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This text has been proofread but is not guaranteed to be free from errors. Corrections to the original text have been left in place.
Title: The Heiress of Hilldrop, an electronic edition
Author: Brame, Charlotte M., 1836-1884
Publisher: F.M.Lupton
Place published: New York
Date: 1893
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Front Cover of The Heiress of Hilldrop by Charlotte M. BraemeBack Cover of The Heiress of Hilldrop by Charlotte M. BraemeTHE HEIRESS OF HILLDROP
By CHARLOTTE M. BRAEME.
CHAPTER I."WHAT are the bells ringing for, Sinclair?" asked Miss Trafford, as she bent her head to listen. "I have not heard them ring so merrily for many years.""They are joy-bells, ma'am," was the maid's answer."Surely in this sorrowful world little happens that should cause joy-bells to ring!""Pleasant things do happen at times, ma'am," urged the maid."Yes, yes; I do not suppose everyone to be old and gray and broken-hearted Tell me why the bells are ringing.""You will not be pleased when you hear the reason, ma'am You do not like us to speak of such things to you.""I wish to know now," said Miss Trafford, firmly. "Because I disliked a thing yesterday, it does not follow that I should dislike it to-day.""Certainly not, ma'am," answered the maid, "Well, since you wish to know I will tell you—the vicar's wife, Mrs. Darrell, had a little daughter this mornin'."A profound silence followed this announcement. A curious quiver passed over Miss Trafford's faded face, and, when the spoke again, there was a strange ring in her voice."Is it possible," she asked, "that anyone can be found anxious to have joy-bells rung because another unfortunate human being is born into this world of misery?""It is not a world of misery to all who live in it, ma'am," returned the maid."Ah, true-true! Some are fair, young, and happy. It is well to be born with a fair face. I would rather have been beautiful than have had a large fortune, Sinclair.""I would rather not, ma'am. 'Beauty is fleeting, but gold is lasting,'" quoted the maid."A fair face—a fair face!" murmured Miss Trafford. "I lost all that life held most dear because of one. Sinclair. I wonder if the child for whom those bells are ringing has a fair face?""Most likely, ma'am," answered the maid, carelessly; "the vicar and his wife are both good looking."Again there was a silence, and, when Miss Trafford broke It once more, her face and voice had changed."Sinclair." she said, " how many years is it since I saw a little child?""More than I care to count, ma'am," was the brief reply."It must be twenty. It is twenty years since I went out into the world, twenty years since I saw a child. I loved children long ago. No doubt it is a foolish fancy; but I should like to see a little child once again."The maid laughed as she replied."It is a foolish fancy, ma'am.""Ah me, how different my whole life would have been if I had but had a child to love me and to love!" exclaimed Miss Trafford. Then she added, abruptly, "Sinclair, I should like to see this little girl who was born to-day-born on this bright May day. That should augur well for her. I should certainly like to see her."The maid looked up in wonder."Why, ma'am," she said, "you have not been outside the Priory gates for twenty years?""No; and I may never go again. It seems a foolish wish, I know; but my heart yearns for the sight of a child's face, and I shall know no rest until I have seen one.""Then why not have your wish, ma'am?" said the maid."I will. I will go to the Vicarage and see the little baby girl. It Is twenty years since the carriage was locked away in the coach-house. and since Johnson has driven me out. Now tell him to prepare the carriage and put to the horses, for I want to go at once. Do it quickly, Sinclair, lest I should change my mind."It caused a great sensation in Hilldrop Priory when it became known that its mistress, after twenty years' seclusion, was going out. The grooms, who had grown stout during their life of idleness, hoped devoutly that Miss Trafford was not going to take to active ways again. The maids were pleased, for the prospect of any break in the dull monotony of their existence was welcome to them. And all the commotion was caused by the fact that the mistress of Hilldrop Priory was going out for the first time for twenty years—that she had yielded to a longing to look once more upon the face of a child.Comparatively old, Miss Trafford was yet the survivor of a tragedy—a woman the light of whose life had died long since, yet from whose heart all traces of love had not been entirely obliterated. There are many sad love stories in the world, some of men's treachery, some of women's folly.The story of Philippa Trafford—not a long story—was one that told of the inconstancy of men, how a human heart was broken and a life wrecked.She was the only child of all old sea-captain, with whom she lived near the great naval station of Portsmouth. Her mother was dead. and her only relative was a distant cousin, who resided at Hilldrop Priory. At eighteen she fell in love with a handsome young soldier, a captain in one of the regiments then stationed at Portsmouth. No one could understand why Captain Marcus Hill had chosen Philippa Trafford. She was no beauty: she had neither loveliness of face nor comeliness of figure. Her eyes were fine, and she had a profusion of rich, dark hair—there her beauty ended. Added to her plainness of face, she was shy in manner, and often awkward in gesture: but she had an artist's soul and a loving, trusting heart. She had none of the graceful allurements of pretty girlhood: she had no sweet musical voice no merry girlish laugh; but there were times when the plain face grew positively beautiful under the influence of passionate emotion. Perhaps Marcus Hill had found out the nobility of heart and soul that lay beneath the plain exterior, for certainly he loved her with a great love, and had chosen her from 


among a bevy of pretty girls. She had no fortune, no high connections; she could in no way advance his material interests in life: nevertheless he had chosen her, and paid her all the attentions of the most devoted lover. He had asked her to be his wife and, although no particular time had been appointed for their marriage, their engagement was a well-known fact.Philippa's father was well pleased with the engagement; but he would not hear of an early marriage. Philippa was not nineteen, and nothing, he declared, marred ,a young man's prospects so much as an early an improvident marriage. They must wait a few years and see what time did for them. Captain Trafford had no money to leave his daughter, and Captain Marcus Hill had little beyond his regimental pay. So the lovers agreed to wait.Captain Hill spent all his leisure time with his betrothed. Nothing could be more sincere than his great affection of her."How can you love me so much, Marcus?" she said to him one day. "I have neither beauty nor grace.""You have both in my eyes," was his answer. "There may be women who are fairer, but I cannot see it. To me you are beautiful because I love you.""But," she asked, as they passed a group of pretty girls, "do you never contrast me with others, Marcus?"If I do, it is to your advantage," he replied. "I see no beauty in anyone but you, Philippa.""I ought to be content—I am content," she said; Rod there was a rapture of delight in her voice. "I am the happiest girl in the world." And she believed it. Her handsome young lover was all that her heart desired, and for one whole year she was perfectly happy.While she lived she retained a vivid remembrance of that year that was full of half pleasure, half-pain—a dream of golden sunsets, of quiet moonlit evenings. Nothing pleased the young soldier better than rowing his lady-love about on the summer-sea, taking her far from the shore and talking of his love for her amidst the plash of the waves.The golden hours passed all too soon, for orders came for Captain Hill's regiment to go India."Never mind the few years' absence," said Captain Trafford to the young soldier; "it means promotion to you."The question was once raised as to whether the marriage should take place before Marcus Hill set sail; but the old sea-captain would not hear of it. He repeated that it would mar the young soldier's career; therefore no more was said about it.At length the day came when the two lovers had to say farewell; and a trying time it was for them. Their only consolation lay in the knowledge that there was no shadow of doubt in the heart of either. They had implicit faith in each other and their faith was strengthened by the intensity of their love.So the vessel sailed away, and Philippa Trafford went back to her father's house, there to wait patiently until her lover returned. With his departure it seemed to her as though the light had gone from the sun, and all gladness from the earth. During the first year of her lover's absence an important event occurred. The distant cousin whom neither father nor daughter knew died, and left Hilldrop Priory, with four thousand pounds per annum, to Philippa Trafford.There could have been no greater surprise than this to the old captain and his daughter. They had never seen the cousin who had lived at the Priory, and neither father nor daughter had thought it possible that she might remember them in her will; and what seemed equally strange to them was the fact that the money and estate should be left to the daughter rather than to the father.When Philippa heard that she was heiress of Hilldrop Priory her first sensation was one of acute pain that such good fortune had not befallen her before.Marcus need never have gone in search of honor and fortune could we have foreseen this," she said, bitterly.But her father would not agree with her."It will do him good, Philippa. Hardships bring out all that is noble in a young man's character. It is all for the best."But Philippa could not see it. Her inheritance and her large fortune were as nothing to her unless Marcus shared them. She wrote to him, telling him the news, adding that she would derive no happiness from her wealth unless he were with her; and she gave him at the same time a delicate hint that, if he would retire from the service and return hone, she would have nothing left to wish for. But the young soldier resisted the temptation. He had to win his spurs, to gain honor and distinction; and to return to England to marry a rich woman and live upon her money did not seem to him a very heroic proceeding. He told her frankly that, since they had gone through the pain of parting, and he was in India, he would stay there for a time a least, in the hope of making a name for himself; then, after a few years of service he should feel justified in returning to share her wealth.If that letter grieved Philippa Trafford, she never said so. She respected the sentiments of the writer; she admired him all the more for his independence; but her love was just a little wounded, her heart a little sore. She said to herself that he might have served his queen and his country at home. He might have found ample occupation in superintending her large estate; he might have gone into Parliament; still, if he preferred the army in India, she would not interfere.That was the first chill that came over the glowing warmth of her love.Father and daughter took possession of Hilldrop; and a magnificent place they found it. To Philippa Trafford it all seemed like a dream—the change from a six-roomed house to Hilldrop, from an income of two hundred to four thousand pounds per annum, was so great.It was not long before the old captain and his daughter were as perfectly at home in the grand roomy mansion as they had been in their small house. The captain had known little of the luxuries of life, and to find himself master of a well-stocked cellar, and with a comfortable carriage to drive out in was something marvellous to him. He lived for three years after his removal to the Priory, and at his death was buried in the church-yard at Ravelston. When he lay dying it was at the close of a bright July day—Philippa, who was kneeling by his side, faithful and loving to him to the last, bent over him and said: "Papa, shall I send for Marcus now? I shall be alone in the world when you are gone."The dying man raised his eyes to hers, and regarded her for a moment with a look of mingled love and pity."No," he answered; "do not send for him, Philippa. Let him finish his career out there. When he comes, let it be of his own free will. Do not send."Once more she gave her lover a delicate hint in her letters that, as she was now all alone, she would be so happy when he returned. She told him of the old man's death and funeral, and added, "Now I have nothing to do but wait for you, love—wait for you." And she did wait for him, as hundreds of brave and faithful women have waited before for the men they loved.All the news that came to her from India was good. Marcus Hill told greatly distinguished himself by his valor, and his valuable service had been rewarded. He was Major Hill now, and there was hope of still further preferment for him."Do not spoil your career for me," she wrote to him. "But I am all alone, and, oh, my love, I shall be so happy when you come back!"The words did not hasten his return by one hour.Philippa was nineteen when her lover sailed for India; she was was twenty-nine when he returned, and during all that time she had thought of no one but him. She had had several offers of marriage. As is often the case with plain girls, she became handsomer as she grew older, and at twenty-nine she was a fine-looking woman. But, though she had many eligible suitors for her hand, there was only one man in the world for her.For ten years she had waited patiently for her lover's return; and now he was coming home. He had written to say that he should be in England toward the end of June, and that he should come straight to her. The letter was written just before he started, and it told her also how he counted the hours that must elapse before he saw her, how he thanked and blessed her for her long, patient love, and how happy they would be together. When she read it the loving, faithful woman wept happy tears; and that letter she kept next to her heart.CHAPTER II.PHILIPPA TRAFFORD was standing among the roses and lilies of her garden when the letter came which told her that her that her lover would be at Hilldrop on the twenty-third of June. When she had read it, she kissed it and stood for some minutes in silence. Her face had grown pale as a lily and almost beautiful it its tremulous happiness. The bright sunlight played around her, the summer wind gently stirred the green leaves; in this, the supreme moment of her life, when her long, and faithful love was to be crowned at last, her heart went up in gratitude to Heaven.Great as was her happiness, she yet wanted sympathy, and for this site sought her maid. She walked slowly back to the house, and, ringing for Sinclair, told her that the friend from India whom she had been so long expecting would be with her on the twenty third.The maid's face flushed and tears came into her eyes. She showed more emotion than her mistress had done."Then, Miss Philippa," she said, "If you will forgive me, we may hope to have a wedding soon?"Philippa Trafford's face grew radiantly bright as she answered:"Yes"It was touching to see the calm content that made the plain face of Philippa Trafford almost beautiful. There was a glad look in her eyes, a brightness in her smile that was never see again."Call use early to-morrow, Sinclair." said Miss Trafford, on the eve of the twenty-third; and the maid smiled."You will be up with the sun, miss," she said.And so it happened. There was no need to call her from her slumbers on the day that her lover was corning home. She had parted from him with tears—Heaven only knew how bitter; she would meet him with smiles. She had parted from him in the simple little parlor at home, clad in a dress of plain serge; she would meet him on the threshold of a magnificent mansion, clad in velvet.Ah, the dark, wistful eyes that looked into the mirror as she dressed to receive him! Her maid never thought of them afterwards, without tears. Philippa had chosen a black velvet dress—a dress that suited her well—with a few choice pearl ornaments.Do I look as well as I can be made to look, Sinclair?" she asked, anxiously."You look young and handsome, miss," was the consolatory reply; and Miss Trafford was comforted.It was a still, hot, and drowsy noon. Miss Trafford had gone to the drawing-room to give it those last touches which should make it beautiful in his eyes, and she was there when he arrived. As had happened in her dreams a hundred times, she heard a loud peal at the bell, then there was a brief silence, then the closing of the hall-door. There was another pause, followed by the foot steps of a servant hastening along the corridor. It seemed to her as though she had gone through it all before. She stood up, calm and erect, but her hands were tightly locked and burned feverishly. The footman announced him—"Major Hill." The only point in which the reality differed was this. In her dreams he had rushed into the room, caught her in his arms, and kissed her with passionate kisses; now he did not hasten into the room—the footman stood waiting."Show Major Hill in here," she said, in a clear, calm voice.She controlled the passionate beating of her heart, she kept back the cry of joy that, rose to her lips. This was the moment for which she had waited ten long years, and it had come at last.A tall, bronzed, and bearded man entered the room. There was no trace of the fair-haired, laughing young fellow in this stalwart, handsome man. She did not wait to notice his manner, but flew to his arms. For a moment, she could not utter a sound either of welcome or of joy: but she threw her arms around his neck, and laid her head on his breast. At last—at last!"I—I can hardly speak to you," she gasped, "the joy of seeing you is so great. A thousand times welcome home!"He drew her nearer to him and kissed her; but it was not with the fond kiss of her dream. Then, quite suddenly she raised her head and looked him straight in the face. What she saw there who shall say? But her own grew white and cool, her arms fell nerveless by her side, a long, low moan came from her lips. He moved uneasily; his eyes fell before her steady gaze."I—I knew you would find it out," he said; but, Philippa, I could not help it—it was not my fault. I knew those clear eyes of yours would read my secret at once."All the color left her cheeks, she seemed suddenly to have grown old and haggard. It needed but one look to tell her that he had ceased to love her."Tell me all about it," she said, huskily; "be quick, that I may know the worst.""Philippa," he began, "I have come back to marry you—if you will."A rush of color swept over her face, a deep sigh broke from her lips. Ah, then it was not so bad."To marry me!" she echoed. "Then what is it?""Let us talk quietly. Philippa," he said, gently. "Let me bring a chair for you; I have much to tell you.""You have come home to marry me?" she questioned."Yes, if you will consent, after hearing what I have to say.""Say it quickly!" she cried.She wrung her hands, her whole frame quivered with impatience. He seemed unwilling or unable to speak, while she, in her desperate anxiety, felt she could have forced the words from his lips. At last he led her to a chair, and stood beside her."In your presence, Philippa," he said, "I feel myself a recreant, a coward.""I have been true to you," she returned, in a low, dull voice, curiously unlike her own; "for the whole ten years I have lived for you, and you only.""I know it, and it is that which makes me mis-

