream of beauty at Earlescourt. The tall trees

gave grateful shelter, baffling the sun's warm rays; the golden corn stood in the broad fields ready for the

sickle; the hedgerows were filled with flowers. The beech trees in the park were in full perfection. Fruit

hung ripe and heavy in the orchards. It was no longer the blossoming promise of spring, but the perfect glory

For many long years Earlescourt had not been so gay. The whole countryside rang with fashionable

intelligence. The house was filled with visitors, Lord Airlie heading the list. Lionel Dacre, thinking but little

of the time when the grand old place would be his own, was full of life and spirits.

Long arrears of hospitalities and festivities had to be repaid to the neighborhood. Beatrice and Lillian had to

make their debut there. Lady Helena decided upon commencing the programme with a grand dinner party, to

be followed by a ball in the evening. Ronald said something about the weather being warm for dancing.

"We danced in London, papa," said Beatrice, "when the heat was so great that I should not have felt any

surprise if the whole roomful of people had dissolved. Here we have spacelarge, cool rooms, fresh air, a

conservatory as large as a London house; it will be child's play in comparison with what we have gone

"Miss Earle is quite right," said Lord Airlie. "A ball during the season in London is a toil; here it would be

"Then a ball let it be," said Lord Earle. "Lillian, make out a list of invitations, and head it with Sir Harry and

Lady Laurence of Holtham Hall. That reminds me, their eldest son, Gaspar, came home yesterday from

"Little Gaspar," said Lord Earle, laughing, "is six feet high now, mother. You forget how time flies; he is

taller than Lionel, and a fine, handsome young fellow he is. He will be quite an acquisition."

Lord Earle was too much engrossed to remark the uneasiness his few words had caused. Lord Airlie winced

at the idea of a rival a handsome man, and sentimental, too, as all those people educated in Germany are!

"I can not understand what possesses English people to send their sons abroad for education," he said to

"The people are so absurdly sentimental," he replied. "Whenever I see a man with long hair and dreamy eyes,

"You are jealous," said Lionel, who had overheard the conversation. "Look out for a rival in the lists, my

"I wish this tiresome ball were over," sighed Lord Airlie. "I shall have no chance of speaking while it is on

But he soon forgot his chagrin. The formidable Gaspar appeared that very morning, and, although Lord Airlie

could perceive that he was at once smitten with Beatrice's charms, he also saw that she paid no heed whatever

to the newcomer; indeed, after a few words of courteous greeting, she returned to the point under

"If we have flowers at all," she said, imperiously, "let them be a gorgeous mass of bloomsomething worth

looking at; not a few pale blossoms standing here and there like 'white sentinels'; let us have flowers full of

life and fragrance. Lillian, you know what I mean; you remember Lady Manton's flowerstier after tier of

"You like to do everything en reine, Beatrice," said Lady Helena, with a wellpleased smile.

"If you have not flowers sufficient, Miss Earle," said Lord Airlie, "I will send to Lynnton. My gardener

"My dear Lord Airlie," said Lady Earle, "we have flowers in profusion. You have not been through the

conservatories. It would while away the morning pleasantly for you all. Beatrice, select what flowers you

"See," said the triumphant beauty, "what a grand thing a strong will is! Imagine papa's saying he thought

thirty or forty plants in full flower would be sufficient! We will surprise him. If the gardener loses his reason,

Lord Airlie loved Beatrice best in such moods; imperious and piquant, melting suddenly into little gleams of

tenderness, then taking refuge in icy coldness and sunny laughter. Beautiful, dazzling, capricious, changing

almost every minute, yet charming as she changed, he would not have bartered one of her proudest smiles or

He never forgot that morning spent among the flowers. It was a glimpse of elysium to him. The way in which

Beatrice contrived to do as she liked amused him; her face looked fairer than ever among the blooming

"There is the bell for lunch," she said at last. "We have been here nearly three hours."

"Most of your attendants look slightly deranged," said Lionel. "I am sure I saw poor Donald weeping over his

favorite plants. He told me confidentially they would be fit for nothing after the heat of the ball room."

"I shall invent some means of consolation for him," she replied. "I like dancing among the bright flowers.

"Why not?" said Lionel, gravely. "Ah, Miss Earle, why are we not always young and beautiful and happy?

Why must flowers die, beauty fade, love grow old? Ask a philosopherdo not ask me. I know the answer,

"Philosophy does not interest me at present," she said. "I like flowers, music, and dancing better. I hope I

shall never tire of them; sometimesbut that is only when I am serious or tiredI feel that I shall never live

to grow old. I can not imagine my eyes dim or my hair gray. I can not imagine my heart beating slowly. I can

not realize a day when the warmth and beauty of life will have changed into cold and dullness."

Even as she spoke a gentle arm stole round her, a fair, spirituelle face, eyes full of clear, saintly light looked

into hers, and a soft voice whispered to her of something not earthly, not of flowers and music, not of life and

gayety, something far beyond these, and the proud eyes for a moment grew dim with tears.

"Lily," she said, "I am not so good as you, but I will endeavor to be. Let me enjoy myself first, just for a short

"That is the kind of wife I want," thought Lionel Dacre to himself, looking at Lillian"some one to guide

me, to teach me. Ah, if women only understood their mission! That girl looked as I can imagine only

Lord Airlie left the conservatory, with its thousand flowers, more in love than ever.

He would wait, he said to himself, until the ball was over; then he would ask Beatrice Earle to be his wife. If

she refused him, he would go far away where no one knew him; if she accepted him, he would be her devoted

Lord Airlie muttered something that was not a benediction when, on the morning following, Gaspar Laurence

"We can not receive visitors this morning," said Beatrice, half impatiently. "Mr. Laurence must have

But Mr. Laurence had forgotten nothing of the kind. It was a delicious morning, the sun shining brightly and

clearly, the westerly breeze blowing fresh and cool. He had thought it likely that the young ladies would

Lady Earle was pleased with the idea. Lord Airlie mentioned something about fatigue, but he was overruled.

"Stroll in the grounds," said Lady Helena; "go down by the lake; I will join you there afterward. A few hours

They went together. Gaspar's preference soon became apparent he would not leave Beatrice, and Lord Airlie

They sat down under the shade of a tall ladybirch, the deep, sunlit lake shining through the trees. Then

"It is the sweetest, saddest story ever written," he continued. "This is just the morning for it. May I read it to

There was a general and pleased murmur of assent. Lord Airlie muttered to himself that he knew the fellow

Still it was very pleasant. There was a gentle ripple on the deep lake, the water washed among the tall reeds,

and splashed with a faint, musical murmur on the stones; the thick leafy branches rustled in the wind; the

Gaspar Laurence read well; his voice was clear and distinct; not a word of the beautiful story was lost.

Beatrice listened like one in a dream. Her proud, bright face softened, her magnificent eyes grew tender and

half sad. Gaspar read onof the fair and lovely maiden, of the handsome young knight and his love, of the

water sprite, grim old Kuhlehorn, and the cottage where Undine dwelt, of the knight's marriage, and then of

The rippling of the lake and the singing of the birds seemed like an accompaniment to the words, so full of

pathos. Then Gaspar came to Bertha's love for the knighttheir journey on the river to the huge hand rising

and snatching the jewel from Undine's soft fingers, while the knight's love grew cold.

Even the waters of the lake seemed to sob and sigh as Gaspar read on of sweet, sad Undine and of her

unhappy love, of Bertha's proud triumph, her marriage with the knight, and the last, most beautiful scene of

"How exquisite!" said Beatrice, drawing a long, deep breath. "I did not know there was such a story in the

Her eyes wandered to the sweet spirituelle face and fair golden hair of her sister. Lionel Dacre's glance

"I know what you are thinking of," he said"Miss Lillian is a perfect Undine. I can fancy her, with clasped

hands and sad eyes, standing between the knight and Bertha, or rising with shadowy robes from the open

"It is a beautiful creation," said Beatrice, gently. "Lillian would be an ideal Undineshe is just as gentle, as

fair, as true. I am like Bertha, I suppose; at least I know I prefer my own way and my own will."

"You should give some good artist a commission to paint a picture," said Lord Airlie. "Choose the scene in

the boat Undine bending over the water, a dreamy expression on her fair face; Bertha sitting by the knight,

proud, bright, and half scornful of her companion. Imagine the transparent water Undine's little hand half lost

in it, and the giant fingers clasping hers. I wonder that an artist has never painted that scene."

"Who would do for the knight?" said Beatrice. "Lillian and I will never dispute over a knight."

"Artists would find some difficulty in that picture," said Lillian. "How could one clothe a beautiful ideal like

Undine? Sweeping robes and waving plumes might suit Bertha; but how could one depict Undine?"

"I have been wishing for the last ten minutes," replied Beatrice, "to be upon the lake. I want to put my hand in

Gaspar was not long in getting a pleasure boat out of the boat house. Lionel managed to secure a seat near his

It was even more pleasant on the water than on the land; the boat moved easily along, the fresh, clear breeze

"Steer for those pretty water lilies," said Beatrice, "they look so fresh and shining in the sun."

And as they floated over the water, her thoughts went back to that May morning when Lillian sat upon the

cliffs and sketched the white faroff sails. How distant it seemed! She longed then for life. Now every sweet

gift which life could bestow was here, crowned with love. Yet she sighed as Hugh Fernely's face rose before

her. If she could but forget it! After all it had been on her side but a mockery of love. Yet another sigh broke

"Does anything trouble you, Miss Earle?" he asked. "I never remember to have seen you so serious before."

She looked for a moment wistfully into his face. Ah, if he could help her, if he could drive this haunting

memory from her, if ever it could be that she might tell him of this her trouble and ask him to save her from

Hugh Fernely! But that was impossible. Almost as though in answer to her thought, Gaspar Laurence began

to tell them of an incident that had impressed him. A gentleman, a friend of his, after making unheardof

sacrifices to marry a lady who was both beautiful and accomplished, left her suddenly, and never saw her

again, the reason being that he discovered that she had deceived him by telling him a willful lie before her

marriage. Gaspar seemed to think she had been hardly used. Lord Airlie and Lionel differed from him.

"I am quite sure," said Lord Airlie, "that I could pardon anything sooner than a lie; all that is mean,

despicable, and revolting to me is expressed in the one word, 'liar.' Sudden anger, passion, hot

revengeanything is more easily forgiven. When once I discover that a man or woman has told me a lie, I

"I agree with you," said Lionel; "perhaps I even go further. I would never pardon an air of deceit; those I love

"Such a weight of truth might sink the boat," said Beatrice, carelessly; but Lord Airlie's words had gone

straight to her heart. If he only knew. But he never would. And again she wished that in reply to her father's

The time came when Lillian remembered Mr. Dacre's words, and knew they had not been spoken in vain.

Beatrice had taken off her glove, and drew her hand trough the cool, deep water; thinking intently of the story

she had just heardof Undine and the waterspritesshe leaned over the boat's side and gazed into the

depths. The blue sky and white fleecy clouds, the tall green trees and broad leaves, were all reflected there.

There was a strange, weird fascination in the placid waterwhat went on in the depths beneath? What lay

beneath the ripples? Suddenly she drew back with a startled cry a cry that rang out in the clear summer air,

and haunted Lord Airlie while he lived. He looked at her; her face had grown white, even to the very lips, and

"What is it?" he asked, breathlessly. She recovered herself with a violent effort, and tried to smile.

"How foolish I am!" she said; "and what is worse you will all laugh at me. It was sheer fancy and nonsense, I

know; but I declare that looking down into the water, I saw my own face there with such a wicked, mocking

"It was the simple reflection," said Lionel Dacre. "I can see mine. Look again, Miss Earle."

"No," she replied, with a shudder; "it is only nonsense, I know, but it startled me. The face seemed to rise

"It was only the rippling of the water which distorted the reflection," said Lord Airlie.

Beatrice made no reply, but drew her lace shawl around her as though she were cold.

"I do not like the water," she said presently; "it always frightens me. Let us land, Mr. Laurence, please. I will

Gaspar laughed, and Mr. Dacre declared Beatrice had had too strong a dose of Undine and the watersprites.

Lord Airlie felt her hand tremble as he helped her to leave the boat. He tried to make her forget the incident

by talking of the ball and the pleasure it would bring. She talked gayly, but every now and then he saw that

When they were entering the house she turned round, and, in her charming, imperious way, said:

"None of you must tell papa about my fright. I should not like him to think that an Earle could be either

The heat had tried both girls, and Lady Helena said they must rest before dinner. She made Beatrice lie down

upon the cosy little couch in her dressing room. She watched the dark eyes close, and thought how beautiful

But the girl's sleep was troubled. Lady Earle, bending over her, heard her sigh deeply and murmur something

about the "deep water." She awoke, crying out that she saw her own face, and Lady Earle saw great drops of

"What have you been dreaming of, child?" she asked. "Young girls like you ought to sleep like flowers."

"Flowers never quite close their eyes," said Beatrice, with a smile. "I shut mine, but my brain is active, it

seems, even in sleep. I was dreaming of the lake, Lady Helena. Dreams are very wonderful; do they ever

"I knew one that did," replied Lady Earle. "When I was young, I had a friend whom I loved very

dearlyLaura Reardon. A gentleman, a Captain Lemuel, paid great attention to her. She loved himmy

poor Lauraas I hope few people love. For many months he did everything but make an offersaw her

ever day, sent her flowers, books, and music, won her heart by a thousand sweet words and gentle deeds. She

believed he was in earnest, and never suspected him of being a male flirt. He left London, suddenly, saying

"She came to me one morning and told me a strange dream. She dreamed she was dead, and lay buried in the

center aisle of an old country church. At the same time, and in the usual vague manner of dreams, she was

conscious of an unusual stir. She heard carriages drive up to the church door; she heard the rustling of

dresses, the sound of footsteps above her head, the confused murmur of a crowd of people; then she became

"She heard the service finished, the wedding bells peal, the carriages drive away. I laughed at her, Beatrice;

but the strange thing is, Captain George Lemuel was married on the very day Laura dreamed the dream. He

married a young lady, Alice Ferrars, and Laura had never heard of the name before she dreamed it. The

marriage took place in an old country church. That dream came true, Beatrice; I never heard of another dream

"No," replied Lady Helena; "she did not die, but her life was spoiled by her unhappy love."

"I should have died had it been my disappointment," said Beatrice; "the loss of what one loves must be more

Far and near nothing was spoken of but the ball at Earlescourt. Anything so brilliant or on so grand a scale

Lord Earle felt proud of the arrangements as he looked through the ball room and saw the gorgeous array of

flowers, tier upon tier of magnificent bloom, a sight well worth coming many miles to see. Here and there a

marble statue stood amid the flowers. Little fountains of scented water rippled musically. He stopped for a

"How she loves everything bright and gay!" he said to himself. "She will be queen of the ball tonight."

As Lord Earle stood alone in his library that evening, where he had been reading, stealing a quiet half hour,

"Come in," he said, and there stood before him something that he thought must be a vision.

"Grandmamma sent me," said Beatrice, blushing, "to see if I should do. You are to notice my diamonds,

As he looked at the radiant figure a sense of wonder stole over him. Could this magnificent beauty really be

Dora's daughter Dora who had stained her pretty hand with strawberry juice so many years ago?

He knew nothing of the details of the dress, he saw only the beautiful face and glorious eyes, the crowns of

waving hair, the white, stately neck and exquisite arms. Before him was a gleam of pale pink satin, shrouded

with lace so fine and delicate that it looked like a fairy web; and the Earle diamonds were not brighter than

the dark eyes. They became the wearer well. They would have eclipsed a fair, faded beauty; they added

"Where is Lillian?" he asked; and she knew from the tone of his voice how proud and satisfied he was.

Lord Earle hardly knew which to admire the more. Lillian looked so fair and graceful; the pure, spiritual face

and tender eyes had new beauty; the slender, girlish figure contrasted well with the stately dignity of Beatrice.

"I feel sure it will for me," said Beatrice, with a smile. "I am thoroughly happy, and am looking forward to

Lord Earle smiled half sadly as he gazed at her bright face, wondering whether, in years to come, it would be

"Will you dance, papa?" asked Beatrice, with a gleam of mischief in her dark eyes.

"I think not," he replied; and Ronald Earle's thoughts went back to the last time he had ever dancedwith

Valentine Charteris. He remembered it well. Ah, no! All those pleasant, happy days were over for him.

The dinner party was over, and carriage after carriage rolled up to the Hall; the rooms began to fill; there was

"You have not forgotten your promise to me, Miss Earle?" said Lord Airlie. "I am to have the first dance and

"I have not forgotten," replied Beatrice. She was never quite at her ease with him, although she loved him

better than any one else on earth. There was ever present with her the consciousness that she did so love him,

They opened the ball, and many significant comments were made upon the fact. Gaspar Laurence was

present. He was deeply engaged for more than two hours in making up his mind whether he should ask

Beatrice to dance with him or notshe looked so beautiful, so far above him. Gaspar could not help loving

her that was impossible; the first moment he saw her he was entranced. But his was a humble, hopeless

kind of adoration. He would sooner have dreamed of wooing and winning a royal princess than of ever asking

At length he summoned up courage, and was rewarded by a bright smile and kind words. Poor Gaspar! When

the beautiful face was near him, and her hand rested on his shoulder, he thought he must be dreaming.

"There," he said, when the dance was over; "I shall not dance again. I should not like to lose the memory of

"I must be candid with you," said Gaspar, sadly. "Perhaps my confession is a vain one; but I love you, Miss

"That is not a very timid declaration," said Beatrice with a smile. "You are courageous, Mr. Laurence. I have

"It would make no difference," said Gaspar, "whether I had seen you only once, or whether I met you every

day. I am not going to pain you, Miss Earle. Think kindly of meI do not ask more; only remember that

living in this world there is one who would stand between you and all perilwho would sacrifice his life for

"I will not,"said Beatrice, firmly. "Never could I forget such words. I am willing to be your friendI know

"I shall be happier with your friendship than with the love of any other woman," said Gaspar, gratefully.

Just then Lord Earle came and took Mr. Laurence away. Beatrice stood where he had left her, half screened

from sight by the luxuriant foliage and magnificent flowers of a rare American plant. There was a thoughtful,

tender expression on her face that softened it into wondrous beauty. She liked Gaspar, and was both pleased

and sorry that he loved her. Very pleasant was this delicious homage of lovepleasant was it to know that

strong, brave, gifted men laid all they had in the world at her feetto know that her looks, smiles, and words

Yet she was sorry for Gaspar. It must be sad to give all one's love and expect no return. She would be his

friend, but she could never be anything more. She could give him her sincere admiration and esteem, but not

The proud, beautiful lips quivered, and the bright eyes grew dim with tears. No, not her lovethat was

given, and could never be recalled; in all the wide world, from among all men's, Lord Airlie's face stood out

clear and distinct. Living or dying, Lord Earle's daughter knew she could care for no other man.

She had taken in her hand one of the crimson flowers of the plant above her, and seemed lost in

contemplating it. She saw neither the blossom nor the leaves. She was thinking of Lord Airlie's face, and the

last words he had said to her, when suddenly a shadow fell before her, and looking up hastily, she saw him by

"Beatrice," said he, "I must speak with you. Pray come with me, away from all these people. I can bear this

She looked at him, and would have refused; but she saw in his face that which compelled obedience. For

Lord Airlie had watched Gaspar Laurencehe had watched the dance and the interview that followed it. He

saw the softened look on her face, and it half maddened him. For the first time in his life Lord Airlie was

fiercely jealous. He detested this fairhaired Gaspar, with his fund of German romance and poetry.