erable. If you were less noble, less true, I could tell you more easily."For souse minutes it seemed to him as though she were distraught. She rose from her seat and, standing in front of him, placed her trembling hands on his shoulders, and looked searchingly into his face.Is it really you, Marcus, come back to me? I seem to be awaking from a dream. Ten years is a long time and I have wished for you through every day of it! I have pictured this scene a hundred times—how you would hasten to take me its your arms, how you would rain kisses on my cheek. But it is all so different, and I seem to be awaking from a heavy sleep."The sight of her anguish brought tears into his eyes. Gently and kindly he placed her in her chair again."I will tell you all that has happened to me," he said, "and you shall decide my fate. If, when you have heard it, you say 'Yes,' we will be married."She looked at him with haggard eyes."I know," she faltered—"I know what you are going to tell me. I read it your eyes. You have learned to love another!""That is my misfortune, Philippa," he replied, moodily."Then it is true?" she exclaimed."It is perfectly true," he answered, with a sigh.She clasped her hands with a gesture of wild despair."You are going to tell me about it," she said hoarsely. "Wait for a few minutes. I shall hear it soon enough, and I shall hear nothing afterward." She put up her hands as though to ward off a blow, "Just a few minutes," she went on. "I have waited ten years—for this! Let use try to forget if only for a moment, that my lover is false, and only remember that you are here." She sat silent for sometime, then quite suddenly she turned her face to his. "Do you remember that one year," she asked, before you went away, how happy we were? Do you remember the many sunsets we watched over the sea.""Heaven help me, I do," he answered with a groan."Do you remember," she continued, "how you would row me out to sea to tell me how much you loved me, and how we used to cross the fields on Sunday morning while the church-bells were ringing, and you would tell use how merrily they should ring on our wedding-day?"I remember, Philippa," he replied."For ten years," she went on passionately, "I have waited for you and lived for you—for you alone. For you I have made my home beautiful; to please you," she added, with unconscious pathos, "I chose my prettiest dress to-day. I have prayed for you every morning, and every night—indeed my life has been one long prayer for you. Now—now," she added, in a changed voice, "tell me what you have to say."Major Hill hardly glanced round the tastefully furnished room in which he found himself. The pictures, the flowers, the ornaments had no attraction for him; his eyes could not leave the pale tortured face of the woman who loved him. He was ashamed, and hesitated to tell his story; yet something seemed to urge him on."Philippa," he began, "I have faced death almost as often as any man; I have been in the midst of perils that would have made even the bravest quail; but I have never known fear until now.""And you are afraid of me!" she exclaimed."You are right; I am afraid of you," he returned, because, I have
injured you deeply. Let me tell you, Philippa, I had every intention
of being true to you. During the ten years that I was in India I do
not believe that one thought of mine ever swerved from you. My
profession was everything to me; its details occupied my mind to the
complete exclusion of everything but yourself. I never cared for
balls, parties, picnics, or flirtation; I never sought young girls'
society. It was well known to all my fellow-officers that I was
engaged to be married. During the whole ten years I had not, I assure
you, Philippa, on the honor of a gentleman, even the least approach to
a flirtation. My heart was true to you, so were my thoughts. I had no
other plan in life, no other desire, than to come house and marry you
 and be happy. I dreamed of you waiting for me in this beautiful home of yours, and I was glad when the time came for me to return. It is hard for a man to confess to a weakness: I am ashamed to own mine. I went on board the P. and O. steamer which was to bring us home, thinking only of you. There was a girl on board—"He saw her start; but, as she made no remark, he continued, with a hot flush:"A girl who was called Belle—a most beautiful creature. Her hair shone like gold, her eyes were blue as the waters of an Italian lake, her mouth was perfect, and to see her lips was to covet a kiss from them. She had a voice that was soft, sweet, and clear, and a laugh that stirred a man's pulses.""The very opposite of me," she said, in a low, pained voice; and he was quite unconscious of his cruelty when he answered, eagerly:"Yes.""Philippa," he continued, "I had no thought of treachery to you; but the moment my eyes rested on that girl's face I fell madly in love with her; and then, when I experienced the fever, the passion of love, I knew that I had never really loved you. The fierce love I had for this girl differed from my calm affection for you, as a seething torrent differs front a softly rippling brook. Do not think I yielded without a struggle. No man ever fought a harder fight with himself than I did, but I might as well have stood on the shore and bidden the waves recede as the tide rolled in, as try to quench the ardent love that consumed me. And my love was returned. I found out by accident that, she loved me—I need not tell you how—and, but for that discovery I should never have breathed a word to her of my passion. Oh, Philippa, only those who have loved can form ever so faint an idea—""You loved her as I loved you," interrupted Philippa, and he moved uneasily."Yes, such was the case. When I found that she loved me, I told her about you, Philippa—that I was engaged to marry you, that you had waited ten years for me; and she wept until I thought her heart would break. 'What shall we do?' she asked me. 'Would she—this woman who loves you—die, do you think, if you left her?' I answered 'No'—that I hoped not.""No," broke in Philippa, with a low bitter laugh; "I shall not die. My happiness, my love will die; but not myself."She will not die,' Belle said; 'but I am sure I shall.' Philippa," he went on, with some embarrassment, "it was Belle who sent me to you. She said, 'The woman who loves you, Marcus, is good and noble. She loves you more than herself; she values your happiness more than she values her own. Go to her, tell her how dearly we love each other, and ask her to set you free.' That was Belle's message to you, Philippa.""Belle's message!" she repeated, with a bitter laugh. "And you—what of you?""I leave my fate in your hands. Philippa. If you say that I must keep my promise and marry you, I will do so, even should it cause the death of Belle. If you give me my freedom, I shall say that you are the most generous of women.""You want me to sacrifice myself," she said, with a hard, cold
voice."I want you, Philippa, to do just as you will," he answered. "If you wish it, I will keep to my engagement, and we will be married; but I am afraid we should not be happy. It—it grieves me to utter the words—I love Belle, and life would never be tolerable to me without her.""And if I give you what you ask," she said—"your freedom?"She saw how his face brightened at the word, and her heart died within her.I shall marry Belle, and we shall both be your true friends, and bless you for your generosity while we live.""You my true friend!" she exclaimed scornfully. "A false lover can never be a true friend. If we part, it is forever. There call be no looking back, no pretence of friendship; we part forever."But the "forever" which would part him from Philippa would give him Belle. and that thought shone plainly enough in his eyes.""I might have deceived you, Philippa," he said; "I might have come back to you, and kept my love for Belle secret; but you have the right to know and to judge, to decide what is best."Ten long years had she waited and watched—all for this! She had prayed and labored and loved—all for this!"I almost wish that you had deceived me," she said, with a despairing gesture, "and that I had died before I knew the truth.""I hate myself for the pain I have inflicted on you," he said huskily.How old is she Marcus?" asked Philippa. "I am twenty-nine, that is old, quite old; and I am ugly, too. How old is she?""Nineteen," he replied; and his face crimsoned."Nineteen! " she repeated. "That was my age when you went away. She is young and beautiful. Alas, alas, what chance have I?" She stood up before him and looked earnestly into the face that had been her loadstar for years. "I will give you your freedom," she said; "I cannot do otherwise. You force me, after a fashion, to sign my own death-warrant—I sign it. You are free!"He stepped forward to clasp her hands; but she drew back with a haughty gesture."Nay," she cried, "spare me that! Do not let me see how pleased you are. It would only add to the cruelty. Show some little regret. You might affect some little sorrow after all these year's."He quailed before the passion in her face and voice."Heaven knows I do regret it," he said, earnestly. "I would give up all I had in the world rather than pain you.""Except your inclination and your fancy. You are free. To my lover, Marcus Hill, I bid an eternal farewell; to you, Major Hill, soon happily to wed a fair young bride, I bid good-day."She turned away, and would have left the room without further remark, but he followed her crying:"Philippa, do not leave me in that fashion! Bid me a kind farewell. I cannot bear that we should part thus, after all these years."She raised her miserable face to his."How can I ?" she asked, coldly. "I gave you my love, and you have broken my heart; must I thank you for that? For ten years I have waited for your home-coming, and now you have deserted me for a fairer, fresher face. You must go. Do not ask me for kindness. Even men do not kiss the hand that smites them.""Oh, Philippa," he implored, "stay one minute!""No," she answered, hurriedly, "it will be better not. In spite of the wrong you have done me, I love you so dearly that, if I remain here, where I can see and hear you, I shall be unable to conceal the anguish I feel. I have so much to say to you, so much to show you, but that will not interest you now. I was anxious to show you how everything had been arranged for you—for you only: My servants are preparing dinner for you; I must stop them. I must go from you now, and you are free to return to the girl with the golden hair and blue eyes."She had reached the door by this time; and he was so paralyzed by her passionate outburst that he was powerless to speak."Good-by," she said. "I pass out of your life forever; but remember that no other woman will love you as I have done. Good-by!"The next moment she had closed the door, and he was alone. Never did man feel more miserable, contemptible, base. He despised himself for the part he had played, yet he was so completely under the spell of blue-eyed Belle, that he could not resist the love that held him in thrall.He waited some minutes to see if she would return, or send any message; then he took up his hat and went; and Hilldrop Priory saw Major Hill no more.CHAPTER III.HALF an hour later the bell from Miss Trafford's room rung, and was answered by her maid. No one had seen Major Hill leave the house, and the servants believed that he was still in the drawing-room with Miss Trafford. When, therefore, Sinclair entered her mistress' room, and saw her standing there deathly white, and with a cold hard expression on her face, she was shocked and astonished."Are you ill, miss?" she asked, anxiously."No; I rang for you. I want to say a few words. There will be no wedding. No master will ever come to Hilldrop Priory. Let all the preparations be stopped at once, and do not let a word of all that is said reach me." She turned away so that Sinclair could not see her face. "Go down-stairs at once and give the necessary instructions," added Miss Trafford, in a low voice, and without looking round; "and yon need not return until I ring."Sinclair carried out her mistress' orders, spreading wonder and consternation among the whole household."They have quarrelled and parted." said one and all. "Poor Miss Trafford!"Sinclair waited anxiously for the sound of the bell, but it never rang; and. when night came and there had been no summons, she grew alarmed. She ventured to disobey the orders she had received, and took some tea up-stairs. She knocked at the door, but there was no response. She went in without further delay, feeling frightened and distressed. Miss Trafford was just where she had left her in the afternoon, and there was the same set expression on her white face, the same proud look in the eyes."I told you not to come until I rang," she said, haughtily; "and I have not rung.""I could not help it, miss. I hope yon will not be angry with me: I have listened for hours for the sound of the bell, and I had grown frightened."" There is nothing to fear," returned Miss Trafford, coldly. "I will drink the tea. You need not return: I shall want nothing more until tomorrow morning."In vain did the maid plead to remain with her; Miss Trafford was firm, and, assuring her that she would be much better alone, she dismissed her.How that night passed, what sufferings the owner of Hilldrop passed, endured, no one will ever know; but, when the maid went to her mistress on the following morning, she found her lying on the floor like one dead, and the dark hair

had turned gray during the night. Miss Trafford was ill for some weeks. She had been a strong, healthy woman before this happened: when she left her room, she was feeble, haggard, and gray. From that time she never smiled; nor did she ever mention the name of the man who had so cruelly wronged her. She would not allow any newspapers to be brought to her, lest there should be any reference to him in them. She never again entered the drawing-room where she had bidden him farewell, and she firmly refused to receive visitors."I am dead to the world," she would say, "and do not want to hear anything of it."So twenty long years went by, and everyone had grown used to her strange mode of life. Not once during that time had she passed beyond the Priory gates; nor had she gazed on any other faces save those of her own household, except one day—a time never to be forgotten—when the vicar, the Reverend Abel Darrell, almost forced his way into her presence: but he never repeated the attempt. She had never expressed the least wish to see anyone, never shown the slightest interest in anything until the overpowering desire came upon her to see a little child.No wonder then that the utmost surprise was felt in the household! The old order of things would cease and a new one begin, if Miss Trafford was going to lead an ordinary life, to pay visits and receive them. She would be a very different person from the Miss Trafford who had been shut up in two rooms.Philippa Trafford drove along the roads she had once known so well, until the carriage stopped before the Vicarage. The inmates were astounded when they heard who was the visitor. The vicar himself went to the door to receive her.She looked at him with eyes that were dim with unshed tears."I have heard," she said, gently, "that you had a little daughter born today. I should like to see her, if you will permit me to do so."The vicar declared, as well as his surprise would allow him, that he was delighted to receive Miss Trafford, and that he would be most proud to show her the baby. He had the good taste to look upon her visit as a matter of course, and not to allude to her twenty years of seclusion. He talked cheerfully to her; but the sad expression of her face touched him deeply, and it was with difficulty that he refrained front showing his sympathy.Miss Trafford took her seat in the bay-window of the little drawing-room. Her worn face, gray hair, and sombre attire contrasted strongly with the glow and brightness outside."It is twenty years," said Miss Trafford, in a tremulous voice, "since I have looked upon the face of a little child; I should like to see yours."The vicar was puzzled by the strange request of his visitor. He went to the nurse and consulted her. The worthy woman decided that in the circumstances all ordinary rules should be relaxed, and that miss Trafford should be invited to see the proud mother and the little babe."It will make her heart human again, sir." said the nurse, earnestly. "It will be better than all the teaching and preaching in the world."When Mrs. Darrell was told that Miss Trafford wanted to see her and the little one, she was as surprised as she was pleased.The room into which Miss Trafford was shown was a comfortable old-fashioned bed-chamber. The tall, dark figure, looking neither to the right nor to the left, came straight up to the bed on which lay the mother and child. Philippa bent over Mrs. Darrell, and kissed her. and, as she spoke, her voice softened with emotion."My dear" she said, "I am a loveless, joyless woman. I pursed a sorrow for twenty years, and a longing has come to me to look again upon the face of a little child.""I hope the sight of mine may bring you, comfort," answered Mrs. Darrell, feebly, but fervently.The nurse carefully took up the beautiful little baby-girl, who was enveloped in wraps amid soft white lace, and placed her in Miss Trafford's arms.A tender look came into the haggard face; the lips that had not smiled for so many years quivered with emotion; tears gathered in her dark eyes. She stood watching the tiny face nestling near her bosom. The bright blue eyes opened once and looked at her, then closed sleepily."And I might have been a happy wife and mother," she said, unconscious that she was speaking loud: but—"She paused abruptly. The sight was a touching one, the prematurely old sad-faced woman contrasting so forcibly with the fair young mother and the smiling babe."It does me good, my dear," she said suddenly to Mrs. Darrell. "My heart is softening. I have not cried for twenty years; "and then her tears fell like rain. "What name do you intend to give the little one?" she asked presently."I have not thought of it yet," answered Mrs. Darrell, with a faint smile.Miss Trafford looked up eagerly."Should you mind—would you object to give her my name?" she said, falteringly. "It is Philippa." She trembled with a strange repressed passion. "I should like," she went on, "a sweet little girl like yours to bear my name—Philippa. How I should love her."The sound of her voice, as she uttered the words, brought tears to the nurse's eyes."I—I hope she will have a happy life," she continued, tremulously. I hope she will be happier than I have been. Are you willing, my dear?"Quite willing," replied the vicar's young wife. "I shall be pleased and proud to give her your name."The nurse and the housekeeper were in the roost, and to them Miss Trafford now turned."Bear witness to what I say," she said. "If this child bears my name, the name of the most forlorn woman who ever lived, I will give her Hilldrop Priory, with everything that belongs to me, when I die."Exclamations of wonder and surprise broke from the listener's lips. They were incapable for the moment of realizing the full meaning of the words. And such was the first of the strange series of events that occurred in connection with Hilldrop Priory.CHAPTER IV."I DO not know," said Miss Trafford, addressing Mrs. Darrell, "what Heaven may have in store for me. I am older than you. I may die soon, or I may live until I have suffered the full measure of human pain, but, when I die, all I have in the world will go to the child who bears my name—to your little girl.""You are very good," said Mrs. Darrell, who was intensely surprised at Miss Trafford's decision to make her little baby-girl the heiress of Hilldrop Priory; but have you no relatives who have a stronger claim?""No; I am alone in the world. I have no kith or kin, and the child whose face has touched my heart shall be the one to inherit my fortune. I may never come here again, Mrs. Darrell, but you will send your child to me when she is old enough, and you will teach her to love me? Do you think," she added, pathetically, "that I am too crabbed and ugly for a child to love?""I do not," replied Mrs. Darrell. "Kind and good as you are, it will be easy to teach my little one to love you."Miss Trafford went away as she came. She re-

turned to her seclusion; but after a little time her life was enlivened by the smiles, the prattle, and the pretty ways of the lovely, fair-haired child who had been named after her. The poor lady seemed to hunger for little Philippa's presence, and missed no opportunity of having her at the Priory. She would have had her with her altogether; but she could not persuade the vicar and his wife to give her up. They would not part with the child; they allowed her, however, to spend as much time as she liked at the Priory.Years passed on without any material change. Another little daughter was born at the Vicarage; but Miss Trafford never took the least interest in her, never made any allusion to her. Philippa was all in all to her; her love and interest were centred in Philippa; and the child repaid her with an almost passionate affection.Miss Trafford lived until the girl reached her fifteenth year—until she was old enough to understand the sad story of her benefactress' love and blighted life. If Philippa Darrell had ever met Major Hill, she would have greatly astonished that gentleman by giving him her opinion of his conduct; and throughout her life she retained a feeling of scorn and resentment toward him.Miss Trafford was consistent to the last. She would see no lawyer—she would consult no one about the terms of her will; she made it herself. It ran thus:"I, Philippa Trafford, spinster, of Hilldrop Priory, in the county of Kent, do hereby give an bequeath the mansion called Hilldrop Priory, with all that it contains, also all the land belonging thereto, and all the moneys possessed by me at the time of my death, together with everything I have, to Philippa Darrell, the eldest daughter of Abel and Louisa Darrell, of the Vicarage at Ravelston;—and I pray Heaven that the child whom I thus enrich may be happier than I have been!"Not one word was said as to what Philippa Darrell herself was to do with the property—how, in her turn, she was to dispose of it. It was entirely hers, to do with as she would. The revenues amounted to four thousand pounds per annum. The vicar decided that, until Philippa reached her twenty-first year, she should remain with him at the Vicarage; her money, except what she required for necessary expenses, should accumulate. When she attained her majority, perhaps she would divide this accumulated money, keeping half of it for herself, and giving the other half to her sister, Elena. Hilldrop Priory could in the meantime be kept up, all the old servants being retained.Miss Trafford's will caused no surprise, for it was well known how the property was to be disposed of. A few people did express astonishment that the vicar and his wife should remain at the Vicarage, until he said that not one stone of the Priory belonged to him; it was all Philippa's.It was a curious household at the Vicarage—the father and mother possessing but narrow means, the eldest daughter a wealthy heiress, the second daughter without any dowry, except that which her sister might choose to give her. Two sisters, so nearly of an age, yet with prospects so different! They differed, too, greatly in character and features.Philippa was a queenly blonde, with fair shining hair and bright blue eyes. She was indeed one of Nature's favorites, for, in additition to her beauty of face and grace of figure, she possessed an exalted mind and a generous and kindly heart. Elena was tall, with a dark vivacious face and one of the most restless spirits ever given to woman. Her one idea of bliss was to travel, to see the world. As for home-life, domestic pleasures, or marriage, Elena never thought of them.So the little household remained, until an unforeseen event happened. Sir Cyril Laurayne returned from a long residence abroad, and took up his abode at Broome.Broome was the name of the estate lying on the other side of Ravelston, and at a distance of ten miles from Hilldrop Priory.To Broome Sir Cyril Laurayne returned after an absence of several years; and It, was soon after his arrival that lie fell deeply in love with the vicar's fair daughter, Philippa Darrell.He was still a young man, not more than twenty-eight, tall and handsome, frank, generous, and hospitable. He had returned to England, determined to make his estate a model, and to perform all the duties devolving upon an English gentleman and landlord.The young baronet was not more deeply in love with Philippa Darrell than she was with him. They were engaged, and the match was pronounced on all sides to be a most suitable one. The country people said it was a lucky thing for the vicar and his wife; and as they were both very popular, no one begrudged them the good fortune that had befallen them.There was one unusual proceeding in connection with the happy event—Philippa would agree to no marriage-settlements being made. As the vicar and his wife were simple honest people, it seemed to them that she had a right to please herself in such a matter."Cyril has Broome and I have Hilldrop," Philippa would say. "What need is there for settlements? All that I have in I the world is his, all that he has is mine. Why trouble about jointures and lawyers?"Sir Cyril would not interfere with her decision. He said simply:"A shall be just as you please."Sir Cyril and Philippa were married, and after the honeymoon, went to reside at Broome and for some months all went merrily as a marriage-bell. Then the vicar died, and his wife did not long survive him; and Elena Darrell went to live with her sister.She was very happy at Broome, and it was during her stay there that she met her fate in the person of a handsome young Spanish captain named Pablo Suarez. That they should fall in love with each other was not remarkable, for they had much in common. The captain liked travel and excitement, had no taste for domestic pleasures, did not understand the meaning of the word "home," and cared for nothing but change and adventure. Captain Suarez and Elena Darrell admitted laughingly that they must have been made for each other. and on their marriage decided to visit the Continent, travel through Spain and Italy, explore Germany, and linger in the spots they most admired. In short, they sketched for themselves an ideal life: and they carried out their programme in every detail until war broke out in Spain, and then Captain Suarez was compelled to rejoin his regiment. They had one daughter, a pretty dark-eyed child, Mercedes, who was placed at school at Seville while her mother accompanied her husband through the whole of the war.It was a lovely June morning; "the hills were tipped with gold," and the sun was shining gloriously on the yellow patches of Broome. Nothing could have looked fairer than the grand old mansion and the beautiful grounds that surrounded it. The long windows of the drawing-room opened on to a lawn where two stately cedars stood. Under the drooping boughs of one was a little group-Sir Cyril Laurayne, reading a newspaper and smoking a cigar; Lady Laurayne, a fair, graceful woman of queenly presence, who was sitting near him, and a lovely, fair-haired child, who was close by her side.Constance Laurayne was tall for her age, being

only eight years old. Her long fair hair lay in child-like fashion over her shoulders, a mass of rippling gold; her pretty blue dress showed to perfection the graceful limbs. And this fair-haired little damsel was heiress of Hilldrop—the girl whose life was to be an eventful one.Sir Cyril and Lady Laurayne often lamented that they had no other children. They certainly combined to worship the child and impress upon her that she was heiress of Hilldrop. In her innocent fashion, little Constance enjoyed her dignity. Lady Laurayne was always speaking to her of Philippa Trafford. Constance was too young to understand a love-story, but she knew that the lonely mistress of Hilldrop had died because some one had been very cruel to her.She gave Hilldrop Priory to me, just as I shall give it to you, Constance," Lady Laurayne would say; and the child would look up at her with great wondering eyes.On this fair June day Sir Cyril wished Lady Laurayne to drive over to Hilldrop with him; but she declined, though the day was so clear and bright—she did not feel well; and how often afterwards Sir Cyril remembered, with a bitterness of mortal pain, that that was the beginning of the end."I will not go with you, Cyril, this morning," she said. "I feel fatigued, and will rest. You go, dear, and take Connie with you."Both parents looked at the graceful little figure beneath the spreading boughs of the cedar."The heiress of Hilldrop," laughed Sir Cyril, "and a lovely little heiress she is."She has the sweet, serious face that is given to angels by the old Italian masters," said Lady Laurayne. "I have a strange fancy about the child. I hope she will have a happy life."So do I; and I see no reason why it should be otherwise. Philippa. Connie," cried Sir Cyril, "would you like to ride over to Hilldrop with me? You call have your pony, and I will ride Kitty—she wants exercise."The child turned to him with a glowing face, her blue eyes beaming with delight."I should love it, papa," she answered. "But will not mamma go with us?""Not this morning, darling," said the gentle voice. "I am tired."The next moment the child's arms were round her mother's neck, and her loving lips kissing the fair, pale face."If you are tired, I will not leave you," she said, affectionately, tightening the clasp of her arms.But Lady Laurayne laughed, and bade her go, remarking that she would be better when they returned."You look very pale, and not at all well," said Sir Cyril. "We will not go to-day."But Lady Laurayne would not hear of their staying with her."The ride will do you both good." she said, and I shall be ready to welcome you home."So Sir Cyril and his daughter consented to go; and, as they rode away, Lady Laurayne watched them front the lawn, her eyes beaming with pride and affection.Along the lovely country lanes Sir Cyril and his little daughter rode together, chatting pleasantly till they reached Hilldrop.Never had the old Priory looked fairer than on this bright morning. Sir Cyril took the child, as he had often done before, through all the rooms; and the little heiress' sweet face seemed to brighten the place, and for the moment to banish the gloom that reigned there.This will be your home some day, Constance," said Sir Cyril."But you and mamma must live with me, or it will not be home," she answered, pouting.Then Sir Cyril took his daughter into the grounds. They climbed a hill front which they could obtain a glimpse of the sunlit sea. The scene was strikingly picturesque—the old house nestling among the trees, the grand sweep of lordly elms and oaks, the outline of the distant hills. Sir Cyril held the little hand tightly to his own.Some day my dear," he said, all this will be yours—a fair inheritance indeed; and I hope that when it falls into your hands you will make good use of it."But she was too young to comprehend the full meaning of the words."Papa," she said, "must I live here all my life?""I cannot tell, my dear," he answered, gently."Who will have it when I die?" she asked, wonderingly.Sir Cyril smiled half sadly."I cannot see into futurity," he replied; "but I do know that my Constance is heiress of Hilldrop."Young as she was, the child never forgot that visit or those
words.CHAPTER V.WHEN Sir Cyril and his daughter returned from their ride, they did not find Lady Laurayne ready to welcome them. She had gone to her room, feeling very ill, and she never left it again.She was suffering from a severe attack of typhoid fever, and from the first there was but little prospect of recovery. Sir Cyril sent to London for skilled physicians and trained nurses: no precaution was neglected. But it was all in vain; for the cruel fever continued to gain ground. and the sweet woman who had made everyone around her so happy grew weaker day by day. Sadness and gloom reigned in the household, tearful, pallid faces were visible at every turn. Her ladyship was greatly beloved. Her husband worshipped her; Constance loved her with all the passionate ardor of her young nature: her friends, dependents, and servants had the truest affection and esteem for her. The news of her fatal illness cast a deep gloom over the neighborhood, and universal sympathy was felt for Sir Cyril in his trouble, for it was well known how devoted he was to his young wife.Nothing could save the poor lady; and she died at the close of a fair July day—died in her husband's arms, her head on his breast and her child clinging to her—died happy, with full love and trust. Shortly before her death she whispered to Sir Cyril:"I had no settlement, you know; all that was mine was yours; but you will see that Constance has Hilldrop—you will make it all right, dear?""Yes; I will leave it to her, by will. There shall be no mistake about it, my darling. It is your present to your child; but it shall come through me."Constance, clinging to the dearly-loved mother who was so soon to pass out of her life, heard and remembered the words.An hour afterward the heart-rending wailing of a desolate child, mingled with the deep-drawn, passionate sobs of a man, was heard, and gloom, desolation, and sorrow reigned supreme in the mansion at Broome.Lady Laurayne was not buried in the great gloomy vault where the Lauraynes for many generations had been laid to rest. "Let my grave be where the wind may blow over it," she said, "where the rain and the dew may fall upon it, and the leaves drop over it." Sir Cyril let her have her wish; and Philippa, Lady Laurayne, sleeps under the lime-trees in the old church-yard at Ravelston, and the wind that sweeps through the green boughs sings the requiem of one of the sweetest and must lovable of women.No man could have mourned for his wife more deeply or more sincerely than did Sir Cyril Laurayne. He grew thin, pale, and silent; he was interested in nothing but his little daughter Constance, whom he would hardly allow out of his sight. At last he fell ill—not dangerously. Yet ill enough seriously to alarm his friends. He was advised to seek change of air and scene; but he clung fondly to his desolate home and motherless child.He refused many kind and urgent invitations; but at length he received a very pressing one from Lady Aston, a distant cousin of his. She begged him to visit Aston Hall for a few weeks, and to bring his little daughter with him.At first he refused—he would not entertain the idea for a moment; but it was suggested to him that the change would be beneficial to the child. Then he relented, and finally consented to go.Aston Hall was a charming modern mansion standing a few miles from the large and fashionable watering-place of Brightstone. It seemed the very place for Sir Cyril. He could have the quiet of the country when he preferred it, and, when he wished, all the life and animation of Brightstone. Lady Aston told him also that, although her house was generally filled with visitors, he could be as much alone as he chose.Lady Aston herself was an elderly lady who had spent a long and brilliant life in the world of fashion, and, despite her advanced years, she enjoyed all its gayeties and festivities as much as ever she had done. She was tall and stately and, though her hair was white her dark eyes were keen and bright, and, when attired in her black velvet and point-lace, she still looked strikingly handsome. She delighted in visitors and match-making, and she had already decided in her own mind that, for a young and handsome man like Sir Cyril, to spend the remainder of his life in grief and mourning would be positively wicked."He has had one good wife, and has lost her," she would say: "now it is his duty to make some other woman happy. We must none of us be selfish."If anyone reminded her that she had not carried out her theory, that she had not married again, Lady Aston would answer, with a twinkle in her eye, that she had not been so sure of making anyone happy.The journey was a sad one both for father and child. It was the first ever taken without the beloved wife and mother; and it was not until they reached Aston hall that the gloom was dispelled.Lady Aston received her visitors very kindly. She cook Constance in her arms and affectionately kissed the fair sad face; she welcomed Sir Cyril warmly."I sent all my guests out to-day," she said, "so that the house night be quiet when you arrived. When you came here last, Philippa was with you; and I knew you must get over that," she added, meaningly.Sir Cyril stood for some moments as though transfixed.You are right," he answered, at last; "I have been thinking of that visit during the journey.""Forget it now," she said, briskly. "I know there is no comfort for a grief like yours. Time is the only healer. But you will find consolation in this sweet little girl."Constance turned to tier father, and whispered that she would be his comfort, that she loved him with her whole heart.In the afternoon Sir Cyril went out for a ramble. He had asked Constance to go with him; but Lady  Aston advised, as the child looked pale and tired, that she should rest indoors for a while."Let her stay here and play," she urged. "She does not look like a child who has ever known whaqt it is to play."When Sir Cyril had left the house, she turned to Constance and said:"My dear, you should cheer papa and try to make him happy, instead of looking sadly at him with those great melancholy eyes.""How can we be happy," questioned the child, "when mamma is dead?""If your mamma could see you now, the first thing she would wish you to do would be to look bright and happy for your papa's sake.""Do you think so, Lady Aston?" Constance asked, wonderingly. "I would do anything to please mamma. Oh, dear mamma!" And the child's fair head seemed bent with the weight of her sorrow.Tears rose to her ladyship's eyes at sight of such grief."Go to the blue boudoir, my dear," she said. "You will find some toys there."And Constance went, little dreaming what she should find there.The blue boudoir was one of the prettiest rooms in Aston Hall. It was ordinarily set aside for the use of lady-visitors, and was the perfection of comfort. The carpet was blue, the rich hangings were of the same color, and the furniture was upholstered to blue silk and velvet. A few exquisite water-colors hung upon the walls; choice flowers stood in the jardinières.The sunlight was streaming in through the lace curtains as Constance entered, and in the midst of the glow sat a lady busily engaged in writing. She was not more than thirty, and was a truly beautiful woman. She had that strange combination of dark eyes and golden hair which is so charming and so rare. Her features were delicate and refined, and her hair was plainly dressed so as to show its abundance. Her gown was the perfection of elegant simplicity, her white fingers glittered with gems, and as she bent over the table her attitude was one of exceptional grace.In Lady Tollemache, widow of the late Sir Alfred Tollemache, one saw a perfect woman of the world, beautiful, graceful, and amiable—a woman completely devoted to herself and her own interests. Although there was a great difference between them in point of age, she and Lady Aston were good friends. Lady Tollemache had been a widow for two years, the first of which she had spent in mourning and seclusion, the second in visiting her friends and, the envious said, watching for an opportunity of making a second and even more brilliant marriage than her first. On the death of her husband she was left in rather straitened circumstances, and out of her slender income she had to provide for the education of her two little daughters. Lady Tollemache was one of those people who know only the bright side of life. She had loved her husband in a placid, sensible fashion; she mourned for him with the greatest decorum, wearing just the proper amount of crape, and gliding from black into lilacs and grays. Tollemache Park, where she had lived during her married life, had passed with the remainder of the entailed estates to the next of kin, and Lady Tollemache, resolving to have freedom and enjoyment, sent her twin daughters to school while she sought change among her friends.She was always a welcome guest at Aston Hall. Lady Aston was fond of her, and lookers-on, who generally see most of the game, declared that her ladyship had, from the beginning of Sir Cyril's widowerhood, made up her mind that he should marry her fair friend. Whether Lady Tollemache knew of this or not it was impossible to say; but, when she heard that the handsome and wealthy widower, Sir Cyril Laurayne, was expected at the Hall, she accepted an invitation with alacrity. Evidently she anticipated a pleasant visit, for she ordered new toilets in which there was not a vestige of mourning.Lady Tollemache looked up from her writing when she heard the opening of the door. Standing on the threshold was a child, who was gazing at her with deep, unfathomable eyes—a beautiful child, with a veil of golden hair falling over her black dress. Lady Tollemache smiled when she saw the little black-robed figure. She knew perfectly well who it was.For some moments the child and Lady Tollemache gazed at each other. The lady looked with calm deliberation into the eyes of the child; the child looked with something like fear and expectation into those of the stranger. Then Lady Tollemache said, sweetly:"Come in, my dear."Constance entered and went up to her, and Lady Tollemache held out her hand."Who are you, my dear?" she asked. "A stranger? We do not often see little goldenhaired girls wandering about the Hall. What is your name?""Constance Laurayne," answered the child."Sir Cyril's little daughter!" exclaimed her lady ship, with a soft laugh. "Kiss me, my dear."But the child's heart did not warm to her, and the light laugh jarred upon her sensitive ears. She had a strange child-like instinct that there was something insincere about the beautiful stranger."I have two little girls like you," said Lady Tollemache, smoothing the child's hair caressingly."Have you?" cried Constance. "Are they here?" She seemed delighted at the prospect of having playmates."No; unfortunately they are not here. I wish they were. The are both at school," her ladyship replied. "I should like them to be with me; I love children."The blue eyes looking so earnestly into hers darkened. The child could not tell why, but to her the words had not a true ring. Constance had the keen, subtle instinct that all sensitive children have; and, as the dark eyes looked into hers and the white hands caressed her, distrust and something akin to dislike filled her mind. She moved as though she were about to retire."Where are you going?" asked Lady Tollemache. "Do not leave me. What did you come for?""Lady Aston told me I should find some toys here," Constance replied."Ah, yes; they are in the cabinet!" Lady Tollemache said. "I will get them for you."She found them, showed the child how to use them, and was kindness itself to her. She talked to her, and tried by every means in her power to amuse her; but she won neither Constance's liking nor her heart. Yet she was so fair to gaze upon that the big blue eyes never left her face. At length Lady Tollemache, with a dazzling smile, asked:"Why do you look at me so earnestly, little Constance?""Because," answered the child, "you look like a picture." And her ladyship was delighted at the simple words."Stay with me awhile, my dear," she said. Then she looked at the child with a curious searching expression. "Why," she said, suddenly, "you must be the little lady of whom I have heard so much, the Heiress of Hilldrop!"And Constance, with the pretty childlike dignity that became her so well, answered:"Yes, I am the heiress of Hilldrop.""A fortunate little heiress too," said Lady Tollemache, smiling.Oh, no, not fortunate!" was the child's quick reply. "No one can call me fortunate, because my mother is dead.""Ah, true," said her ladyship. "Still, you are fortunate to hare so kind a papa."Then she took the child upon her knee, and by a series of well-directed questions drew from her many details of the life at Broome. She talked to her of the dear dead mother, and did her best to win the girl's heart, but without avail. She answered all Lady Tollemache's questions, told her all about her mother's illness, how dearly her father had loved her, and how, since her death, he had grown pale and thin."You must be papa's comfort now, Constance," said her ladyship, "and do all you can to make him happy."During the whole time she spoke Constance noticed that she seemed to be listening intently. It did not occur to the innocent child that Lady Tollemache had prepared a tableau which she intended for Sir Cyril's benefit. Her ladyship was anxious that he should find her with his motherless child in her arms—for she knew the value of first impressions.Suddenly her ladyship's face flushed and her dark eyes flashed. She heard a rich deep voice in the distance calling:Constance, Constance! Where are you?""That is your papa," whispered Lady Tollemache. "Tell him that you are here."She tightened her clasp of the child so that she could only raise her head and answer:"I am here, papa—here in the blue boudoir!"Sir Cyril opened the door hastily, and his astonishment was evident when his eyes fell upon the beautiful woman, so affectionately caressing his little girl."I beg your pardon," he said, "I thought my little daughter was here alone. I am intruding?""Not at all," she assured him, with a gracious smile. Then she held out her jewelled white hand to him. "You are Sir Cyril Laurayne?" she said. "Lady Aston told us you were coming. I am Lady Tollemache, and I have been making friends with your little girl."She still held Constance fast in her arms, and the child looked at her father with wistful eyes, as though she would say, "she is not true; do not believe her—she is not true.""She has been telling me about Broome," her ladyship went on, smiling sweetly.Sir Cyril's face had grown pale with emotion; the sight of the child in the fair woman's arms brought back so forcibly the memory of her mother."My whole heart went out to your little girl as soon as I saw her sweet sad face," continued Lady Tollemache. "In all the wide world there is nothing that can make up for what Heaven has taken from her. I feel for her the more keenly as I have two little daughters of my own.""Are they here?" asked Sir Cyril."Unfortunately, no. I am compelled for the time to keep them at school. I cannot have them with me."She sighed deeply, and, bending over Constance kissed her cheek. Some impulse made the child spring front her arms and hurry to her father."She is rather shy," said Sir Cyril. "You are very kind to my little daughter; I am grateful to you."But Constance, unable to express what she thought and felt, could not restrain her tears."Do not cry, Constance," said Sir Cyril, gently.Lady Tolleniache bent over the child and kissed her again."She is crying because I remind her of her mother," she said, tenderly.And Sir Cyril did not doubt that that was the cause.CHAPTER VI.BEFORE Lady Tollemache bad been many hours under the same roof with him, she bad come to the conclusion that she might do worse than win Sir

Cyril Laurayne for her husband. She was really in love with him—after her own fashion. He was handsome, he was the owner of a large estate, and he had no incumbrance, except his pretty little daughter. She would not perhaps have married him if he had had a son, as in that case she would always have held a secondary position; but, as matters stood, nothing could be better. Nor was it altogether self interest that prompted her, She really liked the handsome widower, and would have been willing to marry him had he been less rich and less popular.It was all right so far. She had herself decided, and others had privately agreed, that such a marriage would be a most excellent thing for her as well as for Sir Cyril. The next question was, how could that impression be conveyed to him? Clever Lady Tollemache knew the way to his heart—she devoted herself to his daughter. She talked, with tears in her dark eyes, of the sacrifice she had to make in keeping her dear children at school—some people shrewdly suspected that the fair widow was pleased to have them out of the way—and she contrived to spend the greater part of her time with Constance; but, although she loaded her with presents and was kindness itself to her, she never won the honest heart of the child. When she was with Sir Cyril, it was never of himself or herself that she spoke, but always of Constance. A mutual interest in the child drew them together. If Sir Cyril thought she was looking pale, was out of spirits, or in any way ailing, it was to Lady Tollemache he went for advice. The beautiful widow never wearied of listening; she soothed his anxieties, calmed his distress, gave him cheering words.Her ladyship took the child out for long rambles in the morning, or pleasant drives in the afternoon, and Sir Cyril naturally grew interested in the charming woman who was so kind and gracious to him and to his.One day in the presence of Lady Aston, Sir Cyril said to his daughter:"Connie, how kind Lady Tollemache is to you! Do you love her?""No," answered the child, promptly. "I do not."Lady Aston smiled."How is that?" asked Sir Cyril. "Why do you not love her, my dear?""I do not believe in her," was the quick reply.Lady Aston laughed outright."The child is jealous," she said. "I told you, Sir Cyril, that you would spoil her. She wants a good step-mother, since Heaven has taken her own mother."Sir Cyril made no reply, but kissed the sweet upturned face. Probably at that moment he had not dreamed of putting another woman in her dead mother's place.Although the danger was vague and intangible, and the child, even to herself could not have put it into words, she was pleased and relieved when she and tier father left Aston. They traveled for some time in the lake district, then went yachting in the Northern seas, and afterward they returned to Broome.Philippa, Lady Laurayne, had been dead a little over a year when Sir Cyril sent for his daughter one morning, saying that he wished particularly to see her. He was waiting four her in the library when Constance came tripping in. She was nine years old now, and was both tall and well-formed for her age. She stood before him, slight and fair, her golden hair streaming over her shoulders. Sir Cyril clasped her in his arms and covered her face with kisses. He had something to say to her, but he did not quite know how to begin."Connie, my dear," he said, at last, "you love me, and you desire my happiness above all things. do you not?""Yes," she answered; "and I will make you happy, papa.""I have found someone who also desires to make me happy.""I can make you happy, papa darling," she said, stroking his face. "You need not—indeed you need not—have anyone else but me.""My dear little daughter," he said gently, "I am going to be married. I am going to marry Lady Tollemache. She will come here to live with us and take care of us both.""Lady Tollemache!" exclaimed the child, in dismay. "Oh, papa, we do not want her—we do not indeed!""I want her, Connie," he said gravely; "and you will want her when you are a few years older.""No," she cried, "I never shall! I have my own mamma in heaven, papa.""Ah, my darling, but you will need one on earth!" he answered, patting her cheek. "You will find it out as you grow older. You must be good and docile, and, when Lady Tollemache comes, you must try to love and obey her. She loves you very much, and I want you to love her.""I never can," was the sobbing reply. "I tried before, but I could not. Oh, papa, do not have anyone here with us; we are so happy alone!"The day came at last when Sir Cyril brought his new wife home. There were no outward signs of rejoicing—everyone felt that they would be out of place; but the grand old mansion was made to look very bright and cheerful.All the household, except Sarah King, the nurse, were prepared to welcome the new mistress. To Sarah, the faithful nurse, who had attended the heiress of Hilldrop from the hour of her birth, it seemed little less than sacrilege that another mistress should be brought to Broome—and so soon too. Against the advice of the other servants she dressed the child in black; when the housekeeper remonstrated, she made a compromise and substituted a white dress with black ribbons."He shall have something to put him in mind of his first wife," she muttered to herself.There was no ringing of bells when the new Lady Laurayne came home to Broome; there was no demonstration of welcome. The domestics received their new mistress with quiet respect: but in the heart of the little heiress there was hot anger and bitter indignation.Sir Cyril gave orders that she should be brought down into the drawing-room after dinner; and thither, in her white dress and black ribbons, Sarah King conducted her."Little Constance!" cried Lady Laurayne, opening her arms.But Constance stood shyly aloof."Why has the child those black ribbons on?" asked Sir Cyril, angrily. "Who dressed her?""I did, sir," replied the nurse, who had not left the room.Sir Cyril's face darkened."Take her away," he said, sternly, "and, when you have dressed her properly, bring her back to me."In silence the nurse led the child from the room.When Constance went to bid Sir Cyril good night, she kissed him with something like despair in her heart; then she went to the beautiful woman who sat watching her."Good-night, Lady Laurayne," she said.Her ladyship smiled as she answered:"What a very formal address, little Constance! Will you not call me 'mamma?'""I cannot," the girl answered; "my mamma is in heaven.""Then will you call me 'mother?'" said Lady Laurayne."Papa told me that I could have but one mother," was the quick reply.Lady Laurayne smiled again."This is most certainly a dilemma," she answered. "Well, call me anything you like, dear—only promise to love me."The days went by, but Lady Laurayne was never unkind to her step-daughter. She could have inflicted many petty annoyances upon Constance; but she refrained from anything of the kind. She was never jealous of the great affection that existed between father and daughter; she rather encouraged it than otherwise. She never made complaints to Sir Cyril as she might have done, and every one said what a fortunate thing it was for the child that she had such an excellent step-mother.Of the whole household, the little heiress of Hilldrop and her faithful nurse, Sarah King, were the only ones who distrusted the new mistress of Broome.CHAPTER VII.YOUNG as Constance was, she never forgot the first visit paid by Lady Laurayne to Hilldrop Priory. Sir Cyril drove them over one morning when the Priory was looking its fairest and best.Her ladyship was delighted with it. She turned to her husband with a smile and a faint flush on her beautiful face."Do you know, Cyril," she said, "I would rather live here than at Broome. I prefer it, because it has a charm of antiquity.""I am a little disappointed at hearing you say so," laughed Sir Cyril."We might live here for a month or two in the autumn," Lady Laurayne went on. "With these magnificent woods, this would be a charming autumn house. I think the trees are seen at their best in the autumn.""We shall never live here, my dear ,"replied Sir Cyril. "Hilldrop belongs to Constance. Where she grows up, it will be hers, and she must live here."The child was standing beside them. She heard every word of the conversation; and the time came when she reminded her step-mother of it.Lady Laurayne looked quickly into her husband's face."I have heard that before," she said. "At Aston people were always talking about the little heiress of Hilldrop. But how is it. Why must Hilldrop so surely go to her?""It was never mine," answered Sir Cyril. "It was given to my first wife by Miss Trafford; and Philippa had some peculiar ideas. She did not like marriage-settlements. We were both young, and very much in love, and we were married without any.""Without any marriage-settlements? How strange!" cried Lady Laurayne."It seems strange to me now," went on Sir Cyril; "but at the time I thought of nothing but my wife's deep love and trust. She wished me to have share of everything she had; but it was always understood that Constance was to have Hilldrop.""Such a vague understanding would not content said Lady Laurayne."I have made it quite safe," remarked Sir Cyril. "Shortly after my wife died I made my will, and in that Constance is made heiress of Hilldrop beyond dispute."These woods were remembered afterward both by Lady Laurayne and the girl whom they concerned."Constance is a very fortunate child," said her ladyship, bending down to kiss her. "I should like a Hilldrop Priory all my own.""I wish I could give you one," laughed Sir Cyril; "but in all England there is not another Hilldrop."All the rest of that day Lady Laurayne was more than usually thoughtful. That she was thinking of Hilldrop was evident from the fact that, when she did make any remark, it was of the Priory that she spoke."I wish," she said once, "that our entrance hall had as noble an appearance as that at Hilldrop."Again she broke rather a long silence during dinner by saying suddenly:"I like the arrangements of the picture-gallery at Hilldrop, Cyril, and the gallery is a finer one than ours."Later on in the evening she remarked:"I think the corridors at Hilldrop are wider than these, Cyril.""I shall grow jealous of Hilldrop in time," he answered, with a smile.Lady Laurayne had taken a violent fancy to the place, and for some days talked of but little else.Day by day Sir Cyril grew fonder of and more devoted to his beautiful wife. Under her energetic rule Broome became one of the most hospitable mansions in the county. There was always something on the tapis—a ball, a picnic, a garden-party, charades, or private theatricals. Lady Laurayne delighted in entertaining visitors; and she soon became one of the most popular of hostesses.Sir Cyril never neglected any wish or desire that she expressed, and they were spoken of everywhere as a model pair. There were times when Lady Laurayne wondered if she held the same place in her husband's heart as his first wife had; she wondered if his thoughts went back to that peaceful time when Philippa reigned at Broome.A great event happened soon after this—the birth of the heir of Broome; and then Sir Cyril's happiness was complete. There were chiming of bells and general rejoicing. Never was a babe more welcome. He was named Austin, after one of the early Lauraynes, who had especially distinguished himself. Sir Cyril's heart was so light, he was so happy, that he determined upon having Lady Laurayne's two little daughters brought home to Broome.Constance was ten years old when her baby brother was born. She had looked forward with some curiosity to the home-coming of the little girls who were nearly her own age.They did not much resemble their mother. Blanche was pale of face, tall and slender, with the promise of what would one day be a beautiful figure; but unfortunately, her hair, was unmistakably red. Edith had dark eyes and dark hair, her features were decidedly plain, and she was inclined to be stout.They were not particularly amiable girls. They quarrelled a great deal between themselves: but in the presence of Sir Cyril they were always sweet-tempered. In the nursery many a battle royal was fought, many a wordy war raged hotly, many a skirmish took place, which was never known to the "authorities." Sir Cyril was always kindness itself to his step-daughters, and he loved his little son; but the great affection of his heart was for Constance—the child known throughout the house and in all the district as the heiress of Hilldrop.So time passed on, nothing of importance taking place, until Constance had reached her twentieth year.CHAPTER VIII.TEN years had not wrought much change in the master and mistress of Broome. Sir Cyril was as handsome and as light of heart as he had ever been; and Lady Laurayne looked almost as fair as she had looked on the day of their marriage.Time had done much for Constance; she had grown into a beautiful girl, and Sir Cyril did not