Could it be that he would win the prize he himself would have died to secure? What was he saying to her that

softened the expression on her face? What had he said that left her standing there with a tender light in her

dark eyes which he had never seen before? He could not bear the suspense; perhaps a ball room might not be

the most appropriate place for an offer of marriage, but he must know his fate, let it be what it might. He went

"Where are you going?" asked Beatrice, suddenly, for Lord Airlie had walked rapidly through the suite of

"We are not alone," he replied. "See, Lady Laurence and Mr. Gresham prefer the rose garden here to those

They stood in the pretty garden, where roses of varied hues hung in rich profusion; the air was heavy with

perfume. The moon shone brightly in the evening sky; its beams fell upon the flowers, bathing them in floods

A little rustic garden seat stood among the sleeping roses; and there Beatrice sat, wondering at the strong

"Beatrice," he said, "I can bear it no longer. Why did Gaspar Laurence bend over you? What was he saying?

My darling, do you not know how I love youso dearly and so deeply that I could not live without you? Do

you not know that I have loved you from the first moment I ever beheld you? Beatrice, my words are weak.

But she never raised her eyes to him; the glorious golden light of love that had fallen upon her dazzled her.

"You must not send me from you, Beatrice," he said, clasping her hands in his. "I am a strong man, not given

to weakness; but, believe me, if you send me from you, it will kill me. Every hope of my life is centered in

She turned her face to histhe moonlight showed clearly the bright tears in her dark eyes. For answer she

The sweet face and quivering lips were so near him that Lord Airlie kissed the tears away; he also kissed the

It was a stolen half hour, but so full of happiness that it could never fade from memory.

"I must go," said Beatrice, at length, unclasping the firm hand that held her own. "Oh, Lord Airlie, how am I

He loved her all the more for her simplicity. As they left the garden, Lord Airlie gathered a white rose and

gave it to Beatrice. Long afterward, when the leaves had become yellow and dry, the rose was found.

They remained in the conservatory a few minutes, and then went back to the ball room.

"Every waltz must be mine now," said Lord Airlie. "And, Beatrice, I shall speak to Lord Earle tonight. Are

Yes, she was willing. It was very pleasant to be taken possession of so completely. It was pleasant to find a

will stronger than her own. She did not care how soon all the world knew that she loved him. The only thing

Beatrice never recollected how the ball ended; to her it was one long trance of happiness. She heard the

music, the murmur of voices, as though in a dream. There were times when everything seemed brighter than

usualthat was when Lord Airlie stood by her side. Her heart was filled with unutterable joy.

It was strange, but in that hour of happiness she never even thought of Hugh Fernely; the remembrance of

She stood by Lord Earle's side as guest after guest came up to say adieu. She saw Lord Airlie waiting for her

"Lord Earle will be engaged for some time, I fear," he said; "I must see him tonight. Beatrice, promise me

She could not oppose him. When girls like Beatrice Earle once learn to love, there is something remarkable in

the complete abandonment of their will. She would fain have told him, with gay, teasing words, that he had

won concession enough for one night; as it was, she simply promised to do as he wished.

Lord Earle received the parting compliments of his guests, wondering at the same time why Lord Airlie kept

near him and seemed unwilling to lose sight of him. The happy moment arrived when the last carriage rolled

away, and the family at Earlescourt were left alone. Lady Earle asked the two young girls to go into her room

for half an hour to "talk over the ball." Lionel, sorry the evening was over, retired to his room; then Hubert

"Will it not do tomorrow?" inquired Ronald, smiling, as he held up his watch. "See, it is past three o'clock."

"Come with me, then," said the master of Earlescourt, as he led the way to the library, where the lamps were

"Now, what is it?" he asked, goodhumoredly, turning to the excited, anxious lover.

"Perhaps I ought to study my words," said Lord Airlie; "but I can not. Lord Earle, I love your daughter

"I think so," was the answer, Lord Airlie's heart thrilling with happiness as he remembered her words.

Lord Airlie never forgot the beautiful, blushing face half turned from him as Beatrice entered the room.

"Beatrice," said her father, clasping her in his arms, "is this true? Am I to give you to Lord Airlie?"

"I do please," he cried. "Hubert, I give you a treasure beyond all price. You may judge of my daughter's love

from her own word. I know it has never been given to any one but you. You are my daughter's first lover, and

her first love. You may take her to your heart, well satisfied that she has never cared for any one else. It is

"Yes," she said, faltering for a moment as, for the first time, she remembered Hugh.

"Tomorrow," continued Lord Earle, "we will talk of the future; we are all tired tonight. You will sleep in

"Well, you understand clearly that, had the choice rested with me I should have selected you from all others

to take charge of my Beatrice," said Lord Earle. "Do not wait to thank me. I have a faint idea of how much a

"What is it, Beatrice?" asked Lillian, as the two sisters stood alone in the bright little dressing room.

"I can hardly tell you in sober words," she replied. "Lord Airlie has asked me to be his wifehis wife; and

Pride and dignity all broke down; the beautiful face was laid upon Lillian's shoulder, and Beatrice wept happy

"I love him so, Lily," she went on; "but I never thought he cared for me. What have I ever done that I should

The moonbeams never fell upon a sweeter picture than these fair young sisters; Lillian's pure, spirituelle face

"I love him, Lily," she continued, "for himself. He is a king among men. Who is so brave, so generous, so

Lillian listened and sympathized until the bright, dark eyes seemed to grow weary; then she bade her sister

Beatrice Earle was alone at lastalone with her happiness and love. It seemed impossible that her heart and

brain could ever grow calm or quiet again. It was all in vain she tried to sleep. Lord Airlie's face, his voice,

She rose, and put on a pretty pink dressing gown. The fresh air, she thought, would make her sleep, so she

The night was still and clear; the moon hung over the dark trees; floods of silvery light bathed the faroff

lake, the sleeping flowers, and the green grass. There was a gentle stir amid the branches; the leaves rustled in

the wind; the blue, silent heavens above bright and calm. The solemn beauty of the starlit sky and the hushed

murmur appealed to her. Into the proud, passionate heart there came some better, nobler thoughts. Ah, in the

future that lay so brilliant and beautiful before her she would strive to be good, she would be true and

steadfast, she would think more of what Lily loved and spoke about at times. Then her thoughts went back to

her lover, and that happy half hour in the rose garden. From her window she could see itthe moon shone

full upon it. The moonlight was a fair type of her life that was to be, bright, clear, unshadowed. Even as the

thought shaped itself in her mind, a shadow fell among the trees. She looked, and saw the figure of a tall man

walking down the path that divided the little garden from the shrubbery. He stood still there, gazing long and

earnestly at the windows of the house, and then went out into the park, and disappeared.

She was not startled. A passing wonder as to who it might be struck her. Perhaps it was one of the

gamekeepers or gardeners, but she did not think much about it. A shadow in the moonlight did not frighten

Soon the cool, fresh air did its work; the bright, dark eyes grew tired in real earnest, and at length Beatrice

The sun was shining brightly when she awoke. By her side lay a fragrant bouquet of flowers, the dewdrops

"Beatrice, will you come into the garden for a few minutes before breakfast, just to tell me all that happened

She rose quickly. Over her pretty morningdress she threw a light shawl, and went down to meet Lord Airlie.

"Dear Beatrice, how very good of you!" replied Lord Airlie; adding presently: "we have twenty minutes

"Beatrice," said Lord Airlie, "you see the sun shining there in the high heavens. Three weeks ago I should

have thought it easier for that same sun to fall than for me to win you. I can scarcely believe that my highest

ideal of woman is realized. It was always my ambition to marry some young girl who had never loved any

one before me. You never have. No man ever held your hand as I hold it now, no man ever kissed your face

As he spoke, a burning flush covered her face. She remembered Hugh Fernely. He loved her better for the

"I fear I shall be a very jealous lover," he continued. "I shall envy everything those beautiful eyes rest upon.

Will you ride with me this morning? I want to talk to you about Lynntonmy home, you know. You will be

The breakfast bell rang at last. When Beatrice entered the room, Lady Earle went up to her.

"Your papa has told me the news," she said. "Heaven bless you, and make you happy, dear child!"

Lionel Dacre guessed the state of affairs, and said but little. The chief topic of conversation was the ball,

interspersed by many conjectures on the part of Lord Earle as to why the postbag was so late.

It did not arrive until breakfast was ended. Lord Earle distributed the letters; there were three for Lord Airlie,

one to Lady Earle from Dora, two for Lionel, none for Lillian. Lord Earle held in his hand a large common

"Miss Beatrice Earle," he said; "from Brookfield. What large writing! The name was evidently intended to be

Beatrice took the letter carelessly from him; the handwriting was quite unknown to her; she knew no one in

Brookfield, which was the nearest posttownit was probably some circular, some petition for charity, she

thought. Lord Airlie crossed the room to speak to her, and she placed the letter carelessly in the pocket of her

Lord Airlie was waiting; the horses had been ordered for an early hour. Beatrice ran upstairs to put on her

It was a pleasant ride; in the afterdays she looked back upon it as one of the brightest hours she had ever

known. Lord Airlie told her all about Lynnton, his beautiful homea grand old castle, where every room had

For he intended to work wonders; a new and magnificent wing should be built, and on one room therein art,

So they rode through the pleasant, sunlit air. A sudden thought struck Beatrice.

"I wonder," she said, "what mamma will think? You must go to see her, Hubert. She dreaded love and

She asked herself, with wondering love, what could have happened that her mother should dread what she

found so pleasant? Lord Airlie entered warmly into all her plans and wishes. Near the grand suite of rooms

that were to be prepared for his beautiful young wife, Lord Airlie spoke of rooms for Dora, if she would

"I must write and tell mamma today," said Beatrice. "I should not like her to hear it from any one but myself."

"Perhaps you will allow me to inclose a note," suggested Lord Airlie, "asking her to tolerate me."

Their ride was a long one. On their return Beatrice was slightly tired, and went straight to her own room. She

wrote a long letter to Dora, who must have smiled at her description of Lord Airlie. He was everything that

was true, noble, chivalrous, and grand. The world did not hold such another. When the letter was finished it

"The prettiest I have," said the young girl, her bright face glowing with the words she had just written.

What dress could be pretty enough for him? One was found at last that pleased hera rich, white crepe. But

she would wear no jewelsnothing but crimson roses. One lay in the thick coils of her dark hair, another

Beatrice's toilet satisfied herthis, too, with her lover's fastidious taste to please. She stood before the large

mirror, and a pleased smile overspread her face as she saw herself reflected therein.

Suddenly she remembered the letter. The morningdress still hung upon a chair. She took the envelope from

The girl quitted the room, and Beatrice, standing before the mirror, drew out a long, closely written letter,

turning presently, in amazement, to the signature, wondering who could be the writer.

The sun shone brightly upon the roses that gleamed in her hair and nestled against the white neck. Could it be

lingering in cruel mockery upon the pale face and the dark eyes so full of wild horror? As Beatrice Earle read

that letter, the color left even her lips, her heart seemed to stand still, a vague, nameless dread took hold of

her, the paper fell from her hands, and with a long, low cry she fell upon her knees, hiding her face in her

It had fallen at lastthe cruel blow that even in her dreams and thoughts she had considered impossible.

This letter, which had stricken joy and beauty from the proud face and left it white and cold almost as the

face of the dead was from him; and the words it contained were full of such passionate love that they terrified

"My own Beatrice,From peril by sea and land I have returned to claim you. Since we parted I have stood

face to face with death in its most terrible form. Each time I conquered because I felt I must see you again. It

is a trite saying that death is immortal. Death itself would not part me from younay, if I were buried, and

"Beatrice, you promised to be my wifeyou will not fail me? Ah, no, it can not be that the blue heavens

above will look on quietly and witness my death blow! You will come to me, and give me a word, a smile to

"Last evening I wandered round the grounds, wondering which were the windows of my love's chamber, and

asking myself whether she was dreaming of me. Life has changed for you since we sat upon the cliffs at

Knutsford and you promised to be my wife. I heard at the farm all about the great change, and how the young

girl who wandered with me through the bonny green woods is the daughter of Lord Earle. Your home,

doubtless, is a stately one. Rank and position like yours might frighten some loversthey do not daunt me.

You will not let them stand between us. You can not, after the promises you uttered.

"Beatrice, my voyage has been a successful one; I am not a rich man, but I have enough to gratify every wish

to your heart. I will take you away to sunny lands over the sea where life shall be so full of happiness that you

"I wait your commands. Rumor tells me Lord Earl is a strange, disappointed man. I will not yet call upon you

at your own home; I shall await your reply at Brookfield. Write at once, Beatrice, and tell me how and when I

may meet you. I will go anywhere, at any time. Do not delaymy heart hungers and thirsts for one glance of

your peerless face. Appoint an hour soon. How shall I live until it comes? Until then think of me as

She read every word carefully and then slowly turned the letter over and read it again. Her white lips

quivered with indignant passion. How dared he presume so far? His love! Ah, if Hubert Airlie could have

read those words! Fernely's love! She loathed him; she hated, with fierce, hot hatred, the very sound of his

name. Why must this most wretched folly of her youth rise up against her now? What must she do? Where

Could it be possible that this man she hated so fiercely had touched her face and covered her hands with

kisses and tears? She struck the little white hands which held the letter against the marble stand, and where

Hugh Fernely's tears had fallen a dark bruise purpled the fair skin; white hard, fierce words came from the

"Was I blind, foolish, mad?" she cried. "Dear Heaven, save me from the fruits of my own folly!"

Then hot anger yielded to despair. What should she do? Look which way she might, there was no hope. If

Lord Earle once discovered that she had dealt falsely with him, she would be driven from the home she had

learned to love. He would never pardon such concealment, deceit, and folly as hers. She knew that. If Lord

Airlie ever discovered that any other man had called her his love, had kissed her face, and claimed her as his

If she would remain at Earlescourt, if she would retain her father's affection and Lord Airlie's love, they must

What should she do with him? Could she buy him off? Would money purchase her freedom? Remembering

his pride and his love, she thought not. Should she appeal to his pitytell him all her heart and life were

Remembering his passionate words, she knew it would be useless. Had she but been married before he

returnedwere she but Lady Airlie of Lynntonhe could not have harmed her. Was the man mad to think

he could win hershe who had had some of the most nobleborn men in England at her feet? Did he think

she would exchange her grand old name for his obscure oneher magnificence for his poverty.

There was no more time for thought; the dinner bell had sounded for the last time, and she must descend. She

thrust the letter hastily into a drawer, and locked it, and then turned to her mirror. She was startled at the

change. Surely that pale face, with its quivering lips and shadowed eyes could not be hers. What should she

do to drive away the startled fear, the vague dread, the deadly pallor? The roses she wore were but a ghastly

"I must bear it better," she said to herself. "such a face as this will betray my secret. Let me feel that I do not

"Women have faced more deadly peril than this," she continued, "and have won. Is there any peril I would

Beatrice Earle left the room. She swept, with her beautiful head erect, through the wide corridors and down

the broad staircase. She took her seat at the sumptuous table, whereon gold and silver shone, whereon

everything recherche and magnificent was displayed. But she had with her a companion she was never again

to lose, a haunting fear, a skeleton that was never more to quit her side, a miserable consciousness of folly

that was bringing sore wretchedness upon her. Never again was she to feel free from fear and care.

"Beatrice," said Lady Earle when dinner was over, "you will never learn prudence."

"Do not look alarmed, my dear," continued Lady Helena; "I am not angry. I fear you were out too long today.

Lord Airlie must take more care of you; the sun was very hot, and you look quite ill. I never saw you look as

"We had very little sun," replied Beatrice, with a laugh as she tried to make a gay one; "we rode under the

It was a pleasant evening, and when the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing room, the sunbeams still

lingered on flower and tree. The long windows were all open, and the soft summer wind that came in was

Lord Airlie asked Beatrice to sing. It was a relief to her; she could not have talked; all the love and sorrow, all

the fear and despair that tortured her, could find vent in music. So she sat in the evening gloaming, and Lord

Airlie, listening to the superb voice, wondered at the pathos and sadness that seemed to ring in every note.

"What weird music, Beatrice!" he said, at length. "You are singing of love, but the love is all sorrow. Your

"Nothing," was the reply, but he, bending over her, saw the dark eyes were dim with tears.

"There," cried Lord Airlie, "you see I am right. You have positively sung yourself to tears."

He drew her from the piano, and led her to the large bay window where the roses peeped in. He held her face

"Tell me," he said, simply, "what has saddened you, Beatrice you have no secrets from me. What were you

thinking of just now when you sang that dreamy 'Lebenwold?' Every note was like a long sigh."

"But nothing ever will happen," he said; "nothing can part us but death. I know what would happen to me if I

"I should not kill myself," he said, "for I hold life to be a sacred gift; but I should go where the face of no

other woman would smile upon me. Why do you talk so dolefully, Beatrice? Let us change the subject. Tell

me where you would like to go when we are marriedshall it be France, Italy, or Spain?"

"Would nothing ever make you love me less, Hubert?" she asked. "Neither poverty nor sickness?"

"Hush!" he said, "I do not like such a word upon your lips; never say it again. What disgrace can touch you?

"You are tired, andpray forgive me, Beatricenervous too," said Lord Airlie; "I will be your doctor. You

shall lie down here upon this couch. I will place it where you can see the sun set in the west, and I will read to

you something that will drive all fear away. I thought during dinner that you looked ill and worn."

Gently enough he drew the couch to the window, Lady Earle watching him the while with smiling face. He

induced Beatrice to lie down, and then turned her face to the garden where the setting sun was pleasantly

"Now, you have something pleasant to look at," said Lord Airlie, "and you shall have something pleasant to

He sat at her feet, and held her white hands in his. He read the grand, stirring words that at times seemed like

His clear, rich voice sounded pleasantly in the evening calm. Beatrice's eyes lingered on the western sky all

What could she do? If she could but temporize with him, if she could but pacify him, for a time, until she was

married, all would be safe. He would not dare to talk of claiming Lady Airlie it would be vain if he did.

Besides, she would persuade Lord Airlie to go abroad; and, seeing all pursuit useless, Hugh would surely

give her up. Even at the very worst, if Hubert and she were once married, she would not fear; if she confessed

all to him, he would forgive her. He might be very angry, but he would pardon his wife. If he knew all about

She must temporize with Fernelywrite in a style that would convey nothing, and tell him that he must wait.

He could not refuse. She would write that evening a letter that should give him no hope, nor yet drive him to

"That is a grand scene, is it not?" said Lord Airlie suddenly; then he saw by Beatrice's startled look that she

"I plead guilty at once," she replied. "I was thinkingdo not be angryI was thinking of something that

relates to yourself. I heard nothing of what you read, Hubert. Will you read it again?"

"Certainly not," he said, with a laugh of quiet amusement. "Reading does not answer; we will try

conversation. Let us resume the subject you ran away from beforewhere shall we go for our wedding trip?"

Only three days since she would have suggested twenty different places; she would have smiled and blushed,

her dark eyes growing brighter at every word. Now she listened to her lover's plans as if a ghostly hand had

That evening it seemed to Beatrice Earle as though she would never be left alone. In the drawing room stood

a dainty little escritoire used by the ladies of Earlescourt. Here she dared not write lest Lord Airlie should, as

he often did, linger by her, pretending to assist her. If she went into the library, Lord Earle would be sure to

ask to whom she was writing. There was nothing to be done but to wait until she retired to her own room.

First came Lady Earle, solicitous about her health, recommending a long rest and a quiet sleep; then Lillian,

full of anxiety, half longing to ask Beatrice if she thought Lionel Dacre handsomer and kinder than any one

At length she was alone, the door locked upon the outer world. She was soon seated at her little desk, where

she speedily wrote the following cold letter, that almost drove Hugh Fernely mad:

"My dear Hugh,Have you really returned? I thought you were lost in the Chinese Seas, or had forgotten

the little episode at Knutsford. I can not see you just yet. As you have heard, Lord Earle has peculiar

notionsI must humor them. I will write again soon, and say when and where I can see you. Yours

She folded the letter and addressed it as he wished; then she left her room and went down into the hall, where

the postbag lay open upon the table. She placed the missive inside, knowing that no one would take the

The letter reached Brookfield at noon the following day. When Hugh Fernely opened it he bit his lips with

rage. Cold, heartless lines! Not one word was there of welcome. Not one of sorrow for his supposed death; no

mention of love, truth, or fidelity; no promise that she would be his. What could such a letter mean?

He almost hated the girl whom he had loved so well. Yet he could not, would not, believe anything except

that perhaps during his long absence she had grown to think less kindly of him. She had promised to be his

So he said, and Hugh Fernely meant it. His whole life was centered in her and he would not tamely give her

The letter dispatched, Beatrice awaited the reply with a suspense no words can describe. A dull wonder came

over her at times why she must suffer so keenly. Other girls had done what she had donenay, fifty times

worseand no Nemesis haunted them. Why was this specter of fear and shame to stand by her side every

It was true it had been very wrong of her to meet this tiresome Hugh Fernely in the pleasant woods and on the

sea shore; but it had broken the monotony that had seemed to be killing her. His passionate love had been

delicious flattery; still she had not intended anything serious. It had only been a novelty and an amusement to

her, although to him perhaps it had been a matter of life or death. But she had deceived Lord Earle. If, when

he had questioned her, and sought with such tender wisdom to win her confidence, if she had told him her

story then, he would have saved her from further persecution and from the effects of her own folly; if she had

told him then, it would not have mattered there would have been no obstacle to her love for Lord Airlie.

It was different now. If she were to tell Lord Earle, after his deliberate and emphatic words, she could expect

no mercy; yet, she said to herself, other girls have done even worse, and punishment had not overtaken them

For the first time in her life, when the bright sun shone into her room, Beatrice turned her face to the wall and

dreaded the sight of day. The postbag would leave the hall at nine in the morningHugh would have the

Noon came and went, but the length of the summer's day brought nothing save fresh misery. At every unusual

stir, every loud peal of the bell, every quick footstep, she turned pale, and her heart seemed to die within her.

Lady Earle watched her with anxious eyes. She could not understand the change that had come over the

brilliant young girl who had used to be the life of the house. Every now and then she broke out into wild

feverish gayety. Lillian saw that something ailed her sistershe could not tell what.

For the fiftieth time that day, when the hall door bell sounded, Beatrice looked up with trembling lips she

"My dear child," she said, "you will have a nervous fever if you go on in this way. What makes you start at

every noise? You look as though you were waiting for something dreadful to happen."

"No one ever called me nervous," replied Beatrice, with a smile, controlling herself with an effort; "mamma's

chief complaint against me was that I had no nerves;" adding presently to herself: "This can not last. I would

The weary day came to a close, however, and it was well for Beatrice that Lord Airlie had not spent it with

her. The gentlemen at Earlescourt had all gone to a bachelor's dinner, given by old Squire Newton of the

Grange. It was late when they returned, and Lord Airlie did not notice anything unusual in Beatrice.

"I call this a day wasted," he said, as he bade her goodnight; "for it has been a day spent away from you. I

She sighed, remembering what a dreary day it had been to her. Could she live through such another? Half the

night she lay awake, wondering if Hugh's answer to her letter would come by the first post, and whether Lord

Earle would say anything if he noticed another letter from Brookfield. Fortune favored her. In the morning

Lord Earle was deeply engrossed by a story Lionel was telling, and asked Beatrice to open the bag for him.

She again saw a hated blue envelope bearing her own name. When all the other letters were distributed, she

slipped hers into the pocket of her dress, without any one perceiving the action.

Breakfast was over at last; and leaving Lord Airlie talking to Lillian, Beatrice hastened to read the letter.

None of Hugh's anger was there set down; but if she had cared for him her heart must have ached at the

pathos of his simple words. He had received her note, he saidthe note so unworthy of herand hastened

to tell her that he was obliged to go to London on some important business connected with his ship, and that

he should be absent three weeks. He would write to her at once on his return, and he should insist upon seeing

It was a respite; much might happen in three weeks. She tore the letter into shreds, and felt as though relieved

of a deadly weight. If time could but be gained, she thoughtif something could happen to urge on her

marriage with Hubert Airlie before Hugh returned! At any rate, for the moment she was free.

She looked like herself again when Lord Airlie came to ask her if she would ride or walk. The beautiful

bloom had returned to her face and the light to her eyes. All day she was in brilliant spirits. There was no

need now to tremble at a loud ring or a rapid step. Three weeks was a long timemuch might happen. "Oh,

That very evening Lord Airlie asked her if she would go out with him. He wanted to talk to her alone, for he

"Where are you going?" she asked with sad, wondering eyes, her chance of escaping seeming rapidly to

"I am going to Lynnton," he replied, "to see about plans for the new buildings. They should be begun at once.

For even if we remain abroad a whole year they will then be hardly finished. I shall be away ten days or a

fortnight. When I return, Beatrice, I shall ask you a question. Can you guess what it will be?"

There was no answering smile on her face. Perhaps he would be absent three weeks. What chance of escape

"I shall ask you when you will fulfill your promise," he continued"when you will let me make you in deed

and in word my wife. You must not be cruel to me, Beatrice. I have waited long enough. You will think about

Lord Earle smiled as he noted his daughter's face. Airlie was going away, and therefore she was dullthat

was just as it should be. He was delighted that she cared so much for him. He told Lady Helena that he had

not thought Beatrice capable of such deep affection. Lady Helena told him she had never known any one who

The morning came, and Lord Airlie lingered so long over his farewell that Lady Helena began to think he

would alter his mind and remain where he was. He started at last, however, promising to write every day to

He was gone, and Hugh was gone; for three weeks she had nothing to fear, nothing to hope, and a settled

melancholy calm fell upon her. Her father and Lady Helena thought she was dull because her lover was

away; the musical laugh that used to gladden Lord Earle's heart was hushed; she became unusually silent; the

beautiful face grew pale and sad. They smiled and thought it natural. Lillian, who knew every expression of

her sister's face, grew anxious, fearing there was some ailment either of body or mind of which none of them

They believed she was thinking of her absent lover and feeling dull without him. In reality her thoughts were

centered upon one ideawhat could she do to get rid of Hugh Fernely? Morning, noon, and night that one

question was always before her. She talked when others did, she laughed with them; but if there came an

interval of silence the beautiful face assumed a faroff dreamy expression Lillian had never seen there

before. Beatrice was generally on her guard, watchful and careful, but there were times when the mask she

wore so bravely fell off, and Lillian, looking at her then, knew all was not well with her sister.

What was to be done to get free from Hugh? Every hour in the day fresh plans came to hersome so absurd

as to provoke feverish, unnatural laughter, but none that were feasible. With all her daring wit, her quick

thought, her vivid fancywith all her resource of mind and intellect, she could do nothing. Day and night the

A whole week passed, and the "something" Beatrice longed for had not happened. Life went on quietly and

smoothly. Her father and Lady Earle busied themselves in talking of preparations for the marriage. Lionel

Dacre and Lillian slowly drifted into the fairyland of hope, Lord Airlie wrote every day. No one dreamed of

Every morning Beatrice, with the sanguine hopefulness of youth, said to herself, "Something will happen

today;" every night she thought, "Something must happen tomorrow;" but days and nights went on calmly,

The time of reprieve was rapidly passing. What should she do if, at the end of three weeks, Lord Airlie

returned and Hugh Fernely came back to Earlescourt? Through the long sunny hours that question tortured

herthe suspense made her sick at heart. There were times when she thought it better to die at once than

But she was young, and youth is ever sanguine; she was brave, and the brave rarely despair. She did not

realize the difficulties of her position, and she did not think it possible that anything could happen to take her

Only one person noted the change in Beatrice, and that was her sister, Lillian Earle. Lillian missed the high

spirits, the brilliant repartee, the gay words that had made home so bright; over and over again she said to

Lillian had her own secretone she had as yet hardly whispered to herself. From her earliest childhood she

had been accustomed to give way to Beatrice. Not that there was any partiality displayed, but the willful

young beauty generally contrived to have her own way. By her engaging manners and high spirits she

She was very fair and gentle, this goldenhaired daughter of Ronald Earle. Her face was so pure and

spirituelle that one might have sketched it for the face of a seraph; the tender violet eyes were full of

eloquence, the white brow full of thought. Her beauty never dazzled, never took any one by storm; it won by

She was of a thoughtful, unobtrusive nature; nothing could have made her worldly, nothing could have made

Sweet, calm, serene, ignorant alike of all the height of happiness and the depths of despairgifted, too with a

singularly patient disposition and amiable temper, no one had ever seen Lillian Earle angry or hasty; her very

Nature had richly endowed her. She had a quick, vivid fancy, a rare and graceful imagination; and perhaps

her grandest gift was a strong and deep love for things not of this world. Not that Lillian was given to

"preaching," or being disagreeably "goody," but high and holy thoughts came naturally to her. When Lord

Earle wanted amusement, he sent for Beatriceno one could while away long hours as she could; when he

wanted comfort, advice, or sympathy, he sought Lillian. Every one loved her, much as one loves the

Lionel Dacre loved her best of all. His only wonder was that any one could even look at Beatrice when

Lillian was near. He wondered sometimes whether she had not been made expressly for himshe was so

strong where he was weak, her calm serene patience controlled his impetuosity, her gentle thoughtfulness

She influenced him more than he knewone word from her did wonders with him. He loved her for her fair

beauty, but most of all for the pure, guileless heart that knew no shadow of evil upon which the world had

Lionel Dacre had peculiar ideas about women. His mother, who had been a belle in her day, was essentially

worldly. The only lessons she had ever taught him were how to keep up appearance, how to study fashionable

She had been a lady of fashion, struggling always with narrow means; and there were times when her son's

heart grew sick, remembering the falseness, the meanness, the petty cunning maneuvers she had been obliged

As he grew older and began to look around the world, he was not favorably impressed. The ladies of his

mother's circle were all striving together to get the foremost place. He heard of envy, jealousy, scandal,

He himself was of a singularly truthful, honorable natureall deceit, all false appearances were hateful to

him. He had formed to himself an ideal of a wife, and he resolved to live and die unmarried unless he could

Lillian Earle did. He watched her keenly; she was truthful and open as the day. He never heard a false word

from her not even one of the trifling excuses that pass current in society for truth. He said to himself, if any

one was all but perfect, surely she was. To use his own expression, he let his heart's desire rest in her; all he

had ever hoped for or dreamed of was centered in her. He set to work deliberately and with all the ardor of his

At first she did not understand him; then by degrees he watched the pure young heart awaken to

consciousness. It was as pretty a development of love as ever was witnessed. At the sound of his footsteps or

his voice the faint color flushed into her face, light came into her eyes; and when he stood by her side,

bending his handsome head to read her secret, she would speak a word or two, and then hurry away from

him. If he wished to join her in her walks or rides, she begged to be excused with trembling lips and drooping

She hardly knew herself what had come to herwhy the world seemed suddenly to have grown so

fairwhat made fresh luster in the sky above. A vague, delicious happiness stirred in the gentle heart. She

longed for, yet half dreaded, Lionel's presence. When he was near her, the little hands trembled and the sweet

face grew warm and flushed. Yet the measure of her content and happiness seemed full.

Lionel saw it all, and he wondered why such a precious treasure as the love of this pure, innocent girl should

be his. What had he ever done to deserve it? Through her he began to respect all other women, through her he

began to value the high and holy teachings he had hitherto overlooked. She was his ideal realized. If ever the

time should come for him to be disappointed in her, then he would believe all things falsebut it never could

How should he tell her of his love? It would be like trying to cage a startled, timid bird. He stood abashed

But the time came when he resolved to woo and win herwhen he felt that his life would be unbearable

without her; and he said to himself that sweet Lillian Earle should be his wife, or he would never look upon a

Lionel felt some slight jealousy of Beatrice; he paid dearly enough for it in the dark afterdays. He fancied

that she eclipsed Lillian. He thought that if he spoke to Lord Earle of his love, he would insist upon both

marriages taking place on one day; and then his fair gentle love would, as usual, be second to her brilliant

"That shall never be," he said to himself. "Lillian shall have a wedding day of her own, the honors unshared.

He determined to say nothing to Lord Earle until Beatrice was married; surely her wedding must take place

soonLord Airlie seemed unable to exist out of her presence. When they were married and gone, Lillian

should have her turn of admiration and love. It was nothing but proud, jealous care for her that made him

And Lillian discovered her own secret at last. She knew she loved Lionel. He was unlike every one else. Who

was so handsome, so brave, so good? She liked to look shyly at the frank, proud face and the careless wave of

hair thrown back from his brow; his voice made music in her heart, and she wondered whether he really cared

In her rare sweet humility she never saw how far she was above him; she never dreamed that he looked up to

her as a captain to his queen. He was always by her side, he paid her a thousand graceful attentions, he sought

her advice and sympathy, some unspoken words seemed ever on his lips. Lillian Earle asked herself over and

She was soon to know. From some careless words of Lord Earle's, Lionel gathered that Beatrice's marriage

would take place in November. Then he decided, if he could win her consent, that Lillian's wedding should

August, with its sunny days, was at an end. Early in September Lillian stood alone on the shore of the deep,

clear lake. Lionel saw her there, and hastened to join her, wondering at the grave expression on her face.

"I was thinking of Beatrice," she replied. "She seems so changed, so different. I can not understand it."

"I can," said Lionel. "You forget that she will soon leave the old life far behind her. She is going into a new

"She loves Lord Airlie," returned Lillianshe could hear even then the musical voice saying, "I love him so

"I do not mean that," he replied; "thought and silence are not always caused by unhappiness. Ah, Lily," he

cried, "I wonder if you guess ever so faintly at the thoughts that fill my heart! I wonder if you know how

dearly I love you. Nay, do not turn from me, do not look frightened. To me you are the truest, noblest, and

fairest woman in the world. I love you so dearly, Lily, that I have not a thought or wish away from you. I am

not worthy to win you, I knowyou are as far above me as the sun shining overhead but, if you would try,

The sweet flushed face was raised to his; he read the happiness shining in the clear eyes. But she could not

speak to him; words seemed to die upon her lips. Lionel took the little white hands and clasped them in his

"I knew I should frighten you, Lily," he said, gently. "Forgive me if I have spoken too abruptly. I do not wish

you to decide at once. Take me on trialsee if you can learn to love me weeks, months, or years hence. I am

willing to wait a whole life time for you, my darling, and should think the time well spent. Will it be possible

"Then promise to endeavor to love me," he persisted; "will you, Lily? I will do anything you wish me; I will

try my best to be half as good as you are. Promise me, darlingmy life hangs on your answer."

On the little hand that rested in his own he saw a pretty ring; it was a large pearl set in gold. Lionel drew it

"I shall take this, Lily," he said; "and, when Beatrice is married and gone, I shall go to Lord Earle and ask

him to give you to me. I will not go now; we will keep our secret for a short time. Two love affairs at once

would be too much. You will learn to love me, and when the spring time comes, perhaps you will make me

happy as Beatrice will by then have made Lord Airlie. I shall keep the ring. Lillian, you are my pearl, and this

"I will say more than that," she replied, a happy smile rippling over her face; "I have more than half learned

He kissed the pretty hand, and looked at the fair, flushed face he dared not touch with his lips.

"I can not thank you," he said, his voice full of emotion. "I will live for you, Lily, and my life shall prove my

gratitude. I begin to wish the spring were nearer. I wonder if you will have learned your lesson then."

Lord Airlie's return to Earlescourt had been delayed. The changes to take place at Lynnton involved more

than he thought. It was quite three weeks before he could leave the Hall and seek again the presence he loved

Three weeks, yet nothing had happened. Beatrice had watched each day begin and end until her heart grew

faint with fear; she was as far as ever from finding herself freed from Hugh Fernely.

Lord Airlie, on his arrival, was startled by the change in her brilliant face. Yet he was flattered by it. He

thought how intensely she must love him if his absence could affect her so strongly. He kissed her pale face

over and over again, declaring that he would not leave her any moreno one else knew how to take care of

They were all pleased to welcome him for every one liked Lord Airlie, and the family circle did not seem

complete without him. That very night he had an interview with Lord Earle and besought him to allow the

marriage to take place as soon as possible. He had been miserable away from Beatrice, he declared, and he

thought she looked pale and grave. Would Lord Earle be willing to say November, or perhaps the latter end

"My daughter must arrange the time herself" said Lord Earle; "whatever day she chooses will meet with my

Lord Airlie went to the drawing room where he had left Beatrice, and told her Lord Earle's answer; she

Only one month since his passionate, loving words would have made the sweetest music to her; she listened

and tried to look like herself, but her heart was cold with vague, unutterable dread.

"The fourteenth of October"clever Lord Airlie, by some system of calculation known only to himself,

"Not another word," he said, gayly. "I will go and tell Lord Earle. Do not say afterward that you have

changed your mind, as many ladies do. Beatrice, say to me, 'Hubert, I promise to marry you on the fourteenth

"It will be almost winter," he added; "the flowers will have faded, the leaves will have fallen from the trees;

She watched him quit the room, and a long, low cry came from her lips. Would it ever be? She went to the

window and looked at the trees. When the green leaves lay dead she would be Lord Airlie's wife, or would

the dark cloud of shame and sorrow have fallen, hiding her forever from his sight?

Ah, if she had been more prudent! How tame and foolish, how distasteful the romance she had once thought

It was too late now! Yet, despite the deadly fear that lay at her heart, Beatrice still felt something like hope.

At least for that one eveningthe first after Lord Airlie's returnshe would be happy. She would throw the

dark shadow away from her, forget it, and enjoy her lover's society. He could see smiles on her face, and hear

bright words such as he loved. Let the morrow bring what it would, she would be happy that night. And she

Lord Airlie looked back afterward on that evening as one of the pleasantest of his life. There was no shadow

upon the beautiful face he loved so well. Beatrice was all life and animation; her gay, sweet words charmed

every one who heard them. Even Lionel forgot to be jealous, and admired her more than he ever had before.

Lord Earle smiled as he remarked to Lady Helena that all her fears for her grandchild's health were vainthe

When Lord Airlie bade Beatrice good night, he bent low over the white, jeweled hand.

"I forget all time when with you," he said; "it does not seem an hour since I came to Earlescourt."

It was not filled with loving, passionate words, as was the first Hugh had written. He said the time had come

when he must have an answerwhen he must know from her own lips at what period he might claim the

He would wait no longer. If it was to be war, let the war begin he should win. If peace, so much the better. In

any case he was tired of suspense, and must know at once what she intended to do. He would trust to no more

promises; that very night he would be at Earlescourt, and must see her. Still, though he intended to enforce

his rights, he would not wantonly cause her pain. He would not seek the presence of her father until she had

"I know the grounds around Earlescourt well," he wrote. "I wandered through them for many nights three

weeks ago. A narrow path runs from the gardens to the shrubberymeet me there at nine; it will be dark

then, and you need not fear being seen. Remember, Beatrice, at nine tonight I shall be there; and if you do not

The letter fell from her hands; cold drops of fear and shame stood upon her brow; hatred and disgust filled

her heart. Oh, that she should ever have placed herself in the power of such a man!

The blow had fallen at last. She stood face to face with her shame and fear. How could she meet Hugh

Fernely? What should she say to him? How must such a meeting end? It would but anger him the more. He

should not even touch her hand in greeting, she said to herself; and how would he endure her contempt?

She would not see him. She dared not. How could she find time? Lord Airlie never left her side. She could

not meet Hugh. The web seemed closing round her, but she would break through it.

She would send him a letter saying she was ill, and begging him to wait yet a little longer. Despite his firm

words, she knew he would not refuse it if she wrote kindly. Again came the old hope something might

happen in a few days. If not, she must run away; if everything failed and she could not free herself from him,

then she would leave home; in any case she would not fall into his handsrather death than that.