disguise the fact that she was the very pride of his heart.The years had passed so quickly, and despite a few drawbacks so happily, that neither Sir Cyril nor Lady Laurayne realized that their daughters were growing up; that it was time they were "presented," and began to take life seriously.Constance Laurayne cared little for visiting and gayeties; and Sir Cyril, knowing this, had not sought to influence her. When she was seventeen, something had been said of her presentation at Court; but Constance had begged that it might be deferred, as she preferred the quiet happy home-life to any social triumphs. Sir Cyril yielded to her wish; and, instead of taking his daughter to town, he built for her a studio, where she could pursue her beloved art in peace.Time had dealt gently with the twin sisters. Blanche, according to the promise of her childhood, had grown into a tall, slender girl with a beautiful figure. Her face was plain, but by no means unpleasant and she sang charmingly. Her great drawback was still her hair. Edith had grown unbecomingly stout, a state to which she greatly objected.Lady Laurayne looked after the settlement of her daughters very earnestly. With Constance she did not interfere; that was Sir Cyril's affair, and doubtless he would do his best for her. The most eligible men in the county were the young Duke of Hartwell, Sir Harry Coombe, of Coombe; Lord Riversly, of Knowle; and Sir William Purton. Lady Laurayne certainly left no stone unturned to secure husbands for her girls, and she managed to have these gentlemen constantly at Broome; but the mother herself was so much more charming than her daughters that the girls had little chance of shining in her presence.The four men all greatly admired Constance, but she never gave them any encouragement. Both Blanche and Edith had resolved to be Duchess of Hartwell—and, indeed, the achievement did not seem a very difficult matter to either of them, for the duke was a young, vain, and rather impressionable. A clever girl might have made an easy conquest of him; but neither Blanche nor Edith had talent sufficient for that. Constance was never unkind or contemptuous to the duke; she treated him with gentle consideration; but he would as soon have thought of wooing a princess of the blood royal as of asking the beautiful heiress to be his wife.Their mother gave her daughters excellent advice."I am quite sure, my dear children," she said, "that, if you manage well, one of you may be Duchess of Hartwell. The duke seems equally smitten with Blanche's fine singing and beautiful figure and Edith's merry ways and dark eyes. I must trust a great deal to your common-sense and judgment. Edith, if you see that the duke is inclined to favor Blanche, and that there is a chance of his making her an offer, do not in any way interfere; but help your sister. It will be the most fortunate thing that could happen. Do not let any jealousy or rivalry spoil such a splendid prospect. And you, Blanche, if the duke prefers Edith, help your sister in every way you can."The sisters did not regard each other too lovingly. The prize was a valuable one, and both were desirous of winning it.Blanche looked down with some little disdain at her less-favored sister."I cannot say that you would make a very elegant duchess," she said, "especially as you grow stouter every day, Edith dear.""And I'm sure I don't think your red hair would be any recommendation," retorted Edith.Now, my dear children," interposed Lady Laurayne, in distress, "this just what I want to prevent, what I dread occurring. If this discord goes on, you will ruin each other's chances. Be patient and amiable, and praise, rather than disparage, each other."But Lady Laurayne's lectures were all in vain. Neither sister could endure the thought that the other should win the duke.For some weeks his grace seemed to be wavering between the two girls; he seemed equally attracted by both. If one had given way, the other must have been successful; but neither would do so. Blanche drew his attention so continually to the embonpoint of her sister, to the probability of Edith becoming most alarmingly stout, that the duke took alarm—for he had a great aversion to stout women. Edith, in her turn. made so many quaint comments upon ruddy hair that though he could not he help laughing at them, he took fright again, and determined not to choose either.That hope dispelled, stars of lesser magnitude appeared in the Broome firmament; but, strangely enough, none of them showed any disposition to take Lady Laurayne's daughters off her hands.CHAPTER IX."CONSTANCE," said Sir Cyril, turning to his daughter, "have you read Lady Dresden's letter?""No, papa; I did not know she had written.""I wish you to read it, as it, concerns yourself. Never mind the flowers just now"—for her hands were filled with lilies and roses. "You want to paint a picture from them; I will paint one for you instead. Come and read this letter, and then picture yourself as the belle of the season.""That I call never do," she answered, with a smile. "The only season that interests me is the season of flowers.""Read the letter, and you will see," said Sir Cyril.Lady Dresden had been all old friend and school-fellow of the late Lady Laurayne's. She had loved her in life, lamented her in death, and she kept up a friendship and correspondence with Sir Cyril and Constance. Her great desire was to present Constance Laurayne at Court. She had been to Broome several times, and had been struck with the uncommon beauty and rare character of the heiress of Hilldrop but she had found fault with her training."The girl is a dreamer." she said to Sir Cyril. "She will spend all her time reading poetry and dreaming among flowers, if you allow it. She must come to London and make her debut. I will present her. Nothing will make me happier than to present Philippa's daughter. She has rare beauty and grace, and will make a sensation even among the London belles.""I will talk to her," said Sir Cyril, resolutely."Talking is of no use; you must act," replied Lady Dresden, with a pitying smile.But Constance was not to be persuaded."I am so happy at home, papa," she said, "and I have a curious feeling about going to town.!""What is it?" he asked."I cannot tell—a foreboding of evil. It seems to me that trouble will come of it.""Why, Constance, how can trouble reach you? You are the object of our fondest love and care.""I do not know, but I have that impression. I have always had it;" and Constance sighed."It is all fancy and nonsense!" cried Lady Dresden, when Sir Cyril repeated the conversation to her. "If you are not careful, she will waste her life in dreams."And now Lady Dresden had made another effort to induce Constance to come to London, urging that the season was at its height, and that a few weeks in town would be very pleasant.I think you must go, my dear," said Sir Cyril, watching the beautiful face bent over the letter."I do not want to go," his daughter answered; and there was a strange reluctance in her voice."I should never be happy away from Broome and Hilldrop.""I have never spoken very seriously to you about the matter," said Sir Cyril, gently; but, my dearest Constance, as heiress of Hilldrop you have certain duties and responsibilities which you must not evade.""I never will, papa," she replied, raising her large blue eyes to his.""I think you had better do it; Lady Dresden wishes. Certainly, your position almost obliges you to make your debut.""If you think so, papa I will go." she replied, with a faint sigh; "but I cannot resist this feeling of coming trouble.""Constance," said Sir Cyril, gravely, "do you not really care about seeing the world. Have you no ambition?""Not of that kind," she answered."Do you not care for any kind of gayety—for balls or parties?""Not the least in the world, papa," she responded with a bright smile."Then, my dear, in one sense it is almost useless for you to go to London," he said. "Now tell me, Constance, what you do really care for.""I have a deep threefold love in my heart," she answered—"for my dear dead mother, for you, papa—that is the greatest of all; and lastly for Hilldrop.""You must enlarge your world, Constance.""My heart is full now," she answered; and her eyes were so sweet, her words so gentle, that Sir Cyril thought she looked angelic.So it was settled that, under the auspices of Lady Dresden, she should make her début in the word of fashion.Constance never forgot leaving home for what, with one exception, was an ill-omened journey. Sir Cyril would have accompanied his daughter had not some important county business prevented him front going. Sarah King therefore went with her; but she was not to remain in town, as Lady Dresden had engaged a smart Parisian maid for what she called the "London campaign.""I am sorry I cannot accompany you, my darling," said Sir Cyril. "You must take good care of yourself; and Lord Dresden will meet you at Charing-Cross Station.""I wish you could have gone, papa," said Constance, wistfully; "I do not like leaving you.""How I have spoiled you, my child!" laughed Sir Cyril.She had said " good bye" to Lady Laurayne and the sisters, who were ill-tempered that morning, and was standing with Sir Cyril on the lawn, waiting for the carriage."I shall see no place so beautiful as home," she said. "I think my greatest pleasure in London will be in counting the hours until I return, papa." Then she added, suddenly, "You will come to the station with me? I should like you to see me off."She liked to remember afterwards how they had sat side by side, Sir Cyril holding her hand in his and bending over her with heartfelt affection shining in his eyes. They seemed more together during that brief drive than they had been since her mother's death."You will write often to me, Constance," said Sir Cyril, as he stood by the door of the railway carriage."I shall tell you everything, papa," she answered."You will send long letters in that case, my dear." he returned, laughingly."Oh, papa," she cried, with a wistful longing in her voice which pained him, "I would give anything if I were not going, if I might remain with you! I do not like leaving you."Tears filled her blue eyes, and she liked to recall in the after-years how he had kissed them away with words of tender encouragement."Good-bye, my dear!" he said, as the whistle sounded.Papa," she cried, hurriedly, leaning toward him, "be sure that you send for use if you want ire, If you feel lonely, if you are not well, if you—" But her sentence was not completed, for the train began to move. "Good-by, my best beloved!" she murmured; and she remembered the tender light on his face when he heard the words.Soon she had passed out of his sight, and he returned to Broome.Lady Dresden's delight in welcoming the beautiful daughter of her dead friend was extreme. Lord and Lady Dresden were a middle-aged couple without children, but fond of young people, and always intent upon their own happiness and that of others. Their town-mansion was in Mayfair, and Dresden House was one of the most frequented and hospitable places in London.His lordship's face brightened when he met Constance at the station."Laura will be pleased enough now." he said to himself. "She dearly loves a pretty girl to chaperon, and she has one this time."Never was welcome warmer or truer, yet Constance was some few days before she felt at home. The change was so striking—it was like going into another world. The large, roomy house without any trace of antiquity, the elegant modern furniture, the absence of everything that told of age, were all novel to her, She missed this deep shade of the great trees, the bloom and the scent of the flowers. and the song of the birds. Yet both host and hostess were so kind to her that it was impossible to be anything but happy.Lady Dresden gave Constance a few days before launching her upon the sea of fashion. The necessary dresses, jewels. plumes, and other adjuncts had to be obtained, and this important work occupied some time."'The heiress of Hilldrop,'" remarked Lady Dresden, one morning, raising her eyes from a newspaper. "You see, my dear Constance, your name has preceded you. All the society journals have paragraph about the heiress of Hilldrop."And time only comfort that Constance found in all the fatiguing duties connected with her presentation was thus—that she was in some measure paying due respect to Hilldrop.CHAPTER X."A PERFECT success!" was Lady Dresden's delighted comment, as she sank back in her favorite easy-chair. "Nothing could have been better. Everyone agrees that it was the best drawing-room of the season, and that you were the belle, Constance.""Everyone is very kind," said the girl."What interested you most?" inquired Lady Dresden, who would have liked a little keener appreciation on the part of her proté gée of all they had seen and heard."What interested me most?" echoed Constance, dreamily. "I think, nay, I am sure, it was the face of the queen. I shall never forget it.""But the dresses, the jewels—what did you think of them?" asked Lady Dresden."I did not pay much heed to them," Constance answered. "I have always longed to see the queen; and, now that I have seen her, I shall be the most devoted subject she has.""I thought her majesty seemed pleased with you, Constance. I have introduced some beautiful girls at court; but I think you will vie with the most charming. It will be your own fault now, my dear. if you do not sail smoothly with the fashionable tide. You have an attractive face, and the world has recognized it and raves about it." Then her ladyship asked, somewhat abruptly, "What are you thinking of, Constance?""I was thinking of the queen," she replied. What a brilliant yet lonely lot!"The heiress of Hilldrop was invited everywhere. She was the fashion. Did she care for it? Did the excitement and novelty of the new life fill her heart as the old one had done? Ah, no! She told her father, when she wrote to him, that she preferred her flowers and the home-life.But a change was coming. She awoke one morning with a prevision of it—a prevision of something unusual. All day long she was in some measure prepared for a surprise; but none came. All day long a feeling of restlessness possessed her, mingled with one of happiness greater than she had ever known before. The routine of the day, however, had in it no variation. There was luncheon, a ride in the Row, and dinner, after which there was a ball at the Duchess of Miniver's."Always the best balls in London!" was the comment of Lady Dresden, when she received the invitation card. "You must go there, Constance. The duchess has the finest ball-room in town, and the company is always select."Constance did not accept all the invitations showered on her. She wondered much in after life if her fate would have been different had she declined this one.Lady Dresden was very particular as to Constance's toilet on this occasion."Being fair," she said, "you must be careful to wear nothing but pale blue with pearls. You will be the belle of the ball, Constance.""You are too sanguine, Lady Dresden," she returned, with a laugh."Not unreasonably so, my dear. You have already some of the best men in London at your feet. If you would come down from your pedestal. If you would be less of a goddess and more of a woman, you could marry whom you would. But you see, my dear, you make all the men afraid of you. You have a fashion of looking over their heads which does not exactly please them. A man likes to think that he is being admired and looked up to.""I am not conscious of looking over their heads," returned Constance, with a smile."I do not think you are, my dear. I was watching you the other evening when the Duke of Oatlands was talking to you; you did not seem to be aware that he was paying you a great compliment.""I certainly did not know it," said Constance."Everyone else did, my dear;" Lady Dresden laughed. "At the present moment the Duke of Oatlands is the best match in England. He seldom pays any attention to young girls, and I am sure has never paid so much to anyone as he did that evening to you.""I did not notice it.""No, my dear—that is the one thing I wish to impress upon you. You do not notice such things; you seem to live in the world as though you did not belong to it. The duke was doing his best to be agreeable, yet you looked at him with cool, calms unconcern; and he might have been a thousand miles away, I believe for all that you saw or heard of him. If he should be at the ball to-night, do not be quite so indifferent. There is not a girl in London who would not give much to be Duchess of Oatlands.""Yes, there is one," said Constance."Who is it?" asked Lady Dresden, looking up."Myself," answered Constance. "I would not be Duchess of Oatlands.""Why not?" inquired Lady Dresden, in surprise."Because the duke is not at all the kind of a man I could ever love," was the decided reply."I should like to have some notion of what your ideal husband is like," said Lady Dresden, with some amusement, yet with a longing to fathom the thoughts of this girl who was so unlike all others."I have never formed an idea," she replied "I am not a hero-worshipper, and I have thought very little of marriage or husbands.""Yet they are the two principal things to be considered in a woman's life," said Lady Dresden, seriously."So my step-sisters Blanche and Edith think," remarked Constance."So most women think," rejoined Lady Dresden. "Now tell me what you would like your husband to be.""I should never marry for money or rank. If I marry at all, it will be someone whom I have learned to love with all my heart.""Now," said Lady Dresden, softly, "tell me what kind of a man it would be whom you could love with all your heart.""I do not know," responded Constance, with some hesitation."Have you seen anyone whom you could like?" asked her ladyship.Constance looked at her thoughtfully."No," she replied, "I begin to think that my life has not been quite like that of other girls I have been too self-contained, I have thought too much of my own pursuits and studies I think I cannot help feeling that if my mother had lived, I should have been different. When very young, I learned the difficult art of keeping my thoughts to myself.""That is true," said Lady Dresden, softly. "The girl who loses her mother loses almost everything. No one in the world can make up for the loss. All I can say, my dear, is this—that I fervently hope you may meet with a good husband, one who will love you well, one whom you may love."Constance smiled as she kissed her."You are very good to me, dear Lady Dresden," she said."I am greatly interested in you," replied her friend; and then, with a frank smile, her ladyship added: "and I am curious, also—very curious—to know what manner of man you will fall in love with and marry."CHAPTER XI.CAPTAIN LANCELOT DYSART was one of the most fortunate, yet, in some respects, one of the most unfortunate, officers in that well-known regiment, the white Lancers. He was fortunate because in all England it would have been difficult to find a handsomer man. When he joined the White Lancers, his fellow-officers gave him the name of "Beauty;" but he would not have it, and intimated so clearly to them what would be the fate of any man who dared to address him by that title that it was soon dropped. He was unfortunate, because, being what he was, the favorite of his regiment, holding a high position in society, and living in one of the most expensive "sets," he was entirely dependent on his father for every penny that he received, except his regimental pay.Sir Thomas Dysart was inordinately proud of his son. He made him a liberal allowance; but Captain Lancelot knew that, unless he complied in every respect with his father's wishes, his income might at any moment be stopped. Up to the present time there has been no disagreement between them. Sir Thomas was quite the opposite of his son. The father was as mean, cowardly and ungenerous as the son was ingenious, frank, and liberal. The old baronet had married early in life a beautiful, fair-haired girl, from whom his son inherited his great personal attractions, and he had slowly but surely broken her heart. It took him but four years to do it, and she died most thankful at being rid of the burden of living.He had tyrannized over her until life had grown hateful to her. A spirited woman would not have borne his cruelty—would doubtless have left him; but Lady Dysart was all tenderness and sweetness ,at first she was too astonished to protest; then at every fresh instance of tyranny she wept bitterly; and finally she subsided into the helpless state of silent despair in which she died. It was not that the baronet disliked his wife; he was really rather fond of her—but it was his way. He was a tyrant by nature, and he never attempted to restrain or control his outbursts of temper. He was generally disliked. His servants, the tenants on his estates, his neighbors, and what he called his friends, all resented and rebelled against his tyrannical spirit. The only person to whom he had never shown it was his son Lancelot. His whole heart was set on the fair-haired, handsome lad who was so different in disposition from himself. He indulged his every whim and caprice; he gave him his choice of a profession; and when the young man, with a flush on his face and a sparkle in his eyes, declared he would rather be a soldier than anything else in the world, he was trained accordingly, and finally he gained a captaincy in the famous White Lancers.The only thing over which the baronet intended to exercise his control was his son's marriage. He had never yet opposed or thwarted any wish of Lancelot's, but he intended to have a voice in that matter. His son—one day to be Sir Lancelot Dysart, master of Deene—must marry someone who would be a credit and an honor to the family—a peer's daughter, or a great heiress; it would have to be one of the two. Little had been said between them on the subject; but Sir Thomas had given his son plainly to understand that, proud as he was of him, much as he loved him, he should disinherit him if ever he married against his wishes.The captain, though a prominent figure in London society, was no carpet-knight. He was welcomed everywhere with open arms, for no one could tell a better story, sing a better song, or make himself more generally attractive than Captain Dysart. The fact that he was somewhat proud, and quickly resented any attempt at undue familiarity, did not make people like him the less."Are you going to the Duchess of Miniver's ball, Lance?" asked his friend Captain Clinton.Lancelot looked up from his paper."What—to-night? I had forgotten it. I must go; I promised."There is a new beauty about whom everyone is raving, and she will be there," said Captain Clinton."I do not care about new beauties," answered Captain Dysart. "I prefer one on whom society has passed an opinion.""Society has passed a very decided opinion on the heiress of Hilldrop," rejoined his friend."And what may that opinion be?" asked Captain Dysart."Why, that she is the most beautiful and the most uncommon girl society has seen lately. Uncommon, mind you, Lance; that means a great deal.""It certainly does," assented the young man. "But in what way is she uncommon?"She has original ideas, and is not afraid of expressing them. Then her face is as lovely as a June rose."All that day Lancelot thought much of his friends words. He had not asked the name of this girl, he knew her only as "heiress of Hilldrop." He had made no inquiries about her family connections; such things did not interest him just then. He thought only how pleasant it would be to meet a fair young girl who had not only beauty, but originality. His heart wars light and his step buoyant when he set out for Miniver House.Constance went to the Duchess of Miniver's entertainment. She was, as Lady Dresden had predicted she would be, the belle of the ball. Her toilet of blue suited her fair delicate loveliness to perfection. She stood for a few minutes under the central chandelier talking to the young Duke of Oatlands. She was quite unconscious of the many admiring glances cast upon her, and she did not seen to realize how radiantly beautiful she was. Half the girls in the room were eyeing her jealously, but she did not seem to think that her position was one to be coveted, or that the great attention paid to her by the duke was anything uncommon. He had taken her bouquet and was critically examining the white blossoms."I know you like flowers," he was saying, "I can tell front your face that you have a passion for them."She looked at him with laughing eyes."I had no idea that my face told so much." she responded."It tells me too that you love music and poetry, and everything that is beautiful.""It tells the truth," she replied, briefly.It was just as that moment that Captain Dysart, crossing the ball-room, saw her. He stopped abruptly, amazed and slightly confused. He had never seen so lovely a girl, or one so serenely unconscious of her loveliness. He went up to Sir Antony Bedale, who had the reputation of knowing everybody in society."Who is that talking to the Duke of Oatlands?" he asked, eagerly."That lady?" said Sir Antony. "I have been asked the same question fifty times this evening already. That is the heiress of Hilldrop. She seems better known in society by that name than by any other.""The heiress of Hilldrop," murmured Captain Dysart; and then his conversation with Captain Clinton recurred to his mind. "What is her name?""Constance Laurayne; she is the daughter of Sir Cyril Laurayne of Broome."The young man inadvertently repeated the words "Constance Laurayne "as he had repeated the others.So this was the girl whose face had reminded Captain Clinton of a June rose. He was right; she was indeed lovely. As he looked at her, his heart, which had never yet been stirred by a woman, thrilled strangely. Fascinated by that peerless face, he stood for some moments riveted to the spot. Then suddenly he roused himself."I will go to the fountain head," he decided; and he went straight to the Duchess of Miniver."Will your grace do me a favor hat will shake me the happiest of men?" he said.He was a great favorite with her grace of Miniver, and she replied, smilingly, that she would be very pleased to make him happy."You look very much in earnest about something, Captain Dysart," she added. "What is it?""Will you introduce me to Miss Laurayne?" he said."Certainly," she answered. "It is of no use saying 'Beware!' I presume?""Of no use at all," rejoined Captain Lancelot." We must wait until the duke has finished paying his devoirs. It will not do to interrupt his flow of eloquence. Ah, he has left her!" said the duchess, as the Duke of Oatlands moved away. "Now see the little army of admirers that take his place!""I will find a place among them," said Captain Dysart."The difficulty is not in finding a place, but in

keeping it," laughed her grace. "Now don triple armor, Captain Dysart, for you are going to look into the most beautiful face I have ever seen. Miss Laurayne, allow me to introduce Captain Dysart to you."And Constance looked up to see a noble-looking man bending before her. Many proud heads had bent before her that evening, many a handsome face had flushed with delight at a few gracious words from her; but this was quite a different matter.The duchess passed on with a smile. She knew perfectly well that Captain Dysart had forgotten everything in the world except the beautiful face and figure before him.Captain Dysart made the most of his few minutes. He asked Miss Laurayne for a waltz, and she promised him one. He looked into her eyes, and said to himself that the heavens were not so blue. He looked at the pearls she wore, and thought they were not so white as the beautiful neck they clasped. Then he asked her if she would like to go through the conservatory, as the room was warm, and she answered "Yes."As they stood in the conservatory the soft, sweet notes of Strauss' latest waltz came floating in to their over the flowers.Would you—do you care for dancing?" he asked, with an admiring glance, "or would you prefer to remain here?""I like this best," she answered, with sweet candor; and he obtained a seat for her."Do you like chrysanthemums?" he said, feeling that flowers would be a topic that would interest her. "I was struck with the rare beauty of some white ones that I saw last autumn. Do you admire them?""Yes," she answered, brightly; "they are my favorite flowers.""I had always thought of chrysanthemums as belonging to a very respectable but rather dowdy family," he continued. "I always pictured them to myself as being a shabby purple or a faded yellow. But last year I was visiting where the people were flower-worshippers, and I was surprised at the beauty of the white chrysanthemums. I think chrysanthemums are rather neglected.""Not by true lovers of flowers." she answered. "We have them of almost every shade at Broome.""What a pretty name—'Broome!' My father's place is called 'Deene.' I like 'Broome' much better."She gave him a description of her home, and told him it was called Broome. He listened with rapt attention. If only time would not pass so quickly! The golden moments were flying, and he could not sit there with her much longer. The glass doors at the end of the conservatory were wide open, and the moon shone brightly on the lawn. He looked out at the moonlight and back at the brilliantly lighted ball-room. He took courage."This is just such a night as one reads of in the 'Merchant of Venice'. Miss Laurayne, may I venture to ask you if you would care for a stroll across the lawn?""There is nothing I should like better," she replied, with sudden animation.They left the conservatory and went out.Her face, as he saw it in the moonlight, looker paler, but exquisitely beautiful. She raised it to the dark skies, watching the rising moon. A sigh of deep content came from her lips, and he drew nearer to her."If ever I give a fête," he said, "it shall be a moonlit one.""I should like to be present at it," she returned, with a smile. "Moonlight has a great charm for me.""I should not give it unless you promised to be there," he said; and the passion in his voice startled her.They passed many happy hours together later on, but he felt there was never one so wholly sweet as this.When Lady Dresden's carriage was announced, it was Captain Dysart who folded the warm wrap round Miss Laurayne's white shoulders, to the disgust of a score of ardent admirers, and it was he who received the thanks that shone in the heiress' beautiful blue eyes. To use the expression of his friend Captain Clinton, he went home that night "a lost man."CHAPTER XII.LADY DRESDEN was wise in her generation. She understood the shrinking delicacy and sensitiveness of a girl like Constance with regard to her new admirer. She made no jesting allusions to the handsome young officer, but did that which was kinder and wiser; she invited him to dine at Dresden House two days after the ball.Constance hardly liked admitting even to herself that since that night her thoughts had never left him, and she could not help wondering if he had been thinking as much of her.The evening come when he was to dine with Lord and Lay Dresden. Her ladyship had noticed that at Miniver House Captain Dysart could hardly tear himself from Constance's side, and she knew that he had fallen deeply and desperately in love with her protègèe. She said nothing, but marked with delight the exquisite toilet that made Constance that evening more beautiful than ever—a white silk ornamented with roses. Her face was brightly flushed with hope and expectation. This was a small gathering, and her ladyship knew that after dinner Constance would see more of the captain than had been possible at the ball. Lady Dresden's heart beat with pleasure when she pictured the scene.When Captain Dysart, looking very handsome and happy, stood before Constance, her eyes were attracted at once by a gleam of something yellow in his button-hole; and, when she looked more closely at it, lo, it was a piece of broom! She blushed crimson when she saw it."Yes, it is real broom," he said, laughingly. "Since your description of your home, I have thought of nothing but the broom and you," he added, tenderly."It looks better than stephanotis," she murmured as her slender fingers caressed it lovingly."I think I shall wear broom in future," he went on. "I shall adopt it as my badge, after the fashion of the Plantagenets.""You will be called 'The Knight of the Broom,'" she remarked, with a smile."I shall glory in the title. I like to read of those old days when knights wore ladies' favors in their helmets. I would wear a sprig of broom in my helmet if I had one. As it is, I wear it next to my heart."At that moment the butler announced dinner. There was no time to say more.How she longed for that dinner to end no one knew but herself. It seemed to her that the wearisome procession of dishes would never finish. Whenever she raised her eyes, they fell on the sprig of broom; it seemed to attract general attention.Lady Dresden noticed it, and understood its meaning."That is as good as an offer of marriage," she said to herself. "What an open avowal."The dinner came to an end at last, and the gentlemen did not sit long over their wine. The drawing-room was a blaze of light, and the air was sweet with the perfume of flowers. The doors leading into the bright little conservatory were wide open, and the plashing of the tiny fountain could be plainly heard.Just such an evening as she had anticipated fell to her lot. Under the cover of music and singing they talked together, and he found how correct Captain Clinton's description had been of her. When Captain Dysart left Dresden House that night, he vowed to himself that if it were possible he would make Constance Laurayne his wife; and she, blushing and smiling, almost frightened by her happy thoughts, acknowledged to herself that this was such a man as she could love.The fashionable world was not in the least surprised when an engagement between Constance Laurayne and Captain Dysart was announced. Every one had expected it."I thought," said Constance one morning to Lady Dresden, "that the course of true love never did run smooth. I have read so, and heard it said many times.""It does not often," answered Lady Dresden."But ours does," rejoined Constance; and there was a tender light in her blue eyes."There are exceptions to every rule," said Lady Dresden. "It is possible that yours may run smoothly to the end.""Love never dies, does it?" asked the girl, thoughtfully."Not true love. The difficulty is to distinguish true love from false.""Mine will never die," Constance said, earnestly, "for I know it is true. Do you remember that line of Swinburne's—'The meaning of May is clear?' I might adapt it and say, 'The meaning of life is clear.' Many things puzzled me before I knew Lancelot; now I seem to understand." She went over to Lady Dresden, and kneeling by her side, looked thoughtfully up into her face. "I have brought you" she said, "two letters to read—one from my dear father, Sir Cyril; the other from Lancelot s father, Sir Thomas."The first that her ladyship read was from Sir Cyril, telling Constance how more than delighted he was at the news of her engagement. He said that he had received from Captain Dysart one of the kindest and most satisfactory of letters, and added that he had invited the young officer to Broome when Constance returned home. He also said that Lady Laurayne was greatly pleased with the news."It was very kind and affectionate—just like Sir Cyril," said Lady Dresden, as she folded up the letter.Then her ladyship read Sir Thomas' far more grandiloquent epistle, in which he bade Constance welcome to his family, and hoped the marriage settlements would be satisfactory, and finally, he congratulated his son on having chosen so wisely and well, and expressed the hope that he would soon have the pleasure of meeting the heiress of Hilldrop.When that letter was finished, Lady Dresden made no comment."You say nothing about this," said Constance. "It certainly has not the hearty ring that my father's letter has; but still it is kind.""I do not like Sir Thomas," said Lady Dresden. "I am not singular in that respect, for indeed no one likes him. The keynote of his character is to be found in those few words, he hopes 'soon to have the pleasure of meeting the heiress of Hilldrop.' If you were not the heiress of Hilldrop, no matter how much his son loved you, he would not care to see you.""That is not Lancelot's fault," said Constance, quickly."No. No father and son ever differed more in disposition than they do. If any trouble comes to mar your happiness, Constance, it will be from Sir Thomas. You are quite sure," her ladyship added, with sudden anxiety, "that nothing can interfere with your prospects with regard to Hilldrop?""No; Hilldrop is mine," the girl answered, with quiet conviction."Captain Dysart loves you well enough to marry you without fortune; he would marry you for your dear and beautiful self alone. But, if by any mischance you lost Hilldrop, Sir Thomas would forbid the marriage.""I cannot lose Hilldrop," said Constance, with one of her quiet smiles. "My mother gave it to me, and no one can take it front me. But, if I did lose it, what would happen?""Sir Thomas would forbid his son to marry you, and, if he persisted in doing so, he would disinherit him," replied Lady Dresden: "and that," she added, solemnly, "would be his ruin.""Why his ruin?" asked Constance."I mean the ruin of all his prospects in life. Captain Dysart holds a commission in what I should imagine to be one of the roost expensive regiments, the White Lancers. If his father discontinued his allowance, he would be compelled to leave the service: he could not possibly remain in it; and that would mean social ruin to him.""Let us he thankful that that can never happen," said Constance, with a slight shudder. "I am thankful that Hilldrop is mime."For some few minutes after that conversation she felt a faint sensation as of evil at hand; but it vanished as quickly as it came, and she smiled at her groundless fears. Beloved, carefully tended, with the fairest of futures before her, why need she fear?There came an evening that she never forgot, when, feeling tired, she declined am engagement which Lady Dresden for some reason was desirous of fulfilling."I have hardly had an evening at home since I came to London," said Constance, laughingly. "Let me have this one. Lady Dresden.""I know well what that means," she answered; "an evening for rest, and, after I have gone, there will be a knocking at the door, followed by the announcement, 'Captain Dysart,' who will enter, and look much astonished at finding no one here but you. Ah! Constance, I know the ways of lovers!""It is all true," the girl replied, with a beautiful blush, "except one part—Lancelot will not feel surprised at finding me alone, for I—I told him. You see, dear Lady Dresden, we always meet in crowds, and, though we see each other often, we seldom have an opportunity of speaking together. We want to settle the time for his visit to Broome, and we have a great deal to say."Lady Dresden laughed aloud."My dear simple child," she said, "of course it shall be just as you wish."It was the first opportunity Constance had had of all uninterrupted tête-à-tête with her lover, and it scented a foretaste to her of all the delicious hours to come. She had taken her favorite seat, a chair that stood near the bay-window, and a fairer picture than the beautiful fair-haired girl sitting there could scarcely be imagined.So her lover thought as he entered the room and went up to her. He first kissed her white hands; then he grew bolder, and kissed her fair face."Oh, Constance," he cried, "even now I cannot believe that I have won you! It seems too good to be true that I should carry you off from all your admirers, and have you for my own for evermore. What were you thinking of when I came in, dear?""Of the sun setting over Broome," she replied. "You cannot imagine how beautiful it is. There is no place like Broome.""I am half jealous of it," sighed Captain Dysart.You need not be," she answered, with the simple earnestness so characteristic of her. "There is no one and no thing on earth that I love like