More than once she thought of Gaspar's words. He was so true, so bravehe would have died for her. Ah, if

he could but help her, if she could but call him to her aid! In this, the dark hour of her life by her own deed

She would writeupon that she was determined; but who would take the letter? Who could she ask to stand

at the shrubbery gate and give to the stranger a missive from herself? If she asked such a favor from a

servant, she would part with her secret to one who might hold it as a rod of iron over her. She was too proud

for that. There was only one in the world who could help her, and that was her sister Lillian.

She shrank with unutterable shame from telling her. She remembered how long ago at Knutsford she had said

something that had shocked her sister, and the scared, startled expression of her face was with her still. It was

a humiliation beyond all words. Yet, if she could undergo it, there would be comfort in Lillian's sympathy.

Lillian would take the letter, she would see Hugh, and tell him she was ill. Ill she felt in very truth. Hugh

would be pacified for a time if he saw Lillian. She could think of no other arrangement. That evening she

Long before dinner Lady Helena came in search of Beatriceit was high time, she said, that orders should

She sat calmly in Lady Helena's room, writing in obedience to her words, thinking all the time how she

should tell Lillian, how best make her understand the deadly error committed, yet save herself as much as she

could. Lady Earle talked of laces and embroidery, of morning dresses and jewels, while Beatrice went over in

"That will do," said Lady Earle, with a smile; "I have been very explicit, but I fear it has been in vain. Have

"You may godo not be ashamed. Many years ago I was just as much in love myself, and just as unable to

There was some difficulty in finding Lillian; she was discovered at last in the library, looking over some fine

old engravings with Mr. Dacre. He looked up hastily when Beatrice asked her sister to spare her half an hour.

"Do not go, Lily," he said, jestingly; "it is only some nonsense about wedding dresses. Let us finish this

But Beatrice had no gay repartee for him. She looked grave, although she tried to force a smile.

"I can not understand that girl," he said to himself, as the library door closed behind the two sisters. "I could

"Lily," said Beatrice, "I want you very much. I am sorry to take you from Lionel; you like being with him, I

"But I want you, dear," said Beatrice. "Oh, Lily, I am in bitter trouble! No one can help me but you."

They went together into the little boudoir Beatrice called her own. She placed her sister in the easy lounging

"I am in such trouble, Lily!" she cried. "Think how great it is when I know not how to tell you."

The sweet, gentle eyes looked wonderingly into her own. Beatrice clasped her sister's hands.

"You must not judge me harshly," she said, "I am not good like you, Lily; I never could be patient and gentle

like you. Do you remember, long ago, at Knutsford, how I found you one morning upon the cliffs, and told

you that I hated my life? I did hate it, Lillian," she continued. "You can never tell how much; its quiet

monotony was killing me. I have done wrong; but surely they are to blame who made my life what it was

thenwho shut me out from the world, instead of giving me my rightful share of its pleasures. I can not tell

She laid her beautiful, sad face on her sister's hands. Lillian bent over her, and whispered how dearly she

"That very morning," she said, never raising her eyes to her sister's face"that morning, Lily, I met a

strangera gentleman he seemed to meand he watched me with admiring eyes. I met him again, and he

spoke to me. He walked by my side through the long meadows, and told me strange stories of foreign lands

he had visitedsuch stories! I forgot that he was a stranger, and talked to him as I am talking to you now. I

met him again and again. Nay, do not turn from me; I shall die if you shrink away."

"I am not turning from you," replied Lillian. "I can not love you more than I do now."

"I met him" continued Beatrice, "every day, unknown to every one about me. He praised my beauty, and I

was filled with joy; then he talked to me of love, and I listened without anger. I swear to you," she said, "that

I did it all without thought; it was the novelty, the flattery, the admiration that pleased me, not he himself, I

believe Lily. I rarely thought of him. He interested me; he had eloquent words at his command, and seeing

how I loved romance, he told me stories of adventure that held me enchanted and breathless. I lost sight of

him in thinking of the wonders he related. They are to blame, Lily, who shut me out from the living world.

Had I been in my proper place here at home, where I could have seen and judged people rightly, it would not

have happened. At first it was but a pleasant break in a life dreary beyond words; then I looked for the daily

meed of flattery and homage. I could not do without it. Lily, will you hold me to have been mad when I tell

you the time came when I allowed that man to hold my hands as you are doing, to kiss my face, and win from

There was unbroken silence for some minutes; then Lillian bent over her sister, and said:

"I promised to be his wife, Lily," continued Beatrice. "I am sure I did not mean it. I was but a child. I did not

realize all that the words meant. He kissed my face, and said he should come to claim me. Believe me, Lily, I

never thought of marriage. Brilliant pictures of foreign lands filled my mind; I looked upon Hugh Fernely

only as a means of escape from a life I detested. He promised to take me to places the names of which filled

me with wonder. I never thought of leaving you or mammaI never thought of the man himself as of a

"You did not care for him, then, as you do for Lord Airlie?" interposed Lillian.

"Do not pain me!" begged Beatrice. "I love Hubert with the love that comes but once in life; that man was

nothing to me except that his flattery, and the excitement of contriving to meet him, made my life more

endurable. He gave me a ring, and said in two years' time he should return to claim me. He was going on a

long voyage. Lily, I felt relieved when he was gonethe novelty was overI had grown tired. Besides,

when the glamour fell from my eyes, I was ashamed of what I had done. I tried to forget all about him; every

time the remembrance of him came to my mind I drove it from me. I did not think it possible he would ever

return. It was but a summer's pastime. That summer has darkened my life. Looking back, I own I did very

wrong. There is great blame attaching to me, but surely they who shut me out from the living world were

"Remember all through my story, darling, that I am not so good, not so patient and gentle as you. I was

restless at the Elms, like a bird in a cage; you were content. I was vain, foolish, and willful; but, looking back

at the impetuous, imperious child, full of romance, untrained, longing for the strife of life, longing for change,

for excitement, for gayety, chafing under restraint, I think there was some little excuse for me. There was no

excuse for what followed. When papa spoke to usyou remember it, Lilyand asked so gently if we had

either of us a secret in our liveswhen he promised to pardon anything, provided we kept nothing from

himI ought to have told him then. There is no excuse for that error. I was ashamed. Looking round upon

the noble faces hanging on the wall, looking at him, so proud, so dignified, I could not tell him what his child

had done. Oh, Lily, if I had told him, I should not be kneeling here at your feet now."

Lillian made no reply, but pressed the proud, drooping figure more closely to her side.

"I can hardly tell the rest," said Beatrice; "the words frighten me as I utter them. This man, who has been the

bane of my life, was going away for two years. He was to claim me when he returned. I never thought he

would return; I was so happy, I could not believe it." Here sobs choked her utterance.

Presently she continued: "Lily, he is here; he claims me, and also the fulfillment of my promise to be his

"He wrote to me three weeks since; I tried to put him off. He wrote again this morning, and swears he will see

me. He will be here tonight at nine o'clock. Oh, Lily, save me, save me, or I shall die!"

"I never knelt to any one before," Beatrice said; "I kneel to you, my sister. No one else can help me. You

must see him for me, give him a letter from me, and tell him I am very ill. It is no untruth, Lily. I am ill, my

"Oh, do not say that, Lily! Do you know what there is at stake? Do you remember papa's wordsthat, if ever

he found one of us guilty of any deceit, or involved in any clandestine love affair, even if it broke his heart he

would send the guilty one from him and never see her again? Think, darling, what it would be for me to leave

Earlescourtto leave all the magnificence I love so dearly, and drag out a weary life at the Elms. Do you

think I could brook Lord Earle's angry scorn and Lady Helena's pained wonder? Knowing our father as you

"That is not all," continued Beatrice. "I might bear anger, scorn, and privation, but, Lily, if this miserable

secret is discovered, Lord Airlie will cease to love me. He might have forgiven me if I had told him at first;

he would not know that I had lied to him and deceived him. I can not lose himI can not give him up. For

"If I do it," said Lillian, "it will give you but a few days' reprieve; it will avail nothing; he will be here again."

"I shall think of some means of escape in a few days," answered Beatrice wistfully. "Something must happen,

Lily, fortune could not be so cruel to me; it could not rob me of my love. If I can not free myself, I shall run

away. I would rather suffer anything than face Lord Airlie or my father. Say you will help me for my love's

"I will help you," said Lillian; "it is against my better judgmentagainst my idea of rightbut I can not

refuse you. I will see the man, and give him your letter. Beatrice, let me persuade you. You can not free

yourself. I see no wayrunning away is all nonsensebut to tell Lord Earle and your lover; anything would

be better than to live as you do, a drawn sword hanging over your heart. Tell them, and trust to their kindness;

at least you will have peace of mind then. They will prevent him from annoying you."

"I can not," she said, and the breath came gasping from her lips. "Lillian, you do not know what Lord Airlie

is to me. I could never meet his anger. If ever you love any one you will understand better. He is everything

to me. I would suffer any sorrow, even death, rather than see his face turned coldly from me."

She loosened her grasp of Lillian's hands and fell upon the floor, weeping bitterly and passionately. Her

sister, bending over her, heard the pitiful words"My love, my love! I can not lose my love!"

"You can not tell what I have suffered, Lily," she said, humbly. "See, my pride is all beaten down, only those

who have had a secret, eating heart and life away, can tell what I have endured. A few more days of agony

"He will be here at nine," she said; "it is six now. I will write my letter. He will be at the shrubbery gate. I

will manage so that you shall have time. Give him the note I will write, speak to him for me, tell him I am ill

"Yes," replied Lillian, gently; "but that will not matter. I must think of you, not of myself."

"You need not fear him," said Beatrice. "Poor Hugh, I could pity him if I did not hate him. Lily, I will thank

She wrote but a few words, saying she was ill and unable to see him; he must be satisfied, and willing to wait

She gave the letter to her sister. Lillian's heart ached as she noted the trembling hands and quivering lips.

Sir Harry and Lady Laurence dined that day at Earlescourt, and it was nearly nine before the gentlemen, who

did not sit long over their wine, came into the drawing room. The evening was somewhat chilly; a bright fire

burned in the grate, and the lamps were lighted. Sir Harry sat down to his favorite game of chess with Lady

Helena; Lord Earle challenged Lady Laurence to a game at ecarte. The young people were left to themselves.

"In twenty years' time," said Lionel to Lillian, "we may seek refuge in cards; at present music and moonlight

Knowing that, when once she was seated by his side, it would be impossible to get away, she again declined;

"How guilty you look," he said. "Is there any mystery on hand? Are you tired of me? Or is there to be another

"I have something to attend to," she replied, evasively. "Get the folio readyI shall not be long."

Beatrice, who had listened to the brief dialogue in feverish suspense, now came to the rescue, asking Lionel

to give them the benefit of his clear, ringing tenor in a trio of Mendelssohn's.

"My 'clear, ringing tenor' is quite at your service," he said with a smile. "Lily is very unkind to me tonight."

They went to the piano, where Lord Airlie awaited them; and Lillian, looking at her small, jeweled

She at once quitted the room, unobserved, as she thought; but Lionel saw her go.

No words can tell how distasteful and repugnant was the task she had undertaken. She would have suffered

anything almost to have evaded it. She, who never had a secret; she, whose every word and action were open

as the day; she, who shrank from all deceit and untruth as from a deadly plague, to be mixed up with a

wretched clandestine love affair like this! She, to steal out of her father's house at night, to meet a stranger,

and plead her sister's cause with him! The thought horrified her; but the beautiful face in its wild sorrow, the

Lillian went hastily to her own room. She took a large black shawl and drew it closely round her, hiding the

pretty evening dress and the rich pearls. Then, with the letter in her hand, she went down the staircase that led

The night was dark; heavy clouds sailed swiftly across the sky, the wind moaned fitfully, bending the tall

trees as it were in anger, then whispering round them as though suing for pardon. Lillian had never been out

at night alone before, and her first sensation was one of fear. She crossed the gardens where the autumn

flowers were fading; the lights shone gayly from the Hall windows; the shrubbery looked dark and

mysterious. She was frightened at the silence and darkness, but went bravely on. He was there. By the gate

she saw a tall figure wrapped in a traveling cloak; as she crossed the path, he stepped hastily forward, crying

"It is not Beatrice," she said, shrinking from the outstretched arms. "I am Lillian Earle. My sister is ill, and

Hugh Fernely took the letter from Lillian's hands, and read it with a muttered imprecation of disappointment.

The moon, which had been struggling for the last hour with a mass of clouds, shone out faintly; by its light

Lillian saw a tall man with a dark, handsome face browned with the sun of warm climes, dark eyes that had in

them a wistful sadness, and firm lips. He did not look like the gentlemen she was accustomed to. He was

polite and respectful. When he heard her name, he took off his hat, and stood uncovered during the interview.

"Wait!" he cried. "Ah, must I wait yet longer? Tell your sister I have waited until my yearning wish to see her

"She is really ill,"returned Lillian. "I am alarmed for her. Do not be angry with me if I say she is ill through

"Has she sent you to excuse her?" he asked, gloomily. "It is of no use. Your sister is my promised wife, Miss

"You must wait at least until she is willing," said Lillian, and her calm, dignified manner influenced him even

It was not a bad face, she thought; there was no cruelty or meanness there. She read love so fierce and violent

in it that it startled her. He did not look like one who would wantonly and willfully make her sister wretched

for life. Hope grew in her heart as she gazed. She resolved to plead with him for Beatrice, to ask him to forget

"My sister is very unhappy," she said, bravely; "so unhappy that I do not think she can bear much more; it

"You do not look cruel, Mr. Fernely," continued Lillian. "Your face is good and trueI would trust you.

Release my sister. She was but a foolish, impetuous child when she made you that promise. If she keeps it, all

"No," she replied; "but do you know what the keeping of the promise will cost her? Lord Earle will never

forgive her. She will have to leave home, sister, friendsall she loves and values most. Judge whether she

"I can not help it," he said gloomily. "She promised to be my wife, Miss LillianHeaven knows I am

speaking truthfullyand I have lived on her words. You do not know what the strong love of a true man is. I

love her so that if she chose to place her little foot upon me, and trample the life out of me, I would not say

her nay. I must see herthe hungry, yearning love that fills my heart must be satisfied." Great tears shone in

"I will not harm her," he said, "but I must see her. Once, and once only, her beautiful face lay on my

breastthat beautiful, proud face! No mother ever yearned to see her child again more than I long to see her.

Let her come to me, Miss Lillian; let me kneel at her feet as I did before,If she sends me from her, there

will be pity in death; but she can not. There is not a woman in the world who could send such love as mine

away! You can not understand," he continued. "It is more than two years since I left her; night and day her

face has been before me. I have lived upon my love; it is my lifemy everything. I could no more drive it

"Even if my sister cared for you," said Lillian, gentlyfor his passionate words touched her"you must

"She knew nothing of Lord Earle when it was made," he replied, "nor did I. She was a beautiful child, pining

away like a bright bird shut up in a cage. I promised her freedom and liberty; she promised me her love.

Where was Lord Earle then? She was safe with me. I loved her. I was kinder to her than her own father; I

"But I can not change," he answered. "If fortune had made me a king, should I have loved your sister less! Is

a man's heart a plaything? Can I call back my love? It has caused me woe enough."

Lillian knew not what to say in the presence of this mighty love; her gentle efforts at mediation were

"I am sure you can be generous," she said, after a short silence. "Great, true, noble love is never selfish. My

sister can never be happy with you; then release her. If you force her, or rather try to force her, to keep this

rash promise, think how she will dislike you. If you are generous, and release her, think how she will esteem

"No," replied Lillian, gently; "it is better for you to know the truth. She does not love youshe never will."

"I do not believe it," he cried. "I will never believe it from any lips but her own! Not love me! Great Heaven!

Do you know you are speaking of the woman who promised to be my wife? If she tells me so, I will believe

"She will tell you," said Lillian, "and you must not blame her. Come again when she is well."

"No," returned Hugh Fernely; "I have waited long enough. I am here to see her, and I swear I will not leave

He drew a pencil case from his pocket, and wrote a few lines on the envelope which Beatrice had sent.

"Give that to your sister," he said, softly; "and, Miss Lillian, I thank you for coming to me. You have been

very kind and gentle. You have a fair, true face. Never break a man's heart for pastime, or because the long

"I wish I could say something to comfort you," she said. He held out his hand and she could not refuse hers.

"Goodbye," she returned, looking at the dark, passionate face she was never more to see.

The moon was hidden behind a dense mass of thick clouds. Hugh Fernely walked quickly down the path.

Lillian, taking the folded paper, hastened across the gardens. But neither of them saw a tall, erect figure, or a

pale, stricken face; neither of them heard Lionel Dacre utter a low cry as the shawl fell from Lillian's golden

He had tried over the trio, but it did not please him; he did not want musiche wanted Lillian. Beatrice

played badly, too, as though she did not know what she was doing. Plainly enough Lord Airlie wanted him

"To look for a good cigar," he replied. "Neither Airlie nor you need pretend to be polite, Bee, and say you

hope I will not leave you." He quitted the drawing room, and went to his own room, where a box of cigars

awaited him. He selected one, and went out into the garden to enjoy it. Was it chance that led him to the path

by the shrubbery? The wind swayed the tall branches, but there came a lull, and then he heard a murmur of

voices. Looking over the hedge, he saw the tall figure of a man, and the slight figure of a young girl shrouded

"A maid and her sweetheart," said Lionel to himself. "Now that is not precisely the kind of thing Lord Earle

But the man's voice struck himit was full of the dignity of true passion. He wondered who he was. He saw

the young girl place her hand in his for a moment, and then hasten rapidly away.

He thought himself stricken mad when the black shawl fall and showed in the faint moonlight the fair face

When Lillian reentered the drawing room, the pretty ormulu clock was chiming half past nine. The chess

and card tables were just as she had left them. Beatrice and Lord Airlie were still at the piano. Lionel was

nowhere to be seen. She went up to Beatrice and smilingly asked Lord Airlie if he could spare her sister for

"Ten, if you wish it," he replied, "but no longer;" and the two sisters walked through the long drawing room

"I have seen him," she replied; "there is no time now to tell all he said. He sent this note," and Lillian gave the

"Let me tell you, Beatrice darling, before you read it," she said, "that I tried to soften his heart; and I think, if

"Oh, Lily," she cried, "can it be true? Do not mock me with false hopes; my life seems to tremble in the

"He is not cruel," said Lillian. "I am sorry for him. If you see him I feel sure he will release you. See what he

Beatrice opened the letter; it contained but a few penciled lines. She did not give them to Lillian to read.

"Beatrice," wrote Hugh Fernely, "you must tell me with your own lips that you do not love me. You must tell

me yourself that every sweet hope you gave me was a false lie. I will not leave Earlescourt again without

seeing you. On Thursday night, at ten o'clock, I will be at the same placemeet me, and tell me if you want

"I shall win!" she cried. "Lily, hold my handsthey tremble with happiness. See, I can not hold the paper.

He will release me, and I shall not lose my lovemy love, who is all the world to me. How must I thank

you? This is Tuesday; how shall I live until Thursday? I feel as though a load, a burden, the weight of which

no words can tell, were taken from me. Lily, I shall be Lord Airlie's wife, and you will have saved me."

"Beatrice," said Lord Earle, as the sisters, in returning, passed by the chess table, "our game is finished, will

Never had the magnificent voice rung out so joyously, never had the beautiful face looked so bright. She sang

something that was like an air of triumphno under current of sadness marred its passionate sweetness. Lord

"I was thinking of you," she replied; and he saw by the dreamy, rapt expression of her face that she meant

Presently Lord Airlie was summoned to Lady Helena's assistance in some little argument over cards, and

Beatrice, while her fingers strayed mechanically over the keys, arrived at her decision. She would see Hugh.