you. I shall even love Broome more when you have been there."Captain Dysart drew her head on to his breast, and they talked of the future that was to be brighter and happier to them than it had been to any lovers yet—a perfect life, rich in love for each other, rich, as they meant to make it, in good deeds for others. They talked of Hilldrop: and Constance told him, with tears in her eyes, the tragical story of Philippa Trafford."What a sad life! he said. "Thank Heaven, no such fate can overtake you, my Constance!"She looked into his ardent love-lit eyes."You will always love me as well as you do now?" she said, questioningly."Always: and, if—which Heaven forbid—we were parted, I would never clasp another woman's hand in mine."He kissed her lips as he spoke. and she was satisfied that his troth was plighted to her for evermore. When that happy meeting came to a close, she realized fully that life without him would be a blank and a burden she could not bear.When he held her in his arms and wished her "Good-night," he whispered to her that when they reached beautiful Broome he should ask her to fix the wedding-day.CHAPTER XIII.EARLY the next morning a loud knock echoed through the hall of Dresden House. A telegram had come for Miss Laurayne; and her maid hurried off with it to her."A telegram for me?" inquired Constance, in surprise. Are you sure there is no mistake?""None, miss," was the reply; "the address is 'Miss Laurayne, Dresden House;' it must be for you."No presentiment of evil came to Constance when she took the telegram. There was a bird singing gayly outside: she looked at it with a smile before she opened the envelope."Sweet, happy little bird!" she thought.Then she read with dazed and bewildered eyes the following words:"From Lady Laurayne, Broome, to Miss Laurayne, Dresden House, Mayfair.—If you wish to see your father alive, return at once. He is dangerously ill."Even as she read the telegram a conviction cane to her that she would never again see her beloved father alive."My father is very ill," she said to the maid, "and I must go to him at once."Then she stood silent, oppressed by the terrible fear that had come over her, a fear that smote her heart with a deathly chill. She who was usually so self-reliant, so composed, now seemed to have lost all powers of thought. She turned to her maid."What shall I do?" she asked, piteously ; "I must go, and at once.""Shall I ask his lordship to come?" suggested the maid.When Lord Dresden saw Constance, he was alarmed at the pallor of her face and the terror shining in her eyes. She held out the telegram for him to read."Tell me what to do!" she cried. "I feel as though I were dying!"Lord Dresden took the telegram and read it."It may not be so bad as you think" he said, soothingly; "let us hope not. Telegrams must be forcible, or they are useless. Sir Cyril is strong, and I can scarcely think a few days' illness will prove dangerous to him. Take heart, my dear; you will soon be able to judge for yourself."Lord Dresden sent for the time-table, and after looking at it, observed:"There is a train that leaves Charing Cross at half-past nine; if you can catch that, you will soon reach Ravelston. The carriage is sure to be waiting for you there.""Can I catch that train?" she asked."You shall, if it be possible," he replied. "I will order the carriage at once. Leave everything to me, my Dear."Lord Dresden hurried away to give his orders, and the maid assisted Constance to dress. She did not wait for any packing; all her things were to be sent on after her. The color did not return to her face, nor did the trembling of her hands cease; her one feeling was that the whole fabric of her life was shattered. She remembered with a sudden pang, that her lover was coming at noon, that they had arranged to ride together; and now he would come, and find her gone.Pressed for time as she was, she yet wrote a note to him, telling him of the telegram, and assuring him that she would write that same day from Broome."It is terrible to me," she wrote; "and perhaps the most terrible feeling of all is trite foreboding I have that the happiness of my whole life is hopelessly shattered. But that can never be while you live and love me."In the after-years she often remembered this feeling of coming evil.She gave the letter to Lord Dresden.Captain Dysart will be here at noon," she said; "when he comes, will you give him this?"-and the terror and anguish in her face as she placed the note in his hands haunted him long afterward.Lord Dresden offered to accompany her to Broome; but Constance thought it best to decline the kind offer, remembering the confusion and dismay that must prevail there. His lordship, however, saw her to the station, and waited until the train left.The train sped slowly on its way, Constance could never remember how that terrible journey passed. She could only pray with her whole heart and soul that her father might be saved.When the train reached Ravelston, the carriage was waiting at the station for her. With a white, scared face Constance looked at the footman."How is my father, John?" she asked.The servant looked at her with a face equally pale."There has been no change since morning, miss," he answered.As she drove home, she had no eyes for the smiling landscape, for the beautiful broom on which the sun was shining gloriously.They drove quickly up to the great entrance door, which was hastily opened by one of the menservants."How is Sir Cyril?" 'Constance asked, breathlessly. But, hastening past him, she gave him no time to answer.She thought it strange that none of the family were there to meet her. The darkness and silence of the house had not struck her, but, when she saw her old nurse, Sarah King, crossing the hall, and caught a glimpse of her sorrowful face, she seemed to realize the truth. She stood still, her heart beating wildly, her brain bewildered."Am I too late?" she gasped."My poor, pretty darling!" cried the old nurse. "You are indeed too late. Sir Cyril died at sunrise this morning."With a heart-rending cry Constance fell forward into the arms of the faithful nurse."My poor, poor dear!" was all the woman could utter.When Constance opened her eyes she found herself lying in her own room with Sarah King anxiously watching by her side."Oh, my father, my father!" she sobbed. "If I could but have seen him alive! If I could but have kissed him and said 'Good-by!'""So you would have done, my dear if I had had my own way. I wanted to send for you at first, but Lady Laurayne would not listen to me. She said Sir Cyril would soon be well, and that it would be a great pity to spoil your visit.""What did my visit—what did anything in she world matter, if I could but have seen him!" the girl cried, despairingly."I said as much to Lady Laurayne, but it was of no use. My poor master has been ailing for some days, and he asked especially that I might wait upon him. He talked incessantly about you, called for you, wanted you; last night, when lie was taken so much worse, his constant cry was for you. Her lady ship sat by his side, fair-spoken and kind enough. It was always the same thing—'Connie, Connie, I want you; I want to speak to you.' Once her ladyship asked me if I thought that he had anything particular to say to you, and I answered, Yes;' I felt sure he had. Then Sir Cyril cried again, 'Connie, I want you! Come, my dear!' 'Connie is coming, Cyril.' said her ladyship, soothingly. I said to her, plainly enough, 'Miss Connie will not come unless she is sent for, and you have not sent yet, my lady.' She rose front her chair and beckoned me from the room. I went. She stood looking eagerly into my face, her own quite pale and anxious. 'I am afraid,' she said, 'of exciting Sir Cyril. The doctors warned me especially against allowing him to be excited.' Just at that moment, we heard Sir Cyril cry again in his weak voice, 'Connie, when are you coming?' 'There,' said her ladyship, eagerly—'you hear that, King?' 'Yes, my lady,' I replied, 'Nature speaks even in death. Sir Cyril wants his daughter.' ' But I (to not wish hint to be excited or disturbed,' said Lady Laurayne. I told her, my darling," continued the old nurse, "that it would agitate him far more not to see you than to see you; but her ladyship still persisted in saying that he must not be disturbed. Miss Laurayne will not disturb him any more than yourself, my lady.' I said at last, almost sharply; and but for that, you would not be here now. Then she told me to send a telegram in her name. It was written out last night, and sent the first thing this morning. But my poor master was dead when it was sent. I would not change the wording lest it should terrify you. I did not want to alarm you, my darling, but I could not help feeling that Lady Laurayne did not want you to see Sir Cyril before his death. I am quite sure she did not.'"Has my brother, Austin, come?" asked Constance."Yes. Her ladyship sent for him yesterday. He was with Sir Cyril for some hours, but he did not seem to know the boy. He had nothing to say to him. My master only cried for 'Connie.'" The old nurse trembled with excitement as she told her story. "If I had had my way," she went on, "you would have been sent for on the first day that my master fell ill: and I shall always feel sure that her ladyship had a reason of her own for keeping you away."At that moment Lady Laurayne's maid came to say that her mistress would like to see Miss Laurayne."I must see my father first," Constance cried, in great agitation. I must see him. Oh, nurse, it is the first time that he has not welcomed me home!" Better, she thought, to kiss the dead lips of the one who had loved her than the living lips of those who loved her not."You shall see him. miss," answered the old nurse; "but go to her ladyship now. I want you to be very friendly with her. I have more to tell you, but not now."Constance followed the maid, who, to her surprise, led the way to the eastern wing."Her ladyship has changed her rooms," explained the maid. "She went into these this morning.""She leaves him," thought the broken-hearted girl, "as soon as he is dead. He lies in the western wing;" and Constance remembered how, when her own mother died, Sir Cyril had hardly left the room until she was carried from it.Would this beautiful woman mourn for him as her mother would have done?A strange feeling came over her—a feeling that in some vague way her father's house was home to her no longer. Everything appeared different. There was but one ray of light in all her gloom and misery, and that was the recollection of her lover. For one look at Lancelot's face, for one clasp of his hand, she would just then have given anything in the world. How long was it since she had sat in the great bay-window watching the sunset, with her lover kneeling by her side? How long? And now she was in the midst of gloom and death. Still the thought of him was like a ray of light penetrating the darkness.Then she reached Lady Laurayne's room and tapped at the door.CHAPTER XIV."COME in!" said a faint, languid voice, in response to Constance's tap at the door.The change was so great from the bright corridor to the darkened room that at first Constance could hardly see her ladyship. Then in the gloom a white hand was held out to her.Come here, my dear Constance," said Lady Laurayne. "This must be a terrible shock to you; it is to me."Constance had never loved her step-mother, but in that moment of desolation and sorrow the girl's heart warmed to her more than it had ever done. She, too, was left desolate and lonely—for Sir Cyril had loved her well—and for this reason Constance resolved to try to like her better."Let me talk to you about your father, Constance," said Lady Laurayne; "it will ease my heart. I would rather have you with me than either of my girls, because he loved you so passionately."And Constance, kneeling by her side, noticed how her ladyship trembled, and how terribly agitated she was."I wish," said Constance, "that I had seen my father before he died."Lady Laurayne sprung from her seat, her face flushed, her eyes shining, her manner eager and excited."You wanted to see him?" she cried. "Why—why? Was it on business?""Business!" repeated Constance, in astonishment. "How could I have business with my own father?" In that moment she load completely forgotten Hilldrop Priory and her fortune. "I should have liked his last words and his last kiss," she continued, her words broken by the choking sobs she could not repress.Lady Laurayne's eagerness died away, and she lay back again in her chair."I am sorry," she said—"I shall always be sorry that I did not send for you before. I did it, as I thought, for the best. Nurse King said that I was wrong; but I was very anxious about your dear father, and was afraid of exciting him. I believed that I was acting for the best, Constance.""Yes, I am sure of that," she replied. But in after years she understood better why she had not been sent for.Then, after promising to return later on, Constance went to the room in which her father lay. She knelt down by the side of his still, cold form,


and wept as though her heart would break. Was this cold. marble-like form the handsome, affectionate father whom she had loved so well? She felt that she would have given years of her life to have been with him only five minutes before he died, to have felt his loving clasp, to have soothed his last moments. She had longed to tell him about her lover, and now his ears were closed for evermore. Kneeling with her head resting against his bedside, she gave full vent to her grief.Presently Sarah King came quietly into the chamber of death and led her away.You will cry yourself blind, my dear," she said. "Will you come to your own room? I have some tea ready for you there."Constance went with her; and when she had rested for a short time the nurse said to her:"Was her ladyship kind to you, my dear?""Yes—kinder than she has ever been before. She clung to me, kissed me, and begged me not to leave her," was the answer."Then," said the nurse, "she means mischief; you may he quite sure of it. I cannot tell why. If she had been impatient or angry with you, it would have been better."Constance smiled through her tears."That is a strange idea," she remarked."It is the truth, my dear. I have never liked her ladyship; but I have never really mistrusted her until now.""Why do you mistrust her now?" asked Constance."May I speak plainly to you?" inquired the nurse."If not you, my dear old friend, who should speak plainly to me?" was the girl's reply."Then, Miss Constance, I have not liked her ladyship's conduct during Sir Cyril's illness. Why should we want to keep my master and the child whole he loved apart? Why should she endeavor to keep you from him? There must have been an evil motive.""Do you think there was really a wish on her part that I should not see him?" asked Constance."I am sure of it; and my opinion is that before long we shall find out what that motive was. Lady Laurayne was never herself after the doctor said there was no hope for the master; she changed from that hour. Her manner became shifty, uneasy, and hurried; she grew restless, and never remained long in the same place. The servants spoke of her being all over the house; no one ever knew where to find her, and when she was found, it was always in some most-out-of-the-way place. As a rule, her ladyship keeps her temper admirably; but during the last few days she has been irritable and impatient. Tell me, Miss Constance—could her ladyship do you any harm?"In what way do you mean, nurse?" asked Miss Laurayne."Well, my dear, respecting property or anything of that kind?" explained the nurse."No. Even if she were so inclined, she could not do me the least harm in the world.""You are quite sure, miss?""Quite sure. my dear old nurse," was the earnest reply. "Lady Laurayne has nothing whatever to do with my affairs; she has no control over me in any way whatever. Were all her influence brought to bear, she could not make the one farthing richer or one shilling poorer.""I am glad to hear it," said nurse King. "You know the old song, 'Love has eyes.' Love—ah, and instinct too! Love and instinct both tell me there is something wrong regarding you. I cannot tell what it is—I am like one grouping in the dark; but I have a sure and certain instinct that danger exists for you.""Your love for me makes you over-anxious," said Constance. "There can be no danger for me through Lady Laurayne."But it was impossible to convince the old nurse that her fears were unfounded. She had her own ideas, and nothing could alter them."We shall see, my dear—we shall see," was all she answered when Constance tried to calm her suspicions.There was general mourning at Broome, for Sir Cyril had been liked by all. His son, a slender, handsome stripling, now Sir Austin, was inconsolable. Even the step-daughters, who quarrelled over everything else, agreed that they both regretted the loss of Sir Cyril, who had been so good a friend to them.The day came when the kindly, genial master of Broome was carried to his last resting-place. and never was a man more sincerely mourned. He had been a good husband and father, a kind friend, a generous neighbor, a considerate landlord. He was followed to the grave by crowds of friends, whose grief was as deep as it was general. Such a funeral as his had never been seen in the county before. He was mourned by many; but one heart nearly broke for love of him and grief at his loss. No one could ever take his place in the heart of his loving daughter.CHAPTER XV.THE library of Broome was a long, lofty room, tastefully furnished, with a few old paintings, some rare bronzes, jardinières filled with flowers, ornaments of all kinds, old china, and, greatest treasures of all, well-filled bookcases. Three long windows that reached from ceiling to floor occupied nearly the whole of one side of the room; they opened out on to the closely mown lawn, where the cedars stood.Without all was sunshine and brightness, within the scene was one of gloom and sadness. The sunlight fell on dark mourning dresses and thick folds of crape, on the pale faces of the ladies and on the sombre garments of the men who had assembled there to hear Sir Cyril's will read.Lady Laurayne was present; but she looked quite unlike her usual self. The. pride and radiance had left her; she was pale and worn, with an anxious expression of face, and a restless, perturbed manner. She was seated near one of the open windows, her young son, Sir Austin, at the back of her chair, his arms resting upon it, Edith sat on a stool at her feet, and Blanche opposite to them.Constance stood alone at her favorite window, the sunlight glistening in her golden hair and brightening her heavy mourning-dress. The reading of the will had no interest for her; her eyes were almost blinded by fast-falling tears. She would rather have remained in her own room to weep out her sorrow alone and unnoticed. Dearly as she had loved Sir Cyril, she had never realized how completely her very life was identified with his until he died. Light and beauty seemed all to have departed with his death.The vicar was present—Lady Laurayne had implored him to remain—besides Mr. Anderson, the lawyer. Two or three of Sir Cyril's more intimate friends who had been present at the funeral, also waited for the reading of the will.When all were seated, the lawyer stood up."Ladies and gentlemen," he began, "I have strange announcement to make to you. We are assembled here for the reading of Sir Cyril's will ; but I am grieved to tell you there is no will. Such, at least, is the conclusion I am compelled to arrive at. Most minute search has been made among Sir Cyril's papers all over the house, in every nook and corner, in every cupboard, desk, escritoire, bureau, wherever a folded paper could be placed, we have looked. Sir Cyril, as most of his household are aware, kept all his papers and documents, all the deeds relating to the estate, all leases, all business memoranda of whatever kind they might be, to the large iron safe which is


inserted to the wall of his study, and so arranged is to look like part of the wall itself. I have been with the late Sir Cyril many times to get papers from the safe, and naturally enough I thought the will would be there.""Why was it not given into your custody?" asked the vicar."I cannot say. It was Sir Cyril's idea to keep it with his other papers. I can find no trace of it."Astonishment and dismay were depicted on every face except Constance's. She looked surprised; but, in her ignorance and inexperience, she did not think the absence of a will would make any difference to her.The twin-sisters looked bitterly disappointed, for they had hoped great things from Sir Cyril's will."Are you quite sure, Mr. Anderson that my father made a will?" asked the young heir."I am quite sure, Sir Austin," was the answer. "I drew up the will myself from some rough notes supplied to me by Sir Cyril, and, by Sir Cyril's request, I had it engrossed on parchment—a most unusual proceeding. I drew it up, and sent it to him by my clerk, William Hewson, who found him at home, and his friend Sir John Hartopp with him. My clerk, on his return, gave me full particulars of what passed. When Sir Cyril saw him and learned his errand, he said, 'You have brought my will; I am glad.' He apologized to Sir John, and read it through carefully. He seemed pleased with it, and said it was exactly what he intended, and then he handed it to Sir John Hartopp, who also read it through. 'I think,' said Sir Cyril, 'that I have been perfectly just.' And Sir John answered heartily, 'So do I.' 'I may as well sign it now,' said Sir Cyril. Sir John, you will witness my signature, and you, Hewson?' It was done. Sir Cyril signed the will; Sir John Hartopp and my clerk signed as witnesses. I remember Hewson telling me that Sir Cyril had given him a five-pound note for his trouble. I am prepared to declare that a will was duly drawn up, signed, and witnessed; but I have not the faintest idea where that will is.""It is the most extraordinary thing I ever heard," said the vicar. "Surely Sir Cyril cannot have destroyed it himself?""If he had done so he would have had another made," replied the lawyer. "Sir Cyril was never careless where the interests of others were concerned.""What is to be done?" asked the vicar."I do not know " answered Mr. Anderson. "I am more puzzled than I have ever been in my life.""Does any solution of the mystery occur to you?" asked Lady Laurayne."None whatever," replied the lawyer. "I may however mention this fact. At the beginning of this year some mining shares which Sir Cyril had always looked upon as a bad speculation suddenly became very valuable. He sold them, and the money he realized greatly enriched him. He wrote to me about it, and he added these words; 'This will make a considerable difference. I must make another will.' I have that letter among my papers now, and can show it to anyone who may wish to see it. I saw Sir Cyril in February, and I said to him then, 'Have you thought any more about cancelling your will?' He laughed as he answered, 'No: I have had no time to think of it yet. There is no need for hurry.' And the subject was never mentioned between us again."There was a confused murmur when the lawyer sat down; then some suggested one thing, some another. Lady Laurayne sad little, but she looked very pale and anxious."I am much distressed," she said, "and do not know what is to be done."A clear sweet voice broke in:"Let no one say that my father was careless. If blame lies anywhere, I am sure it is not with him.""You think then. Mr. Anderson," said the vicar, " that it is possible Sir Cyril may have destroyed the will, intending to make another?""That is the only thing that occurs to me," replied the lawyer. "I see no other solution of the mystery.""It is a very grievous matter," said the vicar.And then it struck Constance as somewhat strange that all seemed to be looking at her, some with wonder, solve with pity, all with interest yet the loss of the will mattered less to her that to anyone, she thought."I see but one remedy for the misfortune," said vicar, slowly. " Have you the rough notes you spoke of with you, Mr. Anderson?""Yes," replied the lawyer. producing some papers; "I leave all the instructions that were given to me for making the will.""Then I would suggest that you read them out, and that Sir Austin, as his father's heir, should act upon them.""A very fair and just suggestion," acknowledged young Sir Austin."My notes are to this effect. To Sir Austin the estate descends by entail; to Lady Laurayne is given an annuity of fifteen hundred pounds, to each of her daughters a legacy of ten thousand pounds, and to his beloved child Constance, the daughter of his first wife, Philippa Darrell, Hilldrop Priory, with all its lands and revenues."There was dead silence, and again there came to Constance the conviction that everyone was looking at her."I may as well," continued the lawyer, "repeat the conversation that passed between Sir Cyril and myself when he gave me instructions to make his first will. 'I should like the will drawn up at once,' he said. 'It is not Broome I am anxious about; that is entailed, and will go to the next male heir. But Hilldrop I hold, as it were, upon honor. It belonged to my wife, Philippa Darrell, and ought to have been settled on her marriage; but she was romantic—she would not have any marriage-settlements. It was her wish that the Priory should go to Constance. In fact, the child has peen brought up to consider herself heiress of Hilldrop. She is heiress of Hilldrop, and I wish to make her right secure.' This conversation, I should say " added the lawyer, " took place shortly after the death of Sir Cyril's first wife."Again a clear, sweet voice broke in:"There is no one living who can say that Hilldrop is not mine!" And, as Constance spoke, she stepped forward into the middle of the room. "Hilldrop is mine," she declared. "It was my mother's, and it is mine!""I have a very painful duty to perform," said Lady Laurayne, when silence was once restored. "I have listened to all that has been said, and I have arrived at a very different conclusion from anyone else here. I believe that Sir Cyril destroyed the will because, on reflection, he considered that it was not a just one.""Not just!" exclaimed Mr. Anderson."No," she replied, boldly; "I say it was not just. Hilldrop belonged to Sir Cyril. His first wife virtually gave it to him, and it belongs to his estate; it is part of his property, and goes with it. Being his, as it most undoubtedly was, he could do as he liked with it; and, from many things that he said to me, I have an unalterable conviction that of late he changed his mind completely concerning Hilldrop.""He never said anything of the kind to me," replied Mr. Anderson. "Of that I am very certain.""That may be," said Lady Laurayne. "Sir Cyril does not appear to have consulted you at all during the last few months.""He has nut done so; but I believe the reason to be that he had nothing to consult me upon. I must say that I am quite sure that, if Sir Cyril had in his mind anything so important as the changing of his plans concerning Hilldrop, he would have consulted me. I believe that your ladyship is mistaken.""And I feel sure that I am not," replied Lady Laurayne, warmly. "What makes me more sure is that there is no trace of the will. I myself have always considered that Hilldrop belonged to Sir Cyril. It was Philippa Darrell's, and, when he married her, there being no settlement, all that she had in the world, as a matter of course, became his. Is not that right to law?""Right in law, but it is not in justice," replied Mr. Anderson; and profound silence succeeded his remark.CHAPTER XVI.NO scene could have been more dramatic than that enacted in the library at Broome. Mr. Anderson was lost in a maze of perplexity and dismay; the vicar looked distressed and anxious, the sisters pale and seared; the handsome young heir, Sir Austin, seemed to waver between his stately mother and the fair young step-sister whom he loved so well. He looked sorrowfully from one to the other.But the interest of the scene was centred in the two who now stood face to face in the middle of the room. It was war to the knife between them, war in which no one else cared to engage. Face to face, each drawn up to her full height, they stood—Constance, tall, slender, looking like a pale lily in her dark dress, the usual dreamy gentle expression of her face changed to one of quiet, deep resolution; Lady Laurayne, tall and stately, her face slightly flushed, her eyes shining, determination in every feature. They had drawn near each other, and Constance was the first to speak."Lady Laurayne," she said, "every word that you have uttered is false. My father, who never committed an injustice in his life, always intended Hilldrop to be mine, because it was my mother's. He always was most careful of my interests, and, to render them secure, he made a will leaving Hilldrop to me. In your presence he has spoken repeatedly of the Priory as mine. You know well that I have been brought up as heiress of Hilldrop, that I have always been taught to regard it as my inheritance.""I admit all that most frankly," returned Lady Laurayne; "but I must repeat that during the last few months Sir Cyril has spoken quite differently of Hilldrop and of his intentions concerning it. He has said more than once that Hilldrop Priory would form all excellent dower-house for the Ladies Laurayne."At this the vicar looked steadfastly at her ladyship."Are you quite sure," he asked, "that there is to mistake? Is that perfectly true?" She looked at him proudly, almost indignantly. "Do you think, sir, that I would be guilty of falsehood?" she asked."I hope not, madam" he replied. " That which you say throws quite a new replied. on the matter. You now affirm that Sir Cyril had changed his mind, and did not intend Hilldrop to go to Miss Laurayne.""I am sure of it," she answered."And you further believe that Sir Cyril destroyed the will he made preparatory to snaking another?""That is a momentous question," said Lady Laurayne."The more need that it should be thoroughly answered," returned the vicar.She was silent for a few moments; then, glancing at him with proud, fearless eyes, she replied:"I do believe that my dear husband destroyed that will because he had changed his plans, and that he intended making another.""Then," put in Mr. Anderson, " If Sir Cyril destroyed that will, intending to make another, how do you account for his not doing so?""I do not seek to account for it," she replied; "I merely state what I know. I should say myself that it was not a pleasant task, and that he postponed it. Another thing that confirms my belief is that, during the last few hours of his life, he cried incessantly for Constance; he had something to say to her, and wanted to see her. In my opinion he wished to tell her of this."Lady Laurayne spoke with such an air of conviction that every one present was more or less impressed by what she said."I may add something else," continued her ladyship—"I do not think that I shall betray Sir Cyril's confidence in repeating what he said to me. One day, when we were discussing the matter, he said: 'It would be a great disappointment to Constance; but it is just possible she might be happier without Hilldrop. Her tastes are very simple, and a large estate is a great burden.""Then we may take it for granted that you and Sir Cyril talked the matter over very often?""During the last three months," she replied, "not before.""Why did not Sir Cyril send for me when he found himself in danger?" asked Mr. Anderson."He was too ill to think of anything of the kind," answered Lady Laurayne, sadly.The vicar and the lawyer looked at each other."I really do not see," said Mr. Anderson, "what is to be done. It is a difficulty to which I can see no satisfactory termination.""Hilldrop is mine, and I will never relinquish it!" Constance declared; and she and Lady Laurayne drew nearer to each other and stood face to face."My dear child," began her ladyship, "I would not for worlds injure you or deprive you of your rights; but Hilldrop is not and never has been yours. It belonged to your father. A married woman has no property of her own unless it is trade hers by marriage-settlement. Having no marriage-settlement, everything your mother possessed became Sir Cyril's. Is not that the law, Mr. Anderson?""Yes, your ladyship, but, as I remarked before, it is not justice," was the reply."What call be done?" asked the vicar, despairingly."There is only one thing that can be done," answered Mr. Anderson. "As the matter stands, Hilldrop does not belong to Miss Laurayne by law, but it can be made hers by deed of gift.""That is a way out of the difficulty," said the vicar, with an air of relief. "I am sure we all wish for justice, and nothing more. We can see that legally Hilldrop does not belong to Miss Laurayne, yet we know equally well that she has always been looked upon as its heiress. That will simplify matters and sets everything straight.""It is the only just course to pursue," observed Mr. Anderson."It is a course that shall never, with my consent, be pursued!" cried Lady Laurayne, vehemently. "While I live I shall never consent to see my dear husband's wishes so completely set aside.' Then she turned abruptly to her son. "Austin," she said, "you hear this. You are young, but you are capable of judging for yourself in this matter. Remember that your father intended Hilldrop to become part of the estate, to be your own, and that, if you are guilty of any such folly as giving it away, you will be acting against his dearest wishes, and will incur my most severe displeasure.""But Constance, mother—what of Constance?"

cried the boy. "We cannot take all she has and leave her nothing. I do not want Hilldrop.""It is not a question of whether you want it or not. If your father intended it to become part of the family property, You are morally bound to carry out his intentions.""But no such intention has been expressed," said the boy.It is clearly expressed through me," she insisted. "Still, as you say, Constance must be provided for. I think it will meet the justice of the case and her requirements if you give her a fortune of twenty thousand pounds.""That is hardly a fair equivalent," said Anderson. "The revenue of Hilldrop is four thousand per annum.""My son can please himself," returned Lady Laurayne proudly. "I think the sum quite sufficient, and indeed a very handsome fortune for any girl.""That question need not be discussed," said Constance calmly. "I am heiress of Hilldrop. It is mine; every one here present knows it is mine. No one of the name of Tollemache has or ever can have the least claim upon it.""No; but when your father married your mother, the Priory estate became his," explained Mr. Anderson."He intended it to be mine." urged Constance. "He has expressed that wish and intention orally a hundred times over, if not in writing.""That is just where the law steps in," said Mr. Anderson. "The spoken wishes of a man during life are of no value after his death. They must be written to be of legal force.""Did my father know that?" asked Constance."Must assuredly," replied Mr. Anderson."Then," she said, "I am quite satisfied that my father has not died without leaving a will. I am as sure of it as though I held the will in my hands. These surmises of Lady Laurayne's have no foundation in fact. She supposes my father destroyed his will; she has no proof of it. She supposes he intended to retain Hilldrop as part of the family estate; she can give no proof of it. But I, who knew Sir Cyril's love for my mother and for myself—I am sure he would study my interests first. My own unalterable conviction is that a will exists, and that it is here at Broome.""I should be glad if you could find it, Miss Laurayne," said the lawyer, with a shake of the head; "but I am doubtful of its existence.""I am not," she answered, confidently. "I feel sure that the day will come when it will be found."There was an awkward silence for some minutes. Then Mr. Anderson said:"I grieve over the position in which you are placed, Miss Laurayne; but unless the will is found, you can never take possession of Hilldrop. If it should never be found Hilldrop can never be yours.""It will he much better, Constance. for you to act reasonably, as the law is against you, and to take the fortune offered to you. It will be more than sufficient for your wants, and you will have the happiness of knowing that your father's real wishes have been carried out," urged Lady Laurayne.Those who saw Constance Laurayne in that moment never forgot her. She stood calm and dignified, but with an expression of scorn and contempt on her face such as it had never worn before."I shall not take the twenty thousand pounds, Lady Laurayne," she said. "I will have my own rightful inheritance, Hilldrop, or nothing. I want no gifts, no favors; I simply desire my own. Hilldrop is my own. If the law is against me, do what Mr. Anderson suggests—convey it to me by deed of gift.""No; that will never be done," said her ladyship, firmly: "I will not consent to it.""I am equally determined," declared Constance. "I will have my rightful inheritance, Hilldrop, or nothing.""There the matter ends, then," said Lady Laurayne."It is a strange position," observed the vicar."I think," said Constance, "it will not be out of place if I ask for another rigorous search for the will. I have thought over the matter. I do not believe it is destroyed, and I should therefore like a rigorous search to be made for it.""It shall be made," promised her ladyship."I wish to add this," continued Constance. "I shall remain here for two or three weeks, while the search is made; if it prove unsuccessful, I shall leave Broome never to return. I will make to compromise. I will have my own, my inheritance, or nothing."There was a general murmur of dismay and pity as these words fell front the young girl's lips."You are agitated now, Constance ;"you will awake to better sense and reason," remarked Lady Laurayne; and then the painful scene ended.The lawyer was the first to take his leave."This has been the most painful hour of my life," he said. "Miss Laurayne, having always been your father's friend, you will always find me yours. Send for me at any time, and I will give you whatever aid I can.""You will be all the more my friend for your kindness to my sister," said the young baronet, with delightful frankness.The vicar shook hands with her warmly."I am always your friend, my dear," he assured her gently.The sisters went to Constance and kissed her. They were truly sorry for her, as was Sir Austin; but they honestly believed their mother to be right in all she had said.CHAPTER XVII.THE news soon spread that Sir Cyril Laurayne had died without making a will, and that therefore his daughter would not inherit Hilldrop Priory. Sensational paragraphs made their appearance in the fashionable journals, and it was a nine-days' wonder to society to find that, after all, she who had made such a stir as a beauty, and who had been known principally as the heiress of Hilldrop, was no heiress.Constance waited for some weeks at Broome, while search was made for the will. She did not like to disturb the quiet and sorrowful repose that had fallen over the old mansion now that its master was gone, and therefore she abstained from mentioning Hilldrop in Lady Laurayne's presence; but her ladyship discussed it continually with her young son, until she had thoroughly impressed him with the justice of her own cause.Let us fit the circumstances to other characters," she said to him once. "Imagine that Sir John Hartopp marries twice—that his first wife brings him a large fortune in land and shares. It becomes his. She dies, leaving one daughter; she marries again, and has a son. Do you think the law would give the first wife's fortune to her daughter, if it was not settled upon her? Certainly not.""But Constance has always looked upon Hilldrop as hers by right," urged Sir Austin."Yes, that makes it harder for her," agreed her ladyship. "I say it with all candor—it would certainly have been hers if her mother or father had looked more keenly after her interests. If her mother had been more practical concerning her marriage-settlements, and her dear father regarding his will, Hilldrop would have been hers; now the law stands between her and what was doubtless intended to be her inheritance. In affairs such as these you have to consider the future as


well as the present, Austin. You cannot help being in the position in which you are; and, though you and Constance might arrange the matter, as you thought, peaceably, your successors and hers might dispute the justice and legality of any such settlement.""Mother," said the young heir, sorrowfully, "I shall never be quite happy, and my mind will never be at rest, when I remember that I have taken Hilldrop from Constance.""It is not you wish take it, my dear boy. You must always remember it is your father's wish that influences me, and also that it is his wish that makes you owner of Hilldrop. Your father thought of it, wished it, planned it, desired it—your father, not I.""Yes, that is the only consolation," said Sir Austin. wearily; "but for that I should take the earliest opportunity to make it over to Constance. I cannot endure the thought of keeping it: nor can I bear to think that I am in any way disregarding my father's wishes. It has made life quite unhappy, mother."Those words seemed to distress Lady Laurayne greatly. She looked imploringly at her son."Do not say that, Austin," she cried; "remember that you hold my happiness as well as all your own in your hands.""I must make the best of it," said the handsome young heir, half moodily. "I love Constance, and cannot endure the thought that she should suffer any injustice. I will tell you one thing, mother. I will never touch the revenues of Hilldrop. Until now I have loved the place; henceforth I shall hate it."And Sir Austin kept his word. Not one penny of the Hilldrop money did he ever take, nor did he ever derive the smallest advantage from the possession of the estate.He was perfectly sincere in his belief in his mother; he never for one moment doubted the truth of her statements. And so for some weeks matters rested, and during that time there was nothing that gave Constance more pleasure than the honest affection that Sir Austin showed her.The search for the will proved fruitless. If one had ever existed, it certainly existed no longer. All the nooks and corners that had not before been examined were now laid bare, but no will was discovered, and everyone agreed that it was useless to waste more time over it.Then followed, as far as it was possible, a settlement of affairs. The late baronet's wishes, as expressed in the notes given by him to his lawyer, were all carried out, with the exception of that concerning Hilldrop. A11 the legacies he had intended to bequeath were paid; the sisters received the very handsome sums Sir Cyril had decided to leave them, and there remained only the difficulty with Constance to adjust.She, however, was firm in her determination. She considered that a gross injustice had been done to her, an injustice that she could not forgive. She spoke very plainly to Lady Laurayne about it when the question was discussed between the them, and again her ladyship implored of her to accept the twenty thousand pounds offered to her: but Constance was resolute in her refusal."I have no claim to money derived from Broome," she said. "and I shall never touch it. As this mistake, if mistake it be, has been made, the right thing is for Sir Austin to make Hilldrop mine by deed of gift. You know that it is mine by right: you know that neither you nor your children have the slightest claim to it. Keeping it front me is a cruel, at wicked injustice!""I am sorry you look upon it in that light," said her ladyship. "You see the law must be respected, and the law forbids you to take Hilldrop."Constance looked steadfastly at Lady Laurayne."We shall meet in another world," she said. "There you will have to give all account of your actions, and what will you say? Shall you be able to meet my father and mother face to face and tell them how you have robbed their child?""Do not use the word 'rob,' my dear; it has an ugly sound, and I am not a thief. I have merely carried out your father's intentions.""I wish," cried Constance, with sudden passion, "that he knew! I wish he could come back to defend me! I am alone in the wide world. No one would believe that I was once the beloved and cherished daughter of the house.""I do not wish to be unkind to you, Constance," said her ladyship, gently."It is not a question of kindness, but of justice," sharply returned Constance. "Be just to me, Lady Laurayne. Give me my own; give me that to which I have a right—my inheritance!""If you would but cease to be at tragedy-queen, and listen to reason," interrupted Lady Laurayne, impatiently. "I offer you a fortune, a handsome fortune, and the kindest treatment you can desire is yours. You can either live with me at Hilldrop or stay with your brother at Broome. You will have love, care, and affection—""And forfeit my inheritance!" interrupted Constance. "No: when I leave Broome, I pass out of your lives forever.""You will only make a scandal and a sensation, when you might, by acting differently, live happily, and at the same time receive a splendid fortune. I never dreamed that you would act in this fashion, Constance.""You could never have imagined that I should behave in any other," she replied. "But reproaches are useless. I do not think, however, even though you may live at Hilldrop and hold it as your own, that you will be a very happy woman.""I shall not allow any sentimental regret, to interfere with my happiness," returned Lady Laurayne, lightly. "You are wilful and obstinate, Constance, and I fear there is malice in this determination of yours. You think, naturally enough, that you will meet with universal pity and sympathy—that people will say we have driven you from home, and that you are compelled to work. But I have taken care that the world shall know about the twenty thousand pounds. You will not meet with much pity, for everyone will think how foolish you are.""I shall not seek pity," said Constance. She knew that, when she left Broome, every hope of her life would be extinguished, and that it would matter little whether she was pitied or not.No lover could have been more devoted to her than was Captain Dysart during this trying time. He wrote the fondest of letters, in which he implored her to allow hint to visit Broome; but she would not accede to his wish. Her answer was that she would wait for a time before inviting him.Her father's death had been a terrible blow to her, and the loss of Hilldrop had been almost overwhelming; but in the near future she foresaw a trouble more serious still.It came only too quickly. One morning in the early autumn she received a letter front Sir Thomas Dysart. She went out to read it alone, and it contained just what she had expected, just what she had dreaded and foreseen.Sir Thomas had been in the south of France, and had only just heard of the misfortune that had befallen her. He was grieved to increase her troubles, but the engagement between his son and herself must now be considered at an end. He knew Lance would rebel against his decision. but he intended to remain firm, and. if, in spite of his wishes, the marriage was carried out, he should at once disinherit his son and divide all his money among various charities in London."I know," he continued, "that all good women

are unselfish. It is for you to prove, Miss Laurayne, whether your love for my son is selfish or not. It your love be of the ordinary type, now that you have lost your fortune, you will be more anxious than ever to marry one who you may think has good prospects. If your love be of the ordinary kind, you will think more of your own happiness than of his; you will marry him, with not nothing but poverty, nay, ruin in prospect. You will in this fashion secure your own misery. I know my son, and of all men in this world he is the least likely to be happy on a small income—in fact, he could not be happy on limited means, and he would learn in time to hate the wife who had so dragged him down. If, on the contrary, your love is above the ordinary type, and you care more for him than for yourself, then you will write to him to say that you release him from his engagement, that you will never be the means of dragging him down into the depths of poverty. You will do even more than that; you will withdraw yourself entirely front him, go for a time to some place to which he will not be able to follow you, and keep from him all knowledge of your whereabouts until he has forgotten you or despairs of finding you. I know my son. Having pledged his faith to you, he will wish to keep his pledge, even at the risk of his own ruin; so that his future, his happiness or misery, his prosperity or ruin, rests with you. Remember, I am not writing idle words; I never do. Do not delude yourself with the belief that it will be all right in the end—that, if you are married I shall 'come round' and forgive you. I shall never do anything of the kind. If you wish for my son's welfare, and desire to prove it, you will give him up, and let him see plainly that there is no hope of you ever becoming his wife. By doing this you will deserve my lasting gratitude. I am, I repeat, sorry to add to your trouble—I would fain help you; but, having read the newspaper account carefully, I am reluctantly forced to the conclusion that you have no hope of chance of establishing your claim to Hilldrop. If I were in a position to advise you, I should say, 'Take whatever compensation or equivalent may be offered to you.' I am sorry to have to write this letter; but my son is my first consideration in life, and I must study his welfare at any cost. If I can assist you in any way, command me, and believe me to remain always,"Your sincere friend,
"THOMAS DYSART."Though cruel and cutting, though dictated by a sordid mercenary mind, the letter was full of common sense. Constance knew that her marriage now with her lover would ruin him.She clasped the letter for some minutes, bewildered; then her mind recovered its balance."I feel that I ant being crushed inch by inch. I lost my mother first: much of my happiness went when my father married again; then my father ,died; then Hilldrop was lost to me; and now my lover is denied me. I wonder if my cup is full? I have nothing more to lose except my life."The next morning's post brought her a letter front Captain Dysart, which was the very opposite in tone to that she had received from his father. He told her that he did not care in the least for her money—he had loved her for her own beautiful self—that he should love her just the same were she penniless, and that nothing but death should part them. His father had written, declaring that the engagement must be at once broken off, and that, if it were not, he should not only disinherit him, but should discontinue his allowance.He may do so, my darling," wrote her lover, but it will be in vain. I am young and strong, and I love you. I will give up my commission and retire from the service. We will go from this land, where false ideas and false civilization reigns, to the new world, where a man is held as a man according to his industry and integrity, and not weighed in accordance with his money or birth. I shall throw off the old life willingly, cheerfully, and love the new one that gives me you; for I will suffer poverty, loss, any and everything to gain you. Let nothing that my father says, dear love, distress you. Let Deene, Hilldrop, and all the money go; give me only your beautiful self, and happiness will be ours. I shall come and see you next Tuesday, and, if I can, I shall persuade you to let me marry you at once. I long to have the power and the right to comfort and protect you."As she read those words tears fell from her eyes, and she kissed the paper that brought her such comfort. But she had already resolved, and nothing would shake her determination to release her lover. She would never now show him Hilldrop, never ride with him through the golden broom: never more would she see the gallant, handsome young soldier who loved her so dearly and so well.CHAPTER XVIII.THE sun had risen and set twice since Constance Laurayne had received the letters of Sir Thomas Dysart and his son, and she had come to a decision—come to it with tears that almost blinded her, with pain that was almost past endurance. She believed that she was acting rightly in refusing any compromise that would sanction what she knew to be an unjust and wicked action with regard to Hilldrop, even as she believed she was doing right in leaving her lover and refusing to blight all his prospects in life.He was coming on Tuesday; but she dared not see him, she dared not trust herself to his influence. She could not look into his dear eyes and know that she would see them no more. She could not bear the clasp of his hands, and know that she was never to touch them again. She could not resist a prayer from his dear lips; flight therefore, was the only means by which she could save her lover and herself.It was the close of the day when she came to this resolution. The air was hot and oppressive, the rooms seemed stifling, and the whole family were out on the lawn, Lady Laurayne having suggested that they should take their dessert there.Standing among the syringas Constance made up her mind as to her future. She would leave Broome in the morning, but she would not inform her relatives whither she was going. She would write to her lover and tell him that they had parted forever; and then, safely lodged in London, she would endeavor to earn her own living. Her father had often told her that she could make a small fortune as an artist, and now she would try. There was only one gleam of pleasure left in her life—she loved her art; but for that, earth would now be a blank to her.The light of the setting sun fell upon Lady Laurayne and her children as Constance took a last farewell of them. She went back slowly to the house. In her mind she had already separated herself from them forever. She resolved not to take more clothes with her than she would absolutely require. All her beautiful dresses and ornaments she would leave behind; but her jewelry she would retain, lest poverty should overtake her. She found that she had nearly a hundred pounds in money, so that there was no fear of immediate want. Then, having packed her boxes, she sent for Sarah King, and told what she intended to do."You can go with me if you like, Sarah," she said. "You can be my faithful friend, companion and housekeeper, or you can remain here.""No; I shall leave Broome when you do, Miss Constance. I shall go where you go, and serve you while I live. I would rather starve with you