She could not avert that; and she must meet him as bravely as she could. After all, as Lillian had said, he was

not cruel, and he did love her. The proud lip curled in scornful triumph as she thought how dearly he loved

She would beseech him with such urgency that he could not refuse. Who ever refused her? Could she not

move men's hearts as the wind moves the leaves? He would be angry at first, perhaps fierce and passionate,

but in the end she would prevail. As she sat there, dreamy, tender melodies stealing, as it were, from her

fingers, she went in fancy through the whole scene. She knew how silent the sleeping woods would behow

dark and still the night. She could imagine Hugh's face, browned by the sun and travel. Poor Hugh! In the

She wished him well. He might marry some nice girl in his own station of life, and be a prosperous, happy

man, and she would be a good friend to him if he would let her. No one would ever know her secret. Lillian

would keep it faithfully, and down the fair vista of years she saw herself Lord Airlie's beloved wife, the error

The picture was so pleasant that it was no wonder her songs grew more triumphant. Those who listened to the

Lionel Dacre stood for some minutes stunned with the shock and surprise. He could not be mistaken; unless

his senses played him false, it was Lillian Earle whom he had mistaken for a maid meeting her lover. It was

Lillian he had believed so pure and guileless who had stolen from her father's home under the cover of night's

darkness and silencewho had met in her father's grounds one whom she dared not meet in the light of day.

If his dearest friend had sworn this to Lionel he would not have believed it. His own senses he could not

doubt. The faint, feeble moonlight had as surely fallen on the fair face and golden hair of Lillian Earle as the

He threw away his cigar, and ground his teeth with rage. Had the skies fallen at his feet he could not have

been more startled and amazed. Then, after all, all women were alike. There was in them no truth; no

goodness; the whole world was alike. Yet he had believed in her so implicitlyin her guileless purity, her

truth, her freedom from every taint of the world. That fair, spirituelle form had seemed to him only as a

beautiful casket hiding a precious gem. Nay, still more, though knowing and loving her, he had begun to care

for everything good and pure that interested her. Now all was false and hateful.

There was no truth in the world, he said to himself. This girl, whom he had believed to be the fairest and

sweetest among women, was but a more skillful deceiver than the rest. His mother's little deceptions, hiding

narrow means and straitened circumstances, were as nothing compared with Lillian's deceit.

And he had loved her so! Looking into those tender eyes, he had believed love and truth shone there; the dear

How long was it since he had held her little hands clasped within his own, and, abashed before her sweet

innocence, had not dared to touch her lips, even when she had promised to love him? How he had been duped

Who was the man? Some one she must have known years before. There was no gentleman in Lord Earle's

circle who would have stolen into his grounds like a thief by night. Why had he not followed him, and

The strong hands were clinched tightly. It was well for Hugh Fernely that he was not at that moment in

Lionel's power. Then the fierce, hot anger died away, and a passion of despair seized him. A long, low cry

came from his lips, a bitter sob shook his frame. He had lost his fair, sweet love. The ideal he had worshiped

While the first smart of pain was upon him, he would not return to the house; he would wait until he was

His hands ceased to tremble; the strong, angry pulsating of his heart grew calmer. He went back to the

drawing room; and, except that the handsome face was pale even to the lips, and that a strange, angry light

She was there, bending over the large folio he had asked her to show him; the golden hair fell upon the

leaves. She looked up as he entered; her face was calm and serene; there was a faint pink flush on the cheeks,

He remembered how he had asked her to sing to him, and she refused, looking confused and uneasy the

He took a chair by her side; the folio lay upon a table placed in a large room, lighted by a silver lamp. They

were as much alone there as though they had been in another room. She took out a drawing, and laid it before

"Lillian," he said, suddenly, "if you were asked what was the most deadly sin a woman could commit, what

"That is a strange question," she answered. "I do not know, Lionel. I think I hate all sin alike."

"Then I will tell you," he said bitterly; "it is false, foul deceitblack, heartless treachery."

She looked up in amazement at his angry tone; then there was for some moments unbroken silence.

"I can not see the drawings," he said; "take them away. Lillian Earle, raise your eyes to mine; look me

Her gentle eyes never wavered, they were fixed half in wonder on his, but at his question the faint flush on

"Now, answer me again. Have you ever loved or cared for any one else, as you say you do for me?"

"Pray pardon the questionhave you received the attentions of any lover before receiving mine?"

"I have all your affection, your confidence, your trust; you have never duped or deceived me; you have been

"You forget yourself, Lionel," she said, with gentle dignity; "you should not use such words to me."

"Answer!" he returned. "You have to do with a desperate man. Have you deceived me?"

"Lillian," he said, "I have loved you as the ideal of all that was pure and noble in woman. In you I saw

everything good and holy. May Heaven pardon you that my faith has died a violent death."

"I will use plainer words," he replied"so plain that you can not mistake them. I, your betrothed husband,

the man you love and trust, ask you, Lillian Earle, who was it you met tonight in your father's grounds?"

He saw the question strike her as lightning sometimes strikes a fair tree. The color faded from her lips; a

cloud came over the clear, dovelike eyes; she tried to answer, but the words died away in a faint murmur.

"Do you deny that you were there?" he asked. "Remember, I saw you, and I saw him. Do you deny it?"

"Who was it?" he cried; and his eyes flamed so angrily upon her that she was afraid. "Tell me who it was. I

"I can not, Lionel," she whispered; "I can not. For pity's sake, keep my secret!"

"You need not be afraid," he said, haughtily. "I shall not betray you to Lord Earle. Let him find out for

himself what you are, as I have done. I could curse myself for my own trust. Who is he?"

"I can not tell you," she stammered, and he saw her little white hands wrung together in agony. "Oh, Lionel,

"You can not expect me," he said, although he was softened by the sight of her sorrow, "to know of such an

action and not to speak of it, Lillian. If you can explain it, do so. If the man was an old lover of yours, tell me

so; in time I may forget the deceit, if you are frank with me now. If there be any circumstance that extenuates

"That I quite believe," he continued, bitterly. "You can not and will not. You know the alternative, I

The gentle eyes were raised to his in mute, appealing sorrow, but she spoke not.

"Tell me now," he said, "whom it was you stole out of the house to meetwhy you met him? Be frank with

me; and, if it was but girlish nonsense, in time I may pardon you. If you refuse to tell me, I shall leave

She buried her face in her hands, and he heard a low moan of sorrow come from her white lips.

"Will you tell me, Lillian?" he asked againand he never forgot the deadly anguish of the face turned

"I can not," she replied; her voice died away, and he thought she was falling from her chair.

"That is your final decision; you refuse to tell me what, as your accepted lover, I have a right to know?"

"I will never believe in any one again," he said. "Take back your promise, Lillian Earle; you have broken a

true and honest heart, you have blighted a whole life. Heaven knows what I shall become, drifted from you. I

care not. You have deceived me. Take back your ring. I will say goodbye to you. I shall not care to look upon

"Time will make little difference," he answered; "I shall not leave the Hall until tomorrow morning; you can

He laid the ring upon the table, refusing to notice the trembling, outstretched hand. He could not refrain from

looking back at her as he quitted the room. He saw the gentle face, so full of deadly sorrow, with its white

quivering lips; and yet he thought to himself, although she looked stricken with anguish, there was no guilt on

"I shall leave Earlescourt tomorrow," he said, abruptly. "I must go, Lord Earle; do not press to stay."

"Come and go as you will, Lionel," said Ronald, surprised at the brusqueness of his manner; "we are always

"I will write to you in a few days," he replied. "I must say goodbye to Lady Earle."

She was astounded. Beatrice and Lord Airlie came up to him there was a general expression of surprise and

Sir Harry and Lady Laurence had gone home. Beatrice, with a vague fear that something had gone wrong,

said she was tired; Lord Airlie said goodnight; and in a few minutes Lady Helena and her son were left alone.

"What has come over Lionel?" asked Ronald. "Why, mother, how mistaken I am! Do you know that I quite

"He did that long ago," replied Lady Helena, with a smile. "Say nothing about it. Lionel is very proud and

impetuous. I fancy he and Lillian have had some little dispute. Matters of that kind are best left

aloneinterference always does harm. He will come back in a few days; and all be right again. Ronald, there

is one question I have been wishing to ask youdo not be angry if I pain you, my son. Beatrice will be

Lord Earle rose from his chair, and began, as he always did in time of anxiety, to pace up and down the room.

"I had forgotten her claim," he said. "I can not tell what to do, mother. It would be a cruel, unmerited slight to

pass her over, but I do not wish to see her. I have fought a hard battle with my feelings, but I can not bring

"It is an awful thing to live at enmity with any one," said Lady Helena"but with one's own wife! I can not

"You mistake, mother," he said, eagerly; "I am not at enmity with Dora. She offended meshe hurt my

"No," he said, sadly. "I know myselfI know what I can do and what I can not do. I could take my wife in

my arms, and kiss her faceI could not live with her. I shall forgive her, mother, when all that is human is

Lillian Earle was no tragedy queen. She never talked about sacrifice or dying, but there was in her calm,

gentle nature a depth of endurance rarely equaled. She had never owned, even to herself, how dearly she

loved Lionel Dacrehow completely every thought and hope was centered in him. Since she had first

learned to care for him, she had never looked her life in the face and imagined what it would be without him.

It never entered her mind to save herself at the expense of her sister; the secret had been intrusted to her, and

she could not conceive the idea of disclosing it. If the choice had been offered her between death and

betraying Beatrice, she would have chosen death, with a simple consciousness that she was but doing her

So, when Lionel uttered those terrible wordswhen she found that he had seen hershe never dreamed of

freeing herself from blame, and telling the story of her sister's fault. His words were bitterly cruel; they stung

her with sharp pain. She had never seen contempt or scorn before on that kindly, honest face; now, she read

both. Yet, what could she do? Her sister's life lay in her hands, and she must guard it.

Therefore, she bore the cruel taunts, and only once when the fear of losing him tortured her, cried out for pity

and trust. But he had no trust; he stabbed her gentle heart with his fierce words, he seared her with his hot

anger; she might, at the expense of another, have explained all, and stood higher than ever in his esteem, but

She was almost stunned by the sorrow that had fallen upon her. She saw him, with haughty, erect bearing,

quit the drawing room, and she knew that unless Beatrice permitted her to tell the truth, she would never see

The pale face grew calm and still; her sister could not refuse her request when she had told her all; then she

would write to Lionel and explain. He would not leave Earlescourt; he would only love her the better for her

"Send Suzette away," she whispered to Beatrice, when she entered; "I must see you alone at once."

"Beatrice," said Lillian, "will you let me tell your secret to Lionel Dacre? It will be quite sacred with him."

"To Lionel Dacre!" she cried. "No, a thousand times over! How can you ask me, Lily? He is Lord Airlie's

friend and could not keep it from him. Why do you ask me such an extraordinary question?"

"He saw me tonight," she replied; "he was out in the grounds, and saw me speaking to Hugh Fernely."

"Have you told him anything?" she asked; and for a moment Beatrice looked despairing.

"That is right," returned her sister, a look of relief coming over her face; "his opinion does not matter much.

"He thought I had been to meet some one I knew," replied Lillian, her face growing crimson with shame.

"And was dreadfully shocked, no doubt," supplemented Beatrice. "Well, never mind, darling. I am very sorry

it happened, but it will not matter. I am so near freedom and happiness, I can not grieve over it. He will not

"You forget what he must think of me," said Lillian. "Knowing his upright, truthful character, what must he

That view of the question had not struck Beatrice. She looked grave and anxious. It was not right for her

"Oh, I am so sorry," she began, but Lillian interrupted her, she came close to her, and lowered her pale face

"Beatrice," she said, slowly, "you must let me tell him. He cares for me. He loves me; I promised to be his

"I love him," continued Lillian. "I did not tell you. He said it was not to be mentioned until you were married.

I love him so dearly, Beatriceand when he asked me who it was I had been to meet, I could not answer

him. He was very angry; he said sharp, cruel words to me, and I could not tell him how false they were. He

will leave Earlescourt; he will never look upon my face again unless I tell him all. He has said so, and he will

"It would be only for a time," she replied. "I hate myself for being so selfish, but I dare not trust Lionel

Dacre. He is so impetuous, so hasty, he would betray me, as surely as he knew it. Do you not remember his

saying the other day that it was well for him he had no secrets, for he could not manage to keep them!"

"He would not," said Beatrice; "and I am so near freedom, so near happiness. Oh, Lily, you have saved me

oncesave me again! My darling, keep my secret until I am married; then I swear to you I will tell Lionel

every word honorably myself, and he will love you doubly. Could you do this for me?"

"It is not fair to himhe has a right to my confidenceit is not fair to myself, Beatrice."

"One of us must be sacrificed," returned her sister. "If myself, the sacrifice will last my lifewill cause my

death; if you, it will last, at the most, only three or four weeks. I will write to Lionel on my wedding day."

"Because, once married to Lord Airlie, I shall have no fear. Three or four weeks of happiness are not so much

to give up for your own sister, Lily. I will say no more. I leave it for you to decide."

"Nay, do not do that," said Lillian, in great distress. "I could not clear myself at your expense"a fact which

"Then let the matter rest," said her sister; "some day I shall be able to thank you for all you have done for

meI can not now. On my wedding day I will tell Lionel Dacre that the girl he loves is the truest, the

"It is against my conscience, judgment, love, everything," added Beatrice; "but it will save me from cruel ruin

and sorrow; and it shall not hurt you, Lilyit shall bring you good, not harm. Now, try to forget it. He will

not know how to atone to you for this. Think of your happiness when he returns."

She drew the golden head down upon her shoulder, and with the charm that never failed, she talked and

But during the long hours of that night a fair head tossed wearily to and fro on its pillowa fair face was

stained with bitter tears. Lionel Dacre lingered, half hoping that even at the last she would come and bid him

But the last moment came, and no messenger from Lillian brought the longedfor words. He passed out from

the Hall. He could not refrain from looking once at the window of her room, but the blind was closely drawn.

Thursday morning dawned bright and beautiful, as though autumn wished to surpass the glories or summer.

Beatrice had not told Lillian when she was going to meet Hugh, partly because she dreaded her sister's

anxiety, partly because she did not wish any one to know how long she might be with him; for Beatrice

Lillian was ill and unable to rise; unused to emotion, the strain upon her mind had been too great. When Lady

Helena listened to her maid's remarks and went up to see her granddaughter, she forbade her to get up, and

The breakfast party was a very small one. Lord Earle was absent; he had gone to Holte. Lady Helena hurried

away to sit with Lillian. Lord Airlie had been smiling very happily over a mysterious little packet that had

come by post. He asked Beatrice if she would go out with himhe had something to show her. They went

The morning was bright and calm. Something of the warmth and beauty of the summer lingered still,

Lord Airlie and Beatrice sat at the foot of the grand old cedar tree whence they would see the distant glimmer

of the deep, still lake. The birds sang around them, and the sun shone brightly. On the beautiful face of

"I have something here for you, Beatrice," said Lord Airlie, showing her a little packet"a surprise. You

must thank me by saying that what it contains will be more precious to you than anything else on earth."

She opened the pretty case; within it there lay a fine gold chain of exquisite fashion and a locket of marvelous

"What it contains is more precious to me than anything on earth," she said. "You know that, Hubert; why do

"Because I like to hear it," he answered. "I like to see my proud love looking humble for a few minutes; I like

"Beatrice," said Lord Airlie, "make me a promise. Let me fasten this locket around your neck, and tell me that

"I can easily promise that," she said. She bent her beautiful head, and Lord Airlie fastened the chain round

He little knew what he had done. When Lord Airlie fastened the chain round the neck of the girl he loved, he

"It looks charming," he said. "How everything beautiful becomes you, Beatrice! You were born to be a

queenwho am I that I should have won you? Tell me over againI never grow tired of hearing itdo you

She told him again, her face glowing with happiness. He bent over her and kissed the sweet face; he kissed

the little white hands and the rings of dark hair the wind blew carelessly near him.

"When the leaves are green, and the fair spring is come," he said, "you will be my wife, BeatriceLady

Airlie of Lynnton. I love my name and title when I remember that you will share them. And you shall be the

happiest Lady Airlie that ever livedthe happiest bride, the happiest wife the sun ever shone upon. You will

They sat through the long bright hours under the shade of the old cedar tree, while Lillian lay with head and

heart aching, wondering in her gentle way why this sorrow should have fallen upon her.

She did not know, as she lay like a pale broken lily, that years ago her father, in the reckless heyday of youth,

had wilfully deceived his father, and married against his wish and commands; she did not know how that

unhappy marriage had ended in pride, passion, and sullen, jealous temperwhile those who should have

foreborne went each their own roadthe proud, irritated husband abroad, away from every tie of home and

duty, the jealous, angry wife secluding herself in the bitterness of her heartboth neglecting the children

intrusted to them. She knew how one of those children had gone wrong; she knew the deceit, the misery, the

sorrow that wrong had entailed. She was the chief victim, yet the sin had not been hers.

There were no fierce, rebellious feelings in her gentle heart, no angry warring with the mighty Hand that

sends crosses and blessings alike. The flower bent by the wind was not more pliant. Where her sorrow and

love had cast her she lay, silently enduring her suffering, while Lionel traveled without intermission, wishing

only to find himself far away from the young girl he declared he had ceased to love yet could not forget.

Thursday evening, and the hand of the ormolu clock pointed to a quarter to ten. Lord Earle sat reading, Lady

Helena had left Lillian asleep, and had taken up a book near him. Lord Airlie had been sketching for Beatrice

a plan of a new wing at Lynnton. Looking up suddenly she saw the time. At ten Hugh Fernely would be at the

shrubbery gate. She had not a moment to lose. Saying she was feeling tired, she rose and went to bid Lord

He remembered afterward how he had raised the beautiful face in his hands and gazed at it in loving

admiration, whispering something the while about "Lady Airlie of Lynnton." He remembered how she, so

little given to caressing, had laid her hand upon his shoulder, clasping her arms around his neck, kissing his

face, and calling him, "her own dear papa." He remembered the soft, wistful light in her beautiful eyes, the

sweet voice that lingered in his ears. Yet no warning came to him, nothing told him the fair child he loved so

If he had known, how those strong arms would have been raised to shield herhow the stout, brave heart

would have sheltered her! As it was, she left him with jesting words on his lips, and he did not even gaze

after her as she quitted the room. If he had only known where and how he should see that face again!

Beatrice went up to Lady Helena, who smiled without raising her eyes from her book. Beatrice bent down

"Good nightbless you, my child," returned Lady Helena; and the fair face turned from her with a smile.

"You have left me until last," said Lord Airlie; "goodnight, my Beatrice. Never mind papahe is not looking

Then she passed out of his sight, and he who would have laid down his life for her saw her leave him without

The smile still lingered on her as she stood in her own room. A few hours moreone more trialshe said to

herself; then she would be free, and might enjoy her happiness to its full extent. How dearly Hubert loved

herhow unutterably happy she would be when Hugh released her! And he wouldshe never doubted it.

"I shall not want you again," she said to her maid. "And do not call me in the morning. I am tired."

The door of Lillian's room was not closed; she went in. The night lamp was shaded, and the blinds closely

drawn, so that the bright moonlight could not intrude. She went gently to the side of the bed where her sister

lay. Poor, gentle, loving Lillian! The pale, sad face, with its wistful wearied expression, was turned to the

wall. There were some traces of tears, and even in sleep deep sighs passed the quivering lips. Sorrow and woe

were impressed on the fair face. Yet, as Beatrice kissed the clear, calm brow, she would gladly have changed

"I will soon make it up to her," she said, gazing long and earnestly on the sleeping face. "In a few weeks she

shall be happier than she has ever been. I will make Master Lionel go on his knees to her."