than live in luxury with your enemies. But, oh, that it should have come to this—my master's daughter, the heiress of Hilldrop, to go out in the world to get her living! Mark my words, miss—Heaven is just, and, though it may be years first, my own opinion is that the will will be found yet, and found at Broome. With all her fair face and winning ways, my Lady Laurayne knows all about it, and she will be found out!"Constance made her final arrangements that night. She would have her breakfast brought early to her own room; then, while the family were breakfasting, the carriage should be ordered, and she, with her few belongings and Sarah King, would drive to the station.She spent the greater part of the night in writing letters of farewell. To Lady Laurayne she wrote all she felt, and she told her that, unless the will was found, she should never return to Broome. Her letter to Sir Austin was kind and affectionate; she expressed her belief in the existence of the will, that it was either hidden or lost at Broome; and nothing, she added, would ever change that conviction. She bade him farewell, and told him, as she had told Lady Laurayne, that, unless the will was found, she should never see Broome again. To each sister she also wrote a farewell letter. Then she replied to Sir Thomas Dysart. Her answer to him was brief and indignant; and, callous and worldly as he was, Sir Thomas winced when he read it. He felt humbled for many a long day afterward and he kept the contents of that letter carefully to himself. The rest of the night she spent in writing to her lover. It was a simple, noble renunciation of him for his own sake. It was her final farewell to him who was dearest to her. She told him that she was going out into the world to lose herself in the crowd of men and women who filled it; that it was for his sake, and because of her great love for him, because of her great fear of marring his life, that she had cut herself off from all; that she was going where no one could find her, and where she had no desire to be found. She wrote all that was in her heart to him: and he held that letter sacred until death, held it as his dearest earthly possession.There was no concealment about the manner in which she left Broome. The carriage was driven round, the boxes were carried down, and Constance, with Sarah King, entered the carriage and was driven off to Ravelston Station. When the coachman was about to return, Constance gave him the four letters she had written, and asked him to deliver them.She was well on her way to London when the letters were read. Lady Laurayne was the first to peruse hers. She looked round with something like dismay when she had finished."Constance has gone!" she said.Sir Austin uttered an exclamation of dismay; while Edith and Blanche looked at each other in silent inquiry and consternation.CHAPTER XIX.EIGHT years had passed since Constance Laurayne bade adieu to Broome. There had been no search made for her by the Broome people: but it was understood that Mr. Anderson had her address, although he was bound in honor not to divulge it. When Constance wrote to him to tell him what she had done, and what her plans were, she added these words: "I shall live believing in the mercy of Heaven and in Heaven's justice, and holding a firm conviction that some day a message will be brought to me that the will is found;" and Mr. Anderson never forgot the words.Captain Dysart spent weeks in London searching for her. Then, when he found that it was all in vain, and that there was but little chance of his ever seeing her or hearing of her again, he went down to Deene, and between father and son there was a painful scene.The captain was indignant and angry; he refused to listen to anything that Sir Thomas urged in extenuation of his conduct."You have taken from me the light of my life!" he cried, furiously. "You have blighted my youth by taking my love from me! I do not care what becomes of me now. You would have taken my allowance from me if I had married Constance; I will never touch it again. You would have let me go to rack and ruin, for all you cared, if I had married Constance. Well, it shall be as thought I had married her. I will give up my commission sacrifice, my prospects and everything I hold dear in life, because that which I hold most dear is gone. Give your money to the charities you elect, father. I would give, were it mine, twice as much as you are worth even to know where Constance is. The Twenty-ninth sails next week for the Cape. I shall exchange and go with them; and I hope some Kaffir will deal me a death-blow. It will be more merciful than the one you have dealt me."So he raged in his anger and despair. He would not remain under his father's roof for a single night, and he carried out his threats. He exchanged into the Twenty-ninth Regiment, and, before leaving for the Cape, told his father that nothing would induce him to return to England unless he could find and marry Constance Laurayne. He had done all that he could to discover her whereabouts, and, as a final effort, had gone to Scotland Yard, and told the whole story to one of the inspectors, promising a handsome reward to anyone who should be able to send him any information concerning Constance.When what he had done was beyond recall, Sir Thomas was truly sorry, and would fain have undone it. He had not anticipated that his son would take the course he had. The career of the young man had been hopelessly spoiled by the very means his father had adopted to bring about the opposite result, and the London charities would be so much the richer.Sir Thomas, dearly as he loved money, and deeply angry as he felt with his son, had many a heartache. He wrote letter after letter, imploring him to come home. But Captain Dysart had no interest in life since he had lost Constance. Then war broke out at the Cape, and he was during that period one of the most gallant and energetic officers engaged. No one but himself knew how he sought death.So eight years had passed away. Constance had taken up her abode to an old-fashioned house in South Kensington, where she occupied a suit of rooms. Sarah King, faithful as ever, was her attendant. Constance not only supported herself, but made a very fair income by her paintings, and her lovely flower-groups were eagerly sought for and commanded good prices. Time had not touched her delicate, dreamy beauty, but had, on the contrary rather added to it.Nothing of importance had happened to her in those years. She had painted pictures and had sold them; she had risen and slept; each day had been painfully like the day before. Mr. Anderson and the vicar wrote occasionally, and informed her of what was passing at Broome and Hilldrop: but no news came of the will. The lawyer had long given up expecting any, and the vicar had no gleam of hope. But a change was coming.One morning—Constance never forgot the shock of surprise and pleasure that she experienced on the occasion—a telegram came to her from Mr. Anderson. A wild idea possessed her that the will was found, for surely he would not telegraph regarding anything less important than that Her hands trembled so violently that she could hardly open the envelope.When she did so, and read the telegram, her sur-


prise increased. It was to tell her that Madame Suarez and her daughter Mercedes had arrived in England, had been to Hilldrop Priory, were returning to London, and wanted her address. Was he to give it to them? She answered at once, "Yes, on condition that they keep it entirely to themselves."From that moment a new world seemed to open to her. Of late she had hardly thought of her aunt Elena, her mother's beloved sister. For the last few years there had been no correspondence between them, for Madame Suarez was never so happy as when traveling, and, since her widowhood, she had seldom stayed long in the same place; but now, for her daughter's sake, she had come home to England, to settle there permanently, and her first thought was of her sister's child, Constance.Being in ignorance of what had happened, they had gone at once to Hilldrop. The surprise and dismay were great when they learned the state of affairs. After some reflection, finding that no one at Hilldrop had the least idea of where Constance was, they applied to Mr. Anderson, the lawyer, and he was able to afford them the information they desired.On returning to London they went at once to the address given to them, and there, to their great joy, they found Constance.Mercedes, who was some seven or eight years younger than her cousin, was a girl of uncommon loveliness. She inherited the dark beauty of her father, was bright, vivacious, animated, full of spirit and intelligence, and she fell in love at once with her beautiful, fair-haired cousin."You have been suffering all this misery," she said, "while we have been wandering over the face of the earth. I shall never leave you again, Constance. I wish I had known you before."The first visit was a short one; but on the second occasion Mercedes went alone longing to hear from her cousin's own lips the whole story of how she had lost Hilldrop.It was it bright morning. and Constance willingly laid aside her painting, and they went into the park together."I want you, Constance." said impetuous Mercedes. "to tell me the whole Story; I cannot understand it. The more mamma and I speak of it the less clear it seems. Let us sit down here. What grand old trees! Now do not omit one word; tell me all."Constance told her beautiful young cousin the whole story of her life.Hour after hour passed, and they did not rise, Constance telling calmly the story of her loss of fortune, Mercedes interrupting at times with eager questions, then listening again with earnest attention."It is a strange story," said Mercedes, when Constance had finished her narrative. "The fact that puzzles me most is how, believing what you do, you can rest here in peace. Hand I been in your place, I should have made a hundred wild attempts to recover my property—I should have done a thousand foolish things, even though I regretted them afterward. The one thing impossible to me would have been your patient waiting and resignation. For what are you waiting, Constance?""I do not know," she replied, "unless it be death.""You do not expect any news from Broome, do you?" asked Mercedes."Sometimes I have had a wild idea that the will would be found. and I have looked for a telegram from Mr. Anderson or the vicar, telling me to hasten home to take possession of my rightful inheritance. For months together I have had nightly dreams which have almost driven me mad. There was always a stranger who used the same words, 'Come back to Hilldrop; the will is found.' The words never varied, the face of the stranger never changed. The dream was always vivid, always fresh, but the gradual awakening and the keen sense of disappointment were always the same. After a few months the stranger ceased to trouble me, and now he never comes.""Perhaps the announcement of the discovery may come," said Mercedes.But Constance shook her head gravely."Not now," she replied; "it is too late. I had some hope at first: now I have none. It did seem to me that such a gross injustice could never be condoned; but I found the world went on just the same. No one was greatly concerned about what had happened; no one seem to think that any serious injury had been done to me. The newspapers said that, as the late Sir Cyril Laurayne had died without a will, all his real estate had descended to his son. Of the many thousands who read that account, how few knew what it meant to me?""But among your friends," cried Mercedes, "surely you must have had some to stand by you?""They were all grieved for me, especially the friends who had known my mother, and those who had known me always as heiress of Hilldrop were angry enough; but what could anyone do? The law was against me; no one could interfere.""Does any suspicion attach to Lady Laurayne?""There is good reason for suspecting her.""Do you believe that she either destroyed or concealed the will?" asked Mercedes.Constance was silent for a few moments, her fair, proud face full of thought; then she answered:"I do, honestly, Mercedes. I believe that she found it, and that she either destroyed it or concealed it. I have an inward conviction of it; I can hardly tell you why. I feel that the will still exists, and that is hidden somewhere at Broome. Of course it is natural that I should cling to that belief—I cannot help it; yet more—I feel that my belief is well founded.""Why not go back to Broome, then, and look for it yourself?" asked Mercedes.Constance shook her head."It would be quite useless, even if I could do it. Before I left the house I searched everywhere. Were I to return, I should not know where to look that I have not looked already."Then let someone else search for you," suggested Mercedes."To what end? I have nothing but suspicion and personal conviction to go upon. I have no proof—not the faintest—no evidence, no witnesses. I cannot proclaim to the world that I suspect Lady Laurayne of being a thief and a cheat unless I have some grounds to go upon. And,. if I applied for a warrant to search Broome, it would not be granted to me. If Lady Laurayne has been so wicked as to hide the will, reply upon it, Mercedes, it is well hidden.""Then, though knowing full well that you are the rightful owner of Hilldrop, you mean to live on in this fashion until you die!""I see no help for it," replied Constance, sadly."And the devoted lover whose heart you must have almost broken—what of him?""He will forget me perhaps as the years go by," returned Constance. "I often think of him, and at times wonder what I should feel if, on opening the newspaper, I found an announcement of his marriage. I weave all kinds of fancies. I think perhaps that, when years have rolled by, I may some day pass the house where he lives, and catch a glimpse of his wife and children. I picture his wife. tall and fair-haired like myself. and perhaps resembling me a little. I see him too; but, when I think of him, of his handsome face and loving eyes, my heart fails me, and I weep bitter tears.""That dream will never be realized," said Mercedes. "I have not seen Captain Dysart; but I am sure that I understand him better than you do. Do you think that, loving you with so great a love, he will ever marry anyone but you? When he comes back to England, it will be to marry you, whether you like it or not. I am glad that you have told me your story, Constance. Mamma said that we could come to no decision upon the matter until we had heard your statement. Lady Laurayne has already told us hers. Why did you never write to mamma, your own mother's sister, and tell her all this?""You can easily understand why. While my mother lived we talked continually about aunt Elena; but when she died, and my father had other interests, there was no one to speak to of her. I did not once mention her to Lady Laurayne, who told me that she never liked English women who married foreigners, and never should.""Neither do I like her!" cried Mercedes, with flaming face and flashing eyes. "It was strange that we should go to Hilldrop, was it not? You wrote to tell us that Sir Cyril was dead, and then we heard no more from you. So little did I know you, Constance, that when my mother talked of your silence, and wondered why you never wrote to her, I thought it was because you were proud, and in your prosperity did not care to know us , or did not remember us perhaps with any great affection. My darling," added the loving, impulsive girl, "if I had known the truth, if I had known that you were in such trouble as this, I should have come to England long before. You may be sure of it. Mamma says the same; she loves you just as though you were her own daughter; and I, if you were my sister, could not love you more. Tell me—do you love me more than those Tollemache girls?""Although we have known each other so short a time, I do indeed. Besides, you are related to me by blood; they are not.""Thank you: I wanted to hear you say that. I want you to love me and look on me as your own sister. Mamma was so anxious to see you that she would not rest even one night in London. 'Let us make haste and get on to Hilldrop,' she said. 'I long to see my sister's old home and her child.' So we traveled on until we reached Hilldrop.""It must have been a scene when you met her ladyship," said Constance."It was," laughed Mercedes. "We asked for you, naturally thinking that Lady Laurayne was at Broome. The servant who opened the door looked at us in astonishment. 'Miss Laurayne does not live here,' he said; 'but Lady Laurayne is at home.' We looked at each other in dismay, my mother and I. Then we asked for Lady Laurayne, and were shown into a luxuriously furnished room, where we waited for her. 'What does this mean, Mercedes?' asked my mother, in dismay. 'Why does not Constance live here? My sister's child ought to live in my sister's home.' Then Lady Laurayne swept into the room, looking royally beautiful. Her reception of us was most gracious, and she alluded feelingly to the sad home-coming it was for us—so many dear friends dead, so many changes. 'That poor, misguided Constance!' she said. 'Will you believe that I do not know where she is, that we never hear from her? She has cut herself off from its entirely;' and then, while refreshments were being brought, she told us the whole story."My mother listened in grave silence. 'Hilldrop Priory certainly belonged to my sister,' she said. 'Constance is quite right; it is certainly hers.' 'If the law took that view of the matter, all would be well,' Lady Laurayne remarked, a faint smile curling her lip. 'It was unfortunate that Sir Cyril left no will, of course; but Constance acted very foolishly. Sir Austin offered to settle twenty thousand pounds on her; but she refused it. However,' added her ladyship. with a charming smile, 'Madame Suarez, you and I need not enter into the dispute. I shall be very happy indeed to show you all the hospitality in my power, and I beg that you will remain at Hilldrop as long as you like.' She was desirous of captivating and conciliating my mother: but she did not succeed. More than once she said to her, 'I hope this unfortunate affair will not interfere with our friendship, Madame Suarez.' Evidently conciliation was the order of the day. She was very kind to me, even to the extent of pressing me to spend some months at Hilldrop. Her daughters, she said, were not at home then, but they would return in a few weeks, and would be delighted to know me. But my mother was not to be won over. She declined to remain, and we returned to London the next day. Lady Laurayne writes to us occasionally, and in her last letter she invited me to spend a few weeks with her; and now I think I shall do so.""Will you?" exclaimed Constance, in surprise."Yes. I have an idea; but I will not tell you now what it is. What a long talk we have had, Constance! I am hungry and thirsty, yet I could talk to you for hours longer. I shall explain my idea to mamma, and if she approves of it, I will tell you what it is. Do you feel inclined to return to your painting to-day, or will you go home with me?""Neither, my dearest Mercedes. I have opened the very depths of my heart to you; I have laid bare wounds that will never heal. I shall try to forget my own story in the interest I may find in those of others."Then slowly the two girls walked back to the house."It is a lonely life for you, Constance," Mercedes said. "I do not like to go away and leave you alone. I wish you would come and live with us; we could make you so happy. We cannot offer you a home like Broome or Hilldrop; but mamma says she would give anything if you would come and take up your abode with us.""It cannot be, my dear. I think myself very fortunate in having you in London. You can imagine how utterly lonely I was before you came; now I have aunt and cousin, who are as dear as mother and sister to me. I ought to be very happy. Good-by, Mercedes; come again soon;" and, with loving words, the cousins parted, Constance going to her books, Mercedes hurrying home.CHAPTER XX.AFTER hearing her cousin's story, Mercedes went home with her heart full of it. She found her mother awaiting her somewhat anxiously."How is Constance to-day?" asked Madame Suarez."She is well. mamma. When I reached Queen's Gardens she was very busy finishing a drawing. She is a true artist; her flowers are so natural, the delicate coloring is so perfectly imitated, that almost involuntarily I put out my hand to take a lily from the bunch before me. The sun was shining and the day beautifully clear and bright, so I managed to persuade her to come out into the park with me, and tell me her story in her own way; and I have spent the brightest hours of this bright day listening to it.""And what conclusion have you arrived at, Mercedes?" asked madame."Why, that it is the most cruel injustice I ever heard of in my life!" she replied, emphatically."That is my opinion, too," said Madame Suarez. "I am glad that we agree."Later that same evening Madame Suarez and her daughter sat alone in their drawing-room. The

long windows were wide open, the lace curtains drawn aside, and the fresh air came in freely, bringing with it the odors of the old-fashioned flowers in the garden and the roses that clung around the windows. They could hear the distant roll of carriages, and madame sighed more than once as she thought of the thousand delights of the wonderful city; but Mercedes had asked her to spend a quiet evening at home, as she wanted to talk to her; and reluctantly, though with her usual sweetness of manner, madame had consented. Now, however, Mercedes seemed more inclined to sit in silent meditation than to talk."I thought you wanted to speak to me, Mercedes?""So I do, mamma," Mercedes said at last. "But I was doing what is unusual with me—I was thinking first.""Then we may hope for something good," laughingly remarked madame. "What is it that engrosses you?""Constance," replied Mercedes. "I cannot forget her. It is of her that I wish to speak to you. How cruelly she has been treated! In a country like this, it seems to me that it should be impossible for so great an injustice to be done. I cannot imagine why people who know of it do not rise up against it.""People seldom rebel against anything if it does not affect their own interests," said madame. "It is both sad and pitiful that such an injustice should be permitted; yet we can do nothing to help Constance.""I am not sure of that," responded Mercedes. "Constance seems convinced that Sir Cyril's will is still in existence at Broome, and though she cannot account for the conviction, she is nevertheless quite sure of it. It is part of her nature, part of her life, part of herself, this belief.""It may be true," said madame."She dreams of the will," continued Mercedes—"dreams always the same thing, that a stranger comes to tell her the will is found. That is singular, is it not, mamma?""No, I do not think so. The fact of the will being lost has naturally impressed her so deeply that even in sleep she cannot forget it.""That is a plausible explanation," said Mercedes. "Yet I am inclined to believe with her that the will is in existence. She is so earnest in her belief that she made a convert of me."Madame Suarez looked up in wonder."Do you, too, Mercedes, believe," she asked, "that poor Sir Cyril really left a will, and that it is at Broome?""Yes; with my whole heart, mother," she replied, earnestly."Then how do you account for its non-production, Mercedes? They appear to have searched everywhere for it. Lady Laurayne gave fullest assistance: the vicar, the lawyer, Constance herself, everyone interested, had liberty to search where they would; there was no restraint on anyone. If the will had been put away carelessly by Sir Cyril, they must have found it; it could not have been overlooked. I am rather of the opinion that Sir Cyril destroyed it himself.""You do not think it possible that anyone else destroyed it,do you, mamma?" asked Mercedes."I should think not, my dear. Such all idea never occurred to me. Who would do such a wicked deed?""That is the question—who would? I merely suggest it. It may have been destroyed or hidden. Constance thinks it was secreted to some place impossible to discover.""But by whom, my dear? Who would run such a risk? It is a serious offence, you know.""Some people do not calculate the risk they run where the probable gain is large. But, mamma