Beatrice took from her wardrobe, a thick, warm shawl. She drew it over her head, and so half hid her face.

Then she went noiselessly down the staircase that led from her suite of rooms to the garden.

How fair and beautiful the night wasnot cold, although it was September, and the moon shining as she had

It seemed to sail triumphantly in the darkblue sky. It poured a flood of silvery light on the sleeping flowers

She had not lingered to look round the pretty dressing room as she left it. Her eyes had not dwelt on the

luxurious chamber and the white bed, wherein she ought to have been sleeping, but, now that she stood

outside the Hall, she looked up at the windows with a sense of loneliness and fear. There was a light in Lady

Helena's room and one in Lord Airlie's. She shrank back. What would he think if he saw her now?

Deeply she felt the humiliation of leaving her father's house at that hour of the night; she felt the whole shame

of what she was going to do; but the thought of Lord Airlie nerved her. Let this one night pass, and a life time

The night wind moaned fitfully among the trees; the branches of the tall lime trees swayed over her head; the

fallen leaves twirled round her feet. She crossed the gardens; the moon cast strange shadows upon the broad

paths. At length she saw the shrubbery gate, and, by it, erect and motionless, gazing on the bending trees in

the park, was Hugh Fernely. He did not hear her light footstepsthe wind among the lime trees drowned

Before she could prevent him, he was kneeling at her feet. He had clasped her hands in his own, and was

He rose then, and, before she could stop him, he took the shawl from her head and raised the beautiful face so

"I have hungered and thirsted," he said, "for another look at that face. I shall see it always nowits light will

ever leave me more. Look at me, Beatrice," he cried, "let me see those dark eyes again."

But the glance she gave him had nothing in it but coldness and dread. In the excitement of his joy he did not

"Words are so weak," he said, "I can not tell you how I have longed for this hour. I have gone over it in fancy

a thousand times; yet no dream was ever so bright and sweet as this reality. No man in the wide world ever

She could not resist the passionate torrent of wordsthey must have touched the heart of one less proud. She

stood perfectly still, while the calm night seemed to thrill with the eloquent voice of the speaker.

"Speak to me," he said, at length. "How coldly you listen! Beatrice, there is no love, no joy in your face. Tell

me you are pleased to see metell me you have remembered me. Say anything let me hear your voice."

"Hugh," she answered, gently, drawing her hands from his strong grasp, "this is all a mistake. You have not

given me time to speak. I am pleased to see you well and safe. I am pleased that you have escaped the

dangers of the deep; but I can not say more. II do not love you as you love me."

"You must be reasonable," she continued, in her musical, pitiless voice. "Hugh, I was only a dreaming,

innocent, ignorant child when I first met you. It was not love I thought of. You talked to me as no one else

ever hadit was like reading a strange, wonderful story; my head was filled with romance, my heart was not

"I remember," she acknowledged. "I do not deny it; but, Hugh, I did not know what I was saying. I spoke

without thought. I no more realized what the words meant than I can understand now what the wind is

A long, low moan came from his lips; the awful despair in his face startled her.

"So I have returned for this!" he cried. "I have braved untold perils; I have escaped the dangers of the seas,

the death that lurks in heaving waters, to be slain by cruel words from the girl I loved and trusted."

"Do you think of my grief?" he cried. "I came here tonight, with my heart on fire with love, my brain dizzy

with happiness. You have killed me, Beatrice Earle, as surely as ever man was slain."

Far off, among the trees, she saw the glimmer of the light in Lord Airlie's room. It struck her with a sensation

They went through the shrubbery, through the broad, green glades of the park, where the dew drops shone

upon fern leaves and thick grass, past the long avenue of chestnut trees, where the wind moaned like a human

being in deadly pain; on to the shore of the deep, calm lake, where the green reeds bent and swayed and the

moonlight shone on the rippling waters. All this while Hugh had not spoken a word, but had walked in

silence by her side. He turned to her at length, and she heard the rising passion in his voice.

"You promised me," he said, "and you must keep your promise. You said you would be my wife. No other

man must dare to speak to you of love," he cried, grasping her arm. "In the sight of Heaven you are mine,

"I am not," she answered proudly; "and I never will be; no man would, or could take advantage of a promise

"You may do so," she replied; "and, although he will never look upon me again, he will protect me from

She saw the angry light flame in his eyes; she heard his breath come in quick, short gasps, and the danger of

quarreling with him struck her. She laid her hand upon his arm, and he trembled at the gentle touch.

"Hugh," she said, "do not be angry. You are a brave man; I know that in all your life you never shrank from

danger or feared peril. The brave are always generous, always noble; think of what I am going to say.

Suppose that, by the exercise of any power, you could really compel me to be your wife, what would it

benefit you? I should not love you, I tell you candidly. I should detest you for spoiling my lifeI would

He made no reply. The wind bent the reeds, and the water came up the bank with a long, low wash.

"I appeal to your generosity," she said"your nobility of character. Release me from a promise I made in

ignorance; I appeal to your very love for merelease me, that I may be happy. Those who love truly," she

continued, receiving no reply, "never love selfishly. If I cared for any one as you do for me, I should consider

my own happiness last or all. If you love me, release me, Hugh. I can never be happy with you."

"Not from mercenary motives," she replied, earnestly; "not because my father is wealthy, my home

magnificent, and you belong to another grade of societynot for that, but because I do not love you. I never

"You are very candid," said he, bitterly; "pray, is there any one else you love in this way?"

"That is beside the question," she replied, haughtily; "I am speaking of you and myself. Hugh, if you will

give me my freedom if you will agree to forget the foolish promise of a foolish childI will respect and

esteem you while I live; I shall bless you every day; your name will be a sacred one enshrined in my heart,

your memory will be a source of pleasure to me. You shall be my friend, Hugh, and I will be a true friend to

"Yes, be tempted," she said; "let me urge you to be generous, to be noble! See, Hugh, I have never prayed to

any manI pray to you; I would kneel here at your feet and beseech you to release me from a promise I

Her words touched him. She saw the softened look upon his face, the flaming anger die out of his eyes.

"Hugh," she said, softly, "I, Beatrice Earle, pray you, by the love you bear me, to release me from all claim,

"Let me think," he replied; "give me a few minutes; no man could part so hastily with the dearest treasure he

They stood for some time in perfect silence; they had wandered down to the very edge of the lake. The water

rippled in the moonlight, and while Hugh Fernely thought, Beatrice looked into the clear depths. How near

she was to her triumph! A few minutes more and he would turn to her and tell her she was free. His face was

growing calm and gentle. She would dismiss him with grateful thanks; she would hasten home. How calm

would be that night's sleep! When she saw Lord Airlie in the morning, all her sorrow and shame would have

"I think it must be so," said Hugh Fernely, at last; "I think I must give you up, Beatrice. I could not bear to

make you miserable. Look up, my darling; let me see your face once more before I say goodbye."

She stood before him, and the thick dark shawl fell from her shoulders upon the grass; she did not miss it in

the blinding joy that had fallen upon her. Hugh Fernely's gaze lingered upon the peerless features.

"I can give you up," he said, gently; "for your own happiness, but not to another, Beatrice. Tell me that you

She made no replynot to have saved her life a thousand times would she have denied her love for Lord

Airlie. His kiss was still warm on her lipsthose same lips should never deny him.

"You do not speak," he added, gloomily. "By Heaven, Beatrice, if I thought you had learned to love another

manif I thought you wanted to be free from me to marry anotherI should go mad mad with jealous rage!

She saw a lurid light in his eyes, and shrank from him. He tightened his grasp upon her arm.

Not far from her slept the lover who would have shielded her with his strong armthe lover to whom every

hair upon her dear head was more precious than gold or jewels. Not far from her slept the kind, loving father,

who was prouder and fonder of her than of any one on earth. Gaspar Laurence, who would have died for her,

lay at that moment not far away, awake and thinking of her. Yet in the hour of her deadly peril, when she

stood on the shore of the deep lake, in the fierce grasp of a halfmaddened man, there was no one near to

help her or raise a hand in her defense. But she was no coward, and all the high spirit of her race rose within

He seized both her hands and looked at them; they were firm and coolthey did not tremble. As his fierce,

"I have not worn it lately," she replied. "Hugh, you forget yourself. Gentlemen do not speak and act in this

"I believe I am going mad," he said, gloomily. "I could relinquish my claim to you, Beatrice for your own

sake, but I will never give you up to be the wife of any other man. Tell me it is not so. Tell me you have not

"Am I to live all my life unloved and unmarried?" she answered, controlling her angry indignation by a

strong effort, "because when I was a lonely and neglected girl, I fell into your power? I do not ask such a

"I shall not care," he said, "what happens after I am goneit will not hurt my jealous, angry heart then,

Beatrice; but I should not like to think that while you were my promised wife and I was giving you my every

thought, you were loving some one else. I should like to believe you were true to me while you were my

She made no answer, fearing to irritate him if she told the truth, and scorning to deny the love that was the

crowning blessing of her life. His anger grew in her silence. Again the dark flush arose in his face, and his

Suddenly he caught sight of the gold locket she wore round her neck, fastened by the slender chain.

"What is this thing you wear?" he asked, quickly. "You threw aside my ring. What is this? Whose portrait

"You forget yourself again," she said, drawing herself haughtily away. "I have no account to render to you of

"I will see who is there!" he cried, beside himself with angry rage. "Perhaps I shall know then why you wish

to be freed from me. Whose face is lying near your heart? Let me see. If it is that of any one who has

"You shall not see it," she said, raising her hand, and clasping the little locket tightly. "I am not afraid, Hugh

But the hot anger leaped up in his heart; he was mad with cruel jealousy and rage, and tried to snatch the

locket from her. She defended it, holding it tightly clasped in one hand, while with the other she tried to free

It will never be know how that fatal accident happened. Men will never know whether the hapless girl fell, or

whether Hugh Fernely, in his mad rage, flung her into the lake. There was a startled scream that rang through

the clear air, a heavy fall, a splash amid the waters of the lake! There was one awful, despairing glance from a

pale, horrorstricken face, and then the waters closed, the ripples spread over the broad surface, and the

sleeping lilies trembled for a few minutes, and then lay still again! Once, and once only, a woman's white

hand, thrown up, as it were, in agonizing supplication, cleft the dark water, and then all was over; the wind

blew the ripples more strongly; they washed upon the grass, and the stir of the deep waters subsided!

Hugh Fernely did not plunge into the lake after Beatriceit was too late to save her; still, he might have

tried. The cry that rang through the sleeping woods, seemed to paralyze himhe stood like one bereft of

reason, sense and life. Perhaps the very suddenness of the event overpowered him. Heaven only knows what

passed in his dull, crazed mind while the girl he loved sank without help. Was it that he would not save her

for another that in his cruel love he preferred to know her dead, beneath the cold waters, rather than the

living, happy wife of another man? Or was it that in the sudden shock and terror he never thought of trying to

He stood for hoursit seemed to him as yearswatching the spot where the pale, agonized face had

vanishedwatching the eddying ripples and the green reeds. Yet he never sought to save hernever

plunged into the deep waters whence he might have rescued her had he wished. He never moved. He felt no

fatigue. The first thing that roused him was a gleam of gray light in the eastern sky, and the sweet, faint song

Then he saw that the day had broken. He said to himself, with a wild horrible laugh, that he had watched all

He turned and fled. One meeting him, with fierce, wild eyes full of the fire of madness, with pale, haggard

face full of despair, would have shunned him. He fled through the green park, out on the highroad, away

through the deep woodshe knew not whither never looking back; crying out at times, with a hollow, awful

voice that he had been all night by her grave; falling at times on his face with wild, woeful weeping, praying

He crept into a field where the hedgerows were bright with autumn's tints. He threw himself down, and tried

to close his hot, dazed eyes, but the sky above him looked bloodred, the air seemed filled with flames. Turn

where he would, the pale, despairing face that had looked up to him as the waters opened was before him. He

arose with a great cry, and wandered on. He came to a little cottage, where rosy children were at play, talking

Great Heaven! How long was it since the dead girl, now sleeping under the deep waters, was happy and

He fled again. This time the piercing cry filled his ears; it seemed to deaden his brain. He fell in the field near

the cottage. Hours afterward the children out at play found him lying in the dank grass that fringed the pond

The first faint flush of dawn, a rosy light, broke in the eastern sky, a tremulous, golden shimmer was on the

lake as the sunbeams touched it. The forest birds awoke and began to sing; they flew from branch to branch;

the flowers began to open their "dewy eyes," the stately swans came out upon the lake, bending their arched

The sun shone out at length in his majesty, warming and brightening the fair face of natureit was full and

perfect day. The gardeners came through the park to commence their work; the cows out in the pasture land

stood to be milked, the busy world began to rouse itself; but the fatal secret hidden beneath the cold, dark

The sun shone bright and warm in the breakfast room at Earlescourt. The rays fell upon the calm, stately face

of Lady Helena, upon the grave countenance of her son, upon the bright, handsome features of Lord Airlie.

They sparkled on the delicate silver, and showed off the pretty china to perfection. The breakfast was upon

the table, but the three occupants of the room had been waiting. Lady Helena took her seat.

"It seems strange," she said to Lord Earle, "to breakfast without either of the girls. I would not allow Lillian

to rise; and from some caprice Beatrice forbade her maid to call her, saying she was tired."

Lord Earle made some laughing reply, but Lady Helena was not quite pleased. Punctuality with her had

always been a favorite virtue. In case of real illness, allowance was of course to be made; but she herself had

never considered a little extra fatigue as sufficient reason for absenting herself from table.

The two gentlemen talked gayly during breakfast. Lord Earle asked Hubert if he would go with him to Holte,

Hearing that, Lady Helena thought it time to send some little warning to her grandchild. She rang for Suzette,

She stood at her writing table, arranging some letters, when the maid returned. Lady Helena looked at her in

"My lady," she said, "will you please come here? You are wanted very particularly."

Lady Helena, without speaking to either of the gentlemen, went to the door where the girl stood.

"For mercy's sake, my lady," replied the maid, "come upstairs. I I can not find Miss Beatriceshe is not in

her room;" and the girl trembled violently or Lady Helena would have smiled at her terror.

"She is probably with Miss Lillian," she said. "Why make such a mystery, Suzette?"

"My lady," Suzette whispered, and her frightened face grew deathly pale, "her bed has not been slept in;

A shock of unutterable dread seized Lady Earle; a sharp spasm seemed to dart through her heart.

The rooms were without occupant; no disarray of jewels, flowers, or dresses, no little slippers; no single trace

The pretty white bed was untouchedno one had slept in it; the blinds were drawn, and the sunlight

struggled to enter the room. Lady Helena walked mechanically to the window, and drew aside the lace

"She has not slept here," she said; "she must have slept with Miss Lillian. You have frightened me, Suzette; I

Lady Helena went through the pretty sitting room where the books Beatrice had been reading lay upon the

The young girl was awake, looking pale and languid, yet better than she had looked the night before. Lady

"No," replied Lillian; "I have not seen her since just before dinner last evening."

Lady Helena kissed Lillian's face, and quitted the room; a deadly, horrible fear was turning her faint and cold.

From the suite of rooms Lord Earle had prepared and arranged for his daughters a staircase ran which led into

the garden. He had thought at the time how pleasant it would be for them. As Lady Helena entered, Suzette

"My lady," she said, "I fastened the outer door of the staircase last night myself. I locked it, and shot the

bolts. It is unfastened now, and I have found this lying by it. Miss Earle wore it last evening on her dress."

"Something terrible must have happened," exclaimed Lady Helena. "Suzette, ask Lord Earle to come to me.

He stood by her side in a few minutes, looking in mute wonder at her pale, scared face.

"Ronald," she said, "Beatrice has not slept in her room all night. We can not find her."

He smiled at first, thinking, as she had done, that there must be some mistake, and that his mother was

fanciful and nervous; but, when Lady Helena, in quick, hurried words, told him of the unfastened door and

the ribbon, his face grew serious. He took the ribbon from the maid's handit seemed a living part of his

daughter. He remembered that he had seen it the night before on her dress, when he had held up the beautiful

"She may have gone out into the grounds, and have been taken ill," he said. "Do not frighten Airlie, mother; I

He went through every room of the house one by one, but there was no trace of her. Still Lord Earle had no

Then he went out into the grounds, half expecting the beautiful face to smile upon him from under the shade

of her favorite trees. He called aloud, "Beatrice!" The wind rustled through the trees, the birds sang, but there

came no answer to his cry. Neither in the grounds nor in the garden could he discover any trace of her. He

"I can not find her," he said. "Mother, I do not understand this. She can not have left us. She was not

There was no slip of paper, no letter, no clew to her absence. Mother and son looked blankly at each other.

They went down to the breakfast room where Lord Airlie still waited for the young girl he was never more to

meet alive. He turned round with a smile, and asked if Beatrice were coming. The smile died from his lips

"Hubert," said Lord Earle, "we are alarmedlet us hope without cause. Beatrice can not be found. My

mother is frightened." Lady Helena had sunk, pale and trembling, upon a couch. Lord Airlie looked

bewildered. Lord Earle told him briefly how they had missed her, and what had been done.

"She must be trying to frighten us," he said; "she must have hidden herself. There can not be anything

wrong." Even as he spoke he felt how impossible it was that his dignified Beatrice should have done anything

He could throw no light upon the subject. He had not seen her since he had kissed her when bidding her

goodnight. Her maid was the last person to whom she had spoken. Suzette had left her in her own room, and

Father and lover went out together. Lord Airlie suggested that she had perhaps gone out into the gardens and

had met with some accident there. They went carefully over every partthere was no trace of Beatrice. They

went through the shrubbery out into the park, where the quiet lake shone amid the green trees.

Suddenly, like the thrust of a sharp sword, the remembrance of the morning spent upon the water came to

Lord Airlie. He called to mind Beatrice's fearthe cold shudder that seized her when she declared that her

own face with a mocking smile was looking up at her from the depths of the water.

He walked hurriedly toward the lake. It was calm and clearthe tall trees and green sedges swaying in the

wind, the white lilies rising and falling with the ripples. The blue sky and green trees were reflected in the

water, the pleasure boat was fastened to the boat house. How was he to know the horrible secret of the lake?

"Come away, Airlie!" cried Lord Earle. "I shall go mad! I will call all the servants, and have a regular

In a few minutes the wildest confusion and dismay reigned in the Hall; women wept aloud, and men's faces

grew pale with fear. Their beautiful, brilliant young mistress had disappeared, and none knew her fate. They

searched garden, park, and grounds; men in hot haste went hither and thither; while Lady Earle lay half dead

It was Lord Airlie who first suggested that the lake should be dragged. The sun rode high in the heavens then,

They found the drags, and Hewson, the butler, with Lee and Patson, two gardeners, got into the boat. Father

and lover stood side by side on the bank. The boat glided softly over the water; the men had been once round

the lake, but without any result. Hope was rising again in Lord Airlie's heart, when he saw those in the boat

"My lord," said Cowden, Lord Earle's valet, coming up to Hubert, "pray take my master home; they have

found something at the bottom of the lake. Take him home; and please keep Lady Earle and the women all

They had found something beneath the water; the drags had caught in a woman's dress; and the men in the

Through the depths of water they saw the gleam of a white, dead face, and a floating mass of dark hair. They

raised the body with reverent hands. Strong men wept aloud as they did so. One covered the quiet face, and

another wrung the dripping water from the long hair. The sun shone on, as though in mockery, while they

Slowly and with halting steps they carried her through the warm, sunny park where she was never more to

tread, through the bright, sunlit gardens, through the hall and up the broad staircase, the water dripping from

her hair and falling in large drops, into the pretty chamber she had so lately quitted full of life and hope. They

laid her on the white bed wherefrom her eyes would never more open to the morning light, and went away.

"Drowned, drowned! Drowned and dead!" was the cry that went from lip to lip, till it reached Lord Earle

where he sat, trying to soothe his weeping mother. "Drowned! Quite dead!" was the cry that reached Lillian,

in her sick room, and brought her down pale and trembling. "Drowned and dead hours ago," were the words

They could not realize it. How had it happened? What had taken her in the dead of the night to the lake?

They sent messengers right and left to summon doctors in hot haste, as though human skill could avail her

"I must see her," said Lord Airlie. "If you do not wish to kill me, let me see her."

They allowed him to enter, and Lord Earle and his mother went with him. None in that room ever forgot his

crythe piercing cry of the strong man in his agonyas he threw himself by the dead girl's side.

And then with tears of sympathy they showed him how even in death the white cold hand grasped his locket,

While the weeping group still stood there, doctors came; they looked at the quiet face, so beautiful in death,

and said she had been dead for hours. The words struck those who heard them with unutterable horror. Dead,

while those who loved her so dearly, who would have given their lives for her, had lain sleeping near her,

unconscious of her doomdead, while her lover had waited for her, and her father had been intently thinking

What had she suffered during the night? What awful storm of agony had driven her to the lake? Had she gone

thither purposely? Had she wandered to the edge and fallen in, or was there a deeper mystery? Had foul

wrong been done to Lord Earle's daughter while he was so near her, and yet knew nothing of it?

She still wore her pretty pink evening dress. What a mockery it looked! The delicate laces were wet and

spoiled; the pink blossoms she had twined in her hair clung to it still; the diamond arrow Lord Airlie had

given her fastened them, a diamond brooch was in the bodice of her dress, and a costly bracelet encircled the

white, cold arm. She had not, then, removed her jewels or changed her dress. What could have taken her

Lord Airlie, when he was calm enough to speak, suggested that she might have fallen asleep, tired, before

undressingthat in her sleep she might have walked out, gone to the edge of the lake, and fallen in.

That version spread among the servants. From them it spread like wildfire around the whole countryside;

the country papers were filled with it, and the London papers afterward told how "the beautiful Miss Earle"

But Lord Airlie's suggestion did not satisfy Ronald Earle; he would not leave the darkened chamber.

Women's gentle hands removed the bright jewels and the evening dress. Lady Helena, with tears that fell like

rain, dried the long, waving hair, and drew it back from the placid brow. She closed the eyes, but she could

not cross the white hands on the cold breast. One held the locket in the firm, tight clasp of death, and it could

Ronald would not leave the room. Gentle hands finished their task. Beatrice lay in the awful beauty of

deathno pain, no sorrow moving the serene loveliness of her placid brow. He knelt by her side. It was his

little Beatrice, this strange, cold, marble statuehis little baby Beatrice, who had leaped in his arms years

ago, who had cried and laughed, who had learned in pretty accents to lisp his namehis beautiful child, his

proud, bright daughter, who had kissed him the previous night while he spoke jesting words to her about her

lover. And he had never heard her voice sincenever would hear it again. Had she called him when the dark

Cold, motionless, no gleam of life or lightand this was Dora's little child! He uttered a great cry as the

thought struck him: "What would Dora say?" He loved Beatrice; yet for all the long years of her childhood he

had been absent from her. How must Dora love the child who had slept on her bosom, and who was now

And then his thoughts went back to the old subject: "How had it happened? What had taken her to the lake?"

One knelt near who might have told him, but a numb, awful dread had seized upon Lillian. Already weak and

ill, she was unable to think, unable to shape her ideas, unable to tell right from wrong.

She alone held the clew to the mystery, and she knelt by that death bed with pale, parted lips and eyes full of

terror. Her face startled those who saw it. Her sorrow found no vent in tears; the gentle eyes seemed changed

into balls of fire; she could not realize that it was Beatrice who lay there, so calm and stillBeatrice, who

had knelt at her feet and prayed that she would save herBeatrice, who had believed herself so near the

Could she have met Hugh, and had he murdered her? Look where she would, Lillian saw that question

written in fiery letters. What ought she to do? Must she tell Lord Earle, or did the promise she had made bind

her in death as well as in life. Nothing could restore her sister. Ought she to tell all she knew, and to stain in

One of the doctors called in saw the face of Lillian Earle. He went at once to Lady Helena, and told her that if

the young lady was not removed from that room, and kept quiet she would be in danger of her life.

"If ever I saw a face denoting that the brain was disturbed," he said, "that is one."

Lillian was taken back to her room, and left with careful nurses. But the doctor's warning proved true. While

Lord Earle wept over the dead child, Lady Helena mourned over the living one, whose life hung by a thread.

The day wore on; the gloom of sorrow and mourning had settled on the Hall. Servants spoke with hushed

voices and moved with gentle tread. Lady Helena sat in the darkened room where Lillian lay. Lord Airlie had

shut himself up alone, and Ronald Earle knelt all day by his dead child. In vain they entreated him to move,

to take food or wine, to go to his own room. He remained by her, trying to glean from that silent face the

And when night fell again, he sunk exhausted. Feverish slumbers came to him, filled with a haunted dream of

Beatrice sinking in the dark water and calling upon him for help. Kindly faces watched over him, kindly

Lady Helena brought him some tea and besought him to drink it. The parched, dried lips almost refused their

office. It was an hour afterward that Hewson entered the room, bearing a letter in his hand. It was brought, he

said by Thomas Ginns, who lived at the cottage past Fair Glenn hills. It had been written by a man who lay

"I ventured to bring it to you, my lord," said the butler; "the man seemed to think it a matter of life or death."

Lord Earle took the letter from his handshe tried to open it, but the trembling fingers seemed powerless.

He signed to Hewson to leave the room, and, placing the letter upon the table, resumed his melancholy watch.

But in some strange way his thoughts wandered to the missive. What might it not contain, brought to him,

too, in the solemn death chamber? He opened it, and found many sheets of closely covered paper. On the first

The name told him nothing. Suddenly an idea came to himcould this confession have anything to do with

the fate of the beloved child who lay before him? Kneeling by the dead child's side, he turned over the leaf

"Lord Earle, I am dyingthe hand tracing this will soon be cold. Before I die I must confess my crime. Even

now, perhaps, you are kneeling by the side of the child lost to you for all time. My lord, I killed her.

"I met her first nearly three years ago, at Knutsford; she was out alone, and I saw her. I loved her then as I

love her now. By mere accident I heard her deplore the lonely, isolated life she led, and that in such terms

that I pitied her. She was young, beautiful, full of life and spirits; she was pining away in that remote home,

shut out from the living world she longed for with a longing I can not put into words. I spoke to herdo not

blame her, she was a beautiful, ignorant childI spoke to her, asking some questions about the road, and she

replied. Looking at her face, I swore that I would release her from the life she hated, and take her where she

"I met her again and again. Heaven pardon me if I did my best to awake an interest in her girlish heart! I told

her stories of travel and adventure that stirred all the romance in her nature. With the keen instinct of love I

understood her character, and played upon its weakness while I worshiped its strength.

"She told me of a sad, patient young mother who never smiled, of a father who was abroad and would not

return for many years. Pardon me, my lord, if, in common with many others, I believed this story to be one to

appease her. Pardon me, if I doubted as many others didwhether the sad young mother was your wife.

"I imagined that I was going to rescue her from a false position when I asked her to be my wife. She said her

mother dreaded all mention of love and lovers, and I prayed her to keep my love a secret from all the world.

"I make no excuses for myself; she was young and innocent as a dreaming child. I ought to have looked on

her beautiful face and left her. My lord, am I altogether to blame? The lonely young girl at Knutsford pined

for what I could give herhappiness and pleasure did not seem so far removed from me. Had she been in her

"Not to you can I tell the details of my love storyhow I worshiped with passionate love the beautiful,

innocent child who smiled into my face and drank in my words. I asked her to be my wife, and she promised.

My lord, I never for a moment dreamed that she would ever have a home with youit did not seem to me

possible. I intended to return and marry her, firmly believing that in some respects my rank and condition in

life were better than her own. She promised to be true to me, to love no one else, to wait for me, and to marry

"I believe now that she never loved me. My love and devotion were but a pleasant interruption in the

monotony of her life. They were to blame also who allowed her no pleasureswho forced her to resort to

"My lord, I placed a ring upon your daughter's finger, and pledged my faith to her. I can not tell you what my

"I was to return and claim her in two years. Absence made me love her more. I came back, rich in gold, my

heart full of happiness, hope making everything bright and beautiful. I went straight to Knutsfordalas! she

was no longer there! And then I heard that the girl I loved so deeply and so dearly was Lord Earle's daughter.

"I did not dream of losing her; birth, title, and position seemed as nothing beside my mighty, passionate love.

I thought nothing of your consent, but only of her; and I went to Earlescourt. My lord, I wrote to her, and my

heart was in every line. She sent me a cold reply. I wrote again; I swore I would see her. She sent her sister to

me with the reply. Then I grew desperate, and vowed I would lay my claim before you. I asked her to meet

me out in the grounds, at night, unseen and unknown. She consented, and on Thursday night I met her near

"How I remember her pretty pleading words, her beautiful proud face! She asked me to release her. She said

that it had all been child's playa foolish mistakeand that if I would give her her freedom from a foolish

promise she would always be my friend. At first I would not hear of it; but who could have refused her? If

she had told me to lie down at her feet and let her trample the life out of me, I should have submitted.

"I promised to think of her request, and we walked on to the border of the lake. Every hair upon her head was

sacred to me; the pretty, proud ways that tormented me delighted me, too. I promised I would release her, and

give her the freedom she asked, if she told me I was not giving her up to another. She would not. Some few

words drove me mad with jealous rageyes, mad; the blood seemed to boil in my veins. Suddenly I caught

sight of a golden locket on her neck, and I asked her whose portrait it contained. She refused to tell me. In the

madness of my rage I tried to snatch it from her. She caught it in her hands, and, shrinking back from me, fell

"I swear it was a sheer accidentI would not have hurt a hair of her head; but, oh! My lord, pardon

mepardon me, for Heaven's sakeI might have saved her and I did not; I might have plunged in after her

and brought her back, but jealousy whispered to me, 'Do not save her for anotherlet her die.' I stood upon

the bank, and saw the water close over her head. I saw the white hand thrown up in wild appeal, and never

moved or stirred. I stood by the lakeside all night, and fled when the morning dawned in the sky.

"I killed her. I might have saved her, but did not. Anger of yours can add nothing to my torture; think what it

has been. I was a strong man two days since; when the sun sets I shall be numbered with the dead. I do not

wish to screen myself from justice. I have to meet the wrath of Heaven, and that appalls me as the anger of

man never could. Send the officers of the law for me. If I am not dead, let them take me; if I am, let them

bury me as they would a dog. I ask no mercy, no compassion nor forgiveness; I do not merit it.

"If by any torture, any death, I could undo what I have done, and save her, I would suffer the extremity of

"My lord, I write this confession partly to ease my own conscience, party to shield others from unjust blame.

Do not curse me because, through my mad jealousy, my miserable revenge, as fair and pure a child as father

So the strange letter concluded. Lord Earle read every word, looking over and anon at the quiet, dead face

that had kept the secret hidden. Every word seemed burned in upon his brain; every word seemed to rise

He stood face to face at last with the sin of his youth; it had found him out. The willful, wanton disobedience,

the marriage that had broken his father's heart, and struck Ronald himself from the roll of useful men; the

willful, cruel neglect of duty; the throwing off of all ties; the indulgence in proud, unforgiving temper, the

abandonment of wife and childrenall ended there. But for his sins and errors, that white, still figure might

The thought stung him with cruel pain. It was his own fault. Beatrice might have erred in meeting Hugh

Fernely; Fernely had done wrong in trying to win that young childlike heart for his own; but he who left his

children to strange hands, who neglected all duties of parentage, had surely done the greatest wrong.

For the first time his utter neglect of duty came home to him. He had thought himself rather a modern hero,

but now he caught a glimpse of himself as he was in reality. He saw that he was not even a brave man; for a

brave man neglects no duty. It was pitiful to see how sorrow bent his stately figure and lined his proud face.

He leaned over his dead child, and cried to her to pardon him, for it was all his fault. Lady Helena, seeking

him in the gloom of that solemn death chamber, found him weeping as strong men seldom weep.

He did not give her the letter, nor tell her aught of Hugh Fernely's confession. He turned to her with as sad a

"Mother," he said, "I want my kinsman, Lionel Dacre. Let him be sent for, and ask him to come without

In this, the crowning sorrow of his life, he could not stand alone. He must have some one to think and to plan

for him, some one to help him bear the burden that seemed too heavy for him to carry. Some one must see the

Not the brave, sad young lover, fighting alone with his sorrow he must never know the tragedy of that brief

life, to him her memory must be sacred and untarnished, unmarred by the knowledge of her folly.

Lady Helena was not long in discovering Lionel Dacre's whereabouts. One of the footmen who had attended

him to the station remembered the name of the place for which he had taken a ticket. Lady Helena knew that

Fortunately the messenger found him. Startled and horrified by the news, Lionel lost no time in returning. He

could not realize that his beautiful young cousin was really dead. Her face, in its smiling brightness, haunted

him. Her voice seemed to mingle with the wild clang of the iron wheels. She was dead, and he was going to

No particulars of her death had reached him; he now only knew that she had walked out in her sleep, and had

Twentyfour hours had not elapsed since Lord Earle cried out in grief for his young kinsman, yet already he

"Persuade him to leave that room," said Lady Helena. "Since our darling was carried there he has never left

Lionel did as requested. He went straight to the library, and sent for Lord Earle, saying that he could not at

While waiting there, he heard of Lillian's dangerous illness. Lady Helena told him how she had changed

before her sister's death; and, despite the young man's anger, his heart was sore and heavy.

He hardly recognized Lord Earle in the aged, altered man who soon stood before him. The long watch, the

bitter remorse, the miserable consciousness of his own folly and errors had written strange lines upon his

"I sent for you, Lionel," he said, "because I am in troubleso great that I can no longer bear it alone. You

Looking into his kinsman's face, Lionel felt that more than the death of his child weighed upon the heart and

"There are secrets in every family," said Ronald; "henceforth there will be one in mineand it will be the

true story of my daughter's death. While I knelt yesterday by her side, this letter was brought to me. Read it,

He read it slowly, tears gathering fast in his eyes, his lips quivering, and his hands tightly clinched.

"My poor Beatrice!" he exclaimed; and then the strength of his young manhood gave way, and Lionel Dacre

wept as he had never wept before. "The mean, pitiful scoundrel!" he cried, angry indignation rising as he

"Hush!" said Lord Earle. "He has gone to his account. What have you to say to me, Lionel? Because I had a

miserable quarrel with my wife I abandoned my children. I never cared to see them from the time they were

babes until they were women grown. How guilty am I? That man believed he was about to raise Beatrice in

the social scale when he asked her to be his wife, or as he says, he would never have dreamed of proposing to

"This secret must be kept inviolate," said Lord Earle. "Lord Airlie must never know itit would kill Lady

Helena, I believe. One thing puzzles me, LionelFernely says Lillian met him. I do not think that is true."

"It is!" cried Lionel, a sudden light breaking in upon him. "I saw her with him. Oh, Lord Earle, you may be

proud of Lillian! She is the noblest, truest girl that ever lived. Why, she sacrificed her own love, her own

happiness, for her sister! She loved me; and when this wedding, which will never now take place, was over, I

intended to ask you to give me Lillian. One night, quite accidentally, while I was wandering in the grounds

with a cigar, I saw her speaking to a stranger, her fair sweet face full of pity and compassion, which I mistook

for love. Shame to me that I was base enough to doubt herthat I spoke to her the words I uttered! I

demanded to know who it was she had met, and why she had met him. She asked me to trust her, saying she

could not tell me. I stabbed her with cruel words, and left her vowing that I would never see her again. Her

"We can not ask her now," said Lord Earle; "my mother tells me she is very ill."

"I must see her," cried Lionel, "and ask her to pardon me if she can. What am I to do for you, Lord Earle?

"I want you to go to the cottage," said Ronald, "and see if the man is living or dead. You will know how to

In a few minutes Lionel Dacre was on his way to the cottage, riding as though it were for dear life. Death had

The cottager's wife told Lionel how the children out at play had found a man lying in the dank grass near the

pond, and how her husband, in his own strong arms, had brought him to their abode. He lay still for many

hours, and then asked for pen and ink. He was writing, she said, nearly all night, and afterward prayed her

husband to take the letter to Lord Earle. The man refused any nourishment. Two hours later they went in to

persuade him to take some food, and found him lying dead, his face turned to the morning sky.

Lionel Dacre entered the room. The hot anger died out of his heart as he saw the anguish death had marked

upon the white countenance. What torture must the man have suffered, what hours of untold agony, to have

destroyed him in so short a time! The dark, handsome face appeared to indicate that the man had been dying

Lionel turned reverently away. Man is weak and powerless before death. In a few words he told the woman

that she should be amply rewarded for her kindness, and that he himself would defray all expenses.

"No," was the reply; "Lord Earle did not know himhad never seen him; but the poor man was well known

Thanks to Lionel's words, the faintest shadow of suspicion was never raised. Of the two deaths, that of Miss

Earle excited all attention and aroused all sympathy. No one spoke of Hugh Fernely, or connected him with

There was an inquest, and men decided that he had "died by the visitation of God." No one knew the agony

that had cast him prostrate in the thick, dank grass, no one knew the unendurable anguish that had shortened

His name was not mentioned between them again. Lord Earle never inquired where he was buriedhe never

The gloom had deepened at the Hall. Lillian Earle lay nigh unto death. Many believed that the master of

Earlescourt would soon be a childless man. He could not realize it. They told him how she lay with the cruel

raging fever sapping her life, but he seemed to forget the living child in mourning for the one that lay dead.

In compliance with Lionel's prayer, Lady Helena took him into the sick room where Lillian lay. She did not

know him; the gentle, tender eyes were full of dread and fear; the fair, pure face was burning with the flush of

fever; the hot, dry lips were never still. She talked incessantlyat times of Knutsford and Beatricethen

prayed in her sweet, sad voice that Lionel would trust heronly trust her; when Beatrice was married she

He turned away; her eyes had lingered on his face, but no gleam of recognition came into them.

"You do not think she will die?" he asked of Lady Helena; and she never forgot his voice or his manner.

"We hope not," she said; "life and death are in higher hands than ours. If you wish to help her, pray for her."

In after years Lionel Dacre like to remember that the best and most fervent prayers of his life had been

As he turned to quit the chamber he heard her crying for her mother. She wanted her motherwhy was she

On the second day succeeding that on which Dora had been sent for, Beatrice Earle was to be laid in her

grave. The servants of the household, who had dearly loved their beautiful young mistress, had taken their

last look at her face. Lady Helena had shed her last tears over it. Lord Airlie had asked to be alone for a time

with his dead love. They had humored him, and for three long hours he had knelt by her, bidding her a

sorrowful farewell, taking his last look at the face that would never again smile on earth for him.

They respected the bitterness of his uncontrollable sorrow; no idle words of sympathy were offered to him;

Lord Earle was alone with his dead child. In a little while nothing would remain of his beautiful, brilliant

daughter but a memory and a name. He did not weep; his sorrow lay too deep for tears. In his heart he was

asking pardon for the sins and follies of his youth; his face was buried in his hands, his head bowed over the

silent form of his loved child; and when the door opened gently, he never raised his eyeshe was only

conscious that some one entered the room, and walked swiftly up the gloomy, darkened chamber to the

bedside. Then a passionate wailing that chilled his very blood filled the rooms.

Some one bent over the quiet figure, clasping it in tender arms, calling with a thousand loving words upon the

dear one who lay theresome one whose voice fell like a strain of longforgotten music upon his ears. Who

but a mother could weep as she did? Who but a mother forget everything else in the abandonment of her

Before he looked up, he knew it was Dorathe mother bereft of her childthe mother clasping in her

loving arms the child she had nursed, watched, and loved for so many years. She gazed at him, and he never

The first words for many long yearsthe first since he had turned round upon her in his contempt, hoping he

She seemed to forget him then, and laid her head down upon the quiet heart; but Ronald went round to her.

He raised her in his arms, he laid the weeping face on his breast, he kissed away the blinding tears, and she

How the words smote him. They were his own recoiling upon him. How often he had refused his mother's

pleadinghardened his own heart, saying to himself and to her that he could not pardon her yethe would

forgive her in the hour of death, when either he or she stood on the threshold of eternity!

Heaven had not willed it so. The pardon he had refused was wrung from him now; and, looking at his child,

"You will forgive me, Ronald," pleaded the gentle voice, "for the love of my dead child? Do not send me

from you again. I have been very unhappy all these long years; let me stay with you now. Dear, I was beside

"I forgive you," he said, gently, "can you pardon me as easily, Dora? I have spoiled your lifeI have done

All pride, restraint, and anger were dead. He whispered loving words to his weeping wife, such as she had not

heard for years; and he could have fancied, as he did so, that a happy smile lingered on the fair face of the

No, it was but the light of a wax taper flickering over it; the strange, solemn beauty of that serene brow and

Half an hour afterward Lady Helena, trembling from the result of her experiment, entered the room. She saw

"Mother," said Lord Earle, "my wife has pardoned me. She is my own againmy comfort in sorrow."

Lady Earle touched Dora's face with her lips, and told what her errand was. They must leave the room

nowthe beautiful face of Beatrice Earle was to be hidden forever from the sight of men.

That evening was long remembered at Earlescourt; for Lady Dora thenceforward took her rightful position.

She fell at once into the spirit of the place, attending to every one and thinking of every one's comfort.

Lillian was fighting hard for her young life. She seemed in some vague way to understand that her mother

was near. Lady Dora's hand soothed and calmed her, her gentle motherly ways brought comfort and rest; but

many long days passed before Lillian knew those around her, or woke from her troubled, feverish dream.

People said afterward that no fairer day had ever been than that on which Beatrice Earle was buried. The sun

shone bright and warm, the birds were singing, the autumn flowers were in bloom, as the long procession

wound its way through the trees in the park; the leaves fell from the trees, while the long grass rustled under

Lord Earle and Hubert Airlie were together. Kindly hearts knew not which to pity the morethe father

whose heart seemed broken by his sorrow, or the young lover so suddenly bereft of all he loved best. From

far and near friends and strangers gathered to that mournful ceremony; from one to another the story flew

how beautiful she was, and how dearly the young lord had loved her, how she had wandered out of the house

They laid her to rest in the green churchyard at the foot of the hillthe burial place of the Earles.

The death bell had ceased ringing; the long white blinds of the Hall windows were drawn up; the sunshine

played once more in the rooms; the carriages of sorrowing friends were gone; the funeral was over. Of the

They told afterward how Gaspar Laurence watched the funeral procession, and how he had lingered last of all

in the little churchyard. He never forgot Beatrice; he never looked into the face of another woman with love

It was all over, and on the evening of that same day a quiet, deep sleep came to Lillian Earle. It saved her life;

the wearied brain found rest. When she awoke, the lurid light of fever died out of her eyes, and they looked in

Dora soothed her, almost dreading the time when memory should awaken in full force. It seemed partly to

"It is true, my darling," whispered her mother, gently. "Dead, but not lost to usonly gone before."

The young girl recovered very slowly. The skillful doctor in attendance upon her sad that, as soon as it was

possible to remove her, she should be carried direct from her room to a traveling carriage, taken from home,

They waited until that day came, and meanwhile Lady Dora Earle learned to esteem Lord Airlie very dearly.

He seemed to find more comfort with her than with any one else. They spoke but of one subjectthe loved,

Her secret was never known. Lord Earle and Lionel Dacre kept it faithfully. No allusion to it ever crossed

their lips. To Lord Airlie, while he lived, the memory of the girl he had loved so well was pure and

untarnished as the falling snow. Not even to her mother was the story told. Dora believed, as did every one

When Lillian grew strongerbetter able to bear the mention of her sister's nameLord Earle went to her

room one day, and, gently enough, tried to win her to speak to him of what she knew.

She told him allof her sister's sorrow, remorse, and tears; her longing to be free from the wretched snare in

which she was caught; how she pleaded with her to interfere. She told him of her short interview with the

Then the subject dropped forever. Lord Earle said nothing to her of Lionel, thinking it would be better for the

One morning, when she was able to rise and sit up for a time, Lionel asked permission to see her. Lady Dora,

She was alarmed when, as he entered the room, she saw her daughter's gentle face grow deathly pale.

"I have done wrong," she said. "Lillian is not strong enough to see visitors yet."

"Dear Lady Dora," explained Lionel, taking her hand, "I love Lillian; and she loved me before I was so

unhappy as to offend her. I have come to beg her pardon. Will you trust her with me for a few minutes?"

"Lillian," said Lionel, "I do not know in what words to beg your forgiveness. I am ashamed and humbled. I

know your sister's story, and all that you did to save her. When one was to be sacrificed, you were the victim.

"I forgive you freely," she gently answered. "I have been in the Valley of the Shadow of Death, and all

"That is another question," she said. "I can not answer it now. You did not trust me, Lionel."

Those were the only words of reproach she ever uttered to him. He did not annoy her with protestation; he

trusted that time would do for him what he saw just then he could not do for himself.

He sat down upon the couch by her side, and began to speak to her of the tour she was about to make; of the

Three days afterward Lillian started on her journey to the south of France insisted upon by the doctor. Lord

Earle and his wife took charge of their child; Lord Airlie, declaring he could not yet endure Lynnton, went

with them. Lady Helena and Lionel Dacre remained at home, in charge of the Hall and the estate.

One thing the latter had resolved uponthat, before the travelers returned, the lake should be filled up, and

No matter how great the expense and trouble, he was resolved that it should be done.

The day after the family left Earlescourt, he had workmen engaged. No one was sorry at his determination.

Lady Helena highly approved of it. The water was drained off, the deep basin filled with earth, and tall

saplings planted where once the water had glistened in the sun. The boat house was pulled down, and all

Lionel Dacre came home one evening from the works in very low spirits. Imbedded in the bottom of the lake

they had found a little slipperthe fellow to it was locked away in Dora's drawer. He saved it to give it to

Two years passed away, and the travelers thought of returning. Lillian had recovered health and strength, and,

One bright June day they were expected back. Lionel Dacre had driven to the station. Lady Earle had laid

aside her mourning dress, and sat anxiously awaiting her son. She wished the homecoming were over, and

Her wish was soon gratified. Once again she gazed upon the face of her only and beloved son. He was little

changedsomewhat sunburned, it was true; but there was less of the old pride and sternness, a kindly smile

playing round his lips. There was, too, a shade of sadness that plainly would never leave him; Lord Earle

Lady Helena looked anxiously at Dora, but there was no cause for fear. The rosy, dimpled beauty of youth

had passed away, but a staid dignity had taken its place. She looked a graceful amiable woman, with eyes of

wondrous beauty thickly veiled by long lashes, and a wealth of rippling black hair. Lady Helena thought her

far more beautiful now than when the coy smiles and dimples had been the chief charm. She admired, too, the

perfect and easy grace with which Dora fell at once into her proper place as mistress of that vast

The pretty, musical voice was trained and softened; the delicate, refined accent retained no trace of

provincialism. Everything about Dora pleased the eye and gratified the taste; the girlish figure had grown

matronly and dignified; the sweet face had in it a tinge of sadness one may often see in the face of a mother

who has lost a child. Lady Helena, fastidious and critical, could find no fault with her son's wife.

She welcomed her warmly, giving up to her, in her own graceful way, all rule and authority. Helping her if in

any way she required it, but never interfering, she made Dora respected by the love and esteem she always

But it was on Lillian's face that Lady Helena gazed most earnestly. The pallor of sickness had given way to a

rosy and exquisite bloom. The fair, sweet face in its calm loveliness seemed to her perfect, the violet eyes

were full of light. Looking at her, Lady Helena believed there were years of life in store for Ronald's only

There was much to talk about. Lord Earle told his mother how Hubert Airlie had gone home to Lynnton,

unable to endure the sight of Earlescourt. He had never regained his spirits. In the long years to come it was

possible, added Ronald, that Lord Airlie might marry, for the sake of his name; but if ever the heart of living

Lionel Dacre knew he had done wisely and well to have the bed of the lake filled up. In the morning he saw

how each member of the family shrank from going out into the grounds. He asked Lord Earle to accompany

him, and then the master of Earlescourt saw that the deep, cruel water no longer shimmered amid the trees.

Lionel let him bring his wife and daughter to see what had been done; and they turned to the author of it with

grateful eyes, thanking him for the kind thought which had spared their feelings. Green trees flourished now

on the spot where the water had glistened in the sun; birds sang in their branches, green grass and ferns grew

Yet among the superstitious, strange stories were told. They said that the wind, when it rustled among those

trees, wailed with a cry like that of one drowning, that the leaves shivered and trembled as they did on no

other branches; that the stirring of them resembled deepdrawn sighs. They said flowers would never grow in

As much as possible the interior arrangements of Earlescourt had been altered. Lillian had rooms prepared for

her in the other wing; those that had belonged to her hapless sister were left undisturbed. Lady Dora kept the

key; it was known when she had been visiting them; the dark eyes bore traces of weeping.

Beatrice had not been forgotten and never would be. Her name was on Lillian's lips a hundred times each

day. They had been twin sisters, and it always seemed to her that part of herself lay in the church yard at the

Gaspar Laurence had gone abroadhe could not endure the sight or name of home. Lady Laurence hoped

that time would heal a wound that nothing else could touch. When, after some years, he did return, it was

seen that his sorrow would last for life. He never marriedhe never cared for the name of any woman save

A week after their return, Lillian Earle stood one evening watching from the deep oriel window the sun's last

rays upon the flowers. Lionel joined her, and she knew from his face that he had come to ask the question she

"I have done penance, Lillian," he said, "if ever man has. For two years I have devoted time, care, and

thought to those you love, for your sake; for two years I have tried night and day to learn, for your sake, to

become a better man. Do not visit my fault too heavily upon me. I am hasty and passionateI doubted you

who were true and pure; but, Lillian, in the loneliness and sorrow of these two years I have suffered bitterly

for my sin. I know you are above all coquetry. Tell me, Lillian, will you be my wife?"

She gave him the answer he longed to hear, and Lionel Dacre went straight to Lord Earle. He was

delightedit was the very marriage upon which he had set his heart years before. Lady Dora was delighted,

too; she smiled more brightly over it than she had smiled since the early days of her married life. Lady

Helena rejoiced when they told her, although it was not unexpected news to her, for she had been Lionel's

There was no reason why the marriage should be delayed; the June roses were blooming then, and it was

There were to be no grand festivitiesno one had heart for them; the wedding was to be quiet, attended only

by a few friends; and Lord Earle succeeded in obtaining a promise from Lionel which completely set his

heart at rest. It was that he would never seek another homethat he and Lillian would consent to live at

"It will be your home, Lionel," he said, "in the course of after years. Make it so now. We shall be one

So it was arranged, much to everybody's delight. A few days before the wedding took place, a letter came

which seemed to puzzle Lord Earle very much. He folded it without speaking, but, when breakfast was over,

"Dora," he said, "there will never be any secrets between us for the future. I want you to read this letterit is

from Valentine Charteris that was, Princess Borgezi that is. She is in England, at Greenoke, and asks

She took the letter from him and read it through; the noble heart of the woman spoke in every line, yet in

some vague way Dora dreaded to look again upon the calm, grand beauty of Valentine's face.

"Have no fear, Dora, in saying just what you think," said her husband; "I would not have our present

happiness clouded for the world. One word will sufficeif you do not quite like the thought, I will write to

But Dora would not be outdone in magnanimity. With resolute force, she cast from her every unworthy

"Let her come, Ronald," she said, raising her clear, dark eyes to his. "I shall be pleased to see her. I owe her

He was unfeignedly pleased, and so was every one else. Lady Helena alone felt some little doubts as to

The Princess Borgezi was to come alone; she had not said at what hour they might expect her.

Lady Dora had hardly understood why her thoughts went back so constantly to her lost child. Beatrice had

loved the beautiful, gracious woman who was coming to visit them. It may have been that which prompted

her, on the day before Lillian's marriage, when the house was alive with the bustle and turmoil of preparation,

to go to the silent, solitary rooms where her daughter's voice had once made sweetest music.

She was there alone for some time; it was Lord Earle who found her, and tried to still her bitter weeping.

"It is useless, Ronald," she cried; "I can not help asking why my bright, beautiful darling should be lying

Nothing would comfort her but a visit to her daughter's grave. It was a long walk, but she preferred taking it

alone. She said she should feel better after it. They yielded to her wish. Before she had quitted the house

There was no restraint in Ronald's greeting. He was heartily glad to see herglad to look once more on the

lovely Grecian face that had seemed to him, years ago, the only model for Queen Guinivere. They talked for

They told her whither she had gone; and Lady Helena whispered something to her with brought tears to

"Yes," she said; "I will follow her. I will ask her to kiss me over her daughter's grave."

Some one went with her to point out the way, but Valentine entered the church yard alone.

Through the thick green foliage she saw the shining of the white marble cross, and the dark dress of Dora,

She went up to her. Her footsteps, falling noiselessly on the soft grass, were unheard by the weeping mother.

Valentine knelt by her side. Dora, looking up, saw the calm face beaming down upon her, ineffable

tenderness in the clear eyes. She felt the clasp of Valentine's arms, and heard a sweet voice whisper:

"Dora, I have followed you here to ask you to try to love me, and to pardon me for my share in your unhappy

past. For the love of your dead, who loved me, bury here all difference and dislike."

She could not refuse. For the first time, Lord Earle's wife laid her head upon that noble woman's shoulder and

Over the grave of a child the two women were reconciledall dislike, jealousy, and envy died away forever.

In the aftertime there was something remarkable in Dora's reverential love for Valentine. Lord Earle often

said that in his turn he was jealous of her. His wife had no higher ideal, no truer friend than the Princess

The wedding day dawned at last; and for a time all trace of sadness was hidden away. Lord Earle would have

it so. He said that that which should be the happiest day of Lillian's life must not be clouded. Such sad

thoughts of the lost Beatrice as came into the minds of those who had loved her remained unspoken.

The summer sun never shone upon a more lovely bride, nor upon a fairer scene than that wedding. The pretty

Side by side at the altar stood Lady Dora Earle and Valentine. People said afterward they could not decide

whom they admired mostLady Helena's stately magnificence, Dora's sweet, simple elegance, or the

Lord Earle had prepared a surprise for Dora. When the little wedding party returned from the church, the first

to greet them was Stephen Thorne, now a whiteheaded old man, and his wife. The first to show them all

honor and respect were Lord Earle and his mother. Valentine was charmed with their homely simplicity.

For months after they returned to Knutsford the old people talked of "the lady with the beautiful face, who

Lord Airlie did not attend the wedding, but he had urged Lionel to spend his honeymoon at Lynnton Hall,

So they drove away when the wedding breakfast was over. A hundred wishes for their happiness following

them, loving words ringing after them. Relatives, friends, and servants had crowded round them; and Lillian's

courage gave way at last. She turned to Lionel, as though praying him to shorten their time of parting.

"Heaven bless you, my darling!" whispered Dora to her child. "And mind, nevercome what maynever

"Goodbye, Lionel," said Lord Earle, clasping the true, honest hand in his; "and, if ever my little darling here

Ten years had passed since the wedding bells chimed for the marriage of Lillian Earle. New life had come to

Earlescourt. Children's happy voices made music there; the pattering of little feet sounded in the large, stately

The years had passed as swiftly and peacefully as a happy dream. One event had happened which had

saddened Lord Earle for a few daysthe death of the pretty, coquettish Countess Rosali. She had nor

forgotten him; there came to him from her sorrowing husband a ring which she had asked might be given to

Gaspar Laurence was still abroad, and there was apparently no likelihood of his return. The Princess Borgezi

with her husband and children, had paid several visits to the Hall. Valentine had one pretty little daughter,

upon whom Lionel's son was supposed to look with most affection. She had other daughtersthe eldest, a

tall, graceful girl, inherited her father's Italian face and dark, dreamy eyes. Strange to say, she was not unlike

Beatrice. It may have been that circumstance which first directed Lord Airlie's attention to her. He met her at

Earlescourt, and paid her more attention than he had paid to any one since he had loved so unhappily years

No one was much surprised when he married her. And Helena Borgezi made a good wife. She knew his

story, and how much of his heart lay in the grave of his lost love. He was kind, gentle, and affectionate to her,

and Helena valued his thoughtful, faithful attachment more than she would have valued the deepest and most

One room at Lynnton was never unlocked; strange feet never entered it; curious eyes never looked round it. It

was the pretty boudoir built, but never furnished, for Hubert Airlie's first love.

Time softened his sorrow; his fair, gentle wife was devoted to him, blooming children smiled around him; but

he never forgot Beatrice. In his dreams, at times, Helena heard her name on his lips; but she was not jealous

of the dead. No year passed in which she did not visit the grave where Beatrice Earle slept her last long sleep.

Dora seemed to grow young again with Lillian's children. She nursed and tended them. Lady Helena, with

zealous eyes, looked after Bertrand, the future lord of Earlescourt, a brave, noble boy, his father's pride and

Lillian's torment and delight, who often said he was richer than any other lad in the country, for he had three

The sun was setting over the fair broad lands of Earlescourt, the western sky was all aflame; the flowers were

Out in the rose garden, where long ago a love story had been told, were standing a group that an artist would

Lionel had some choice roses in bloom, and after dinner the whole party had gone out to see them. Lady

Helena Earle was seated on the garden chair whereon Beatrice had once sat listening to the words which had

Looking on them with pleased eyes was a gentle, graceful lady. Her calm, sweet face had a story in it, the

wondrous dark eyes had in them a shadow as of some sorrow not yet lived down. Lady Dora Earle was

happy; the black clouds had passed away. She was her husband's best friend, his truest counselor; and Ronald

had forgotten that she was ever spoken of as "lowly born." The dignity of her character, acquired by long

years of stern discipline, asserted itself; no one in the whole country side was more loved or respected than

Ronald, Lord Earle, was lying on the grass at his wife's feet. He looked older, and the luxuriant hair was

The words were true. Ten years married, they were lovers yet. There was gentle forbearance on one side, an

earnest wish to do right on the other. Lillian Dacre never troubled her head about "woman's rights;" she had

no idea of trying to fill her husband's place; if her opinion on voting was asked, the chances were that she

would smile and say, "Lionel manages all those matters." Yet in her own kingdom she reigned supreme; her

actions were full of wisdom, he words were full of kindly thought. The quiet, serene beauty of her youth had

developed into that of magnificent womanhood. The fair, spirituelle face was peerless in her husband's eyes.

There was no night or day during which Lionel Dacre did not thank Heaven for that crown of all great gifts, a

There was a stir among the children; a tall, dark gentleman was seen crossing the lawn, and Lionel cried:

"Here is Gaspar Laurence with his arms full of toysthose children will be completely spoiled!"

The little ones rushed forward, and Bertrand, in his hurry, fell over a pretty child with large dark eyes and

"Bertie, my boy," he said, "always be kind to little Beatrice!" The child clasped her arms round his neck. He

The summer wind that played among the roses, lifting the golden, rippling hair from Lillian's forehead and

tossing her little girl's curls into Lord Earle's face, was singing a sweet, low requiem among the trees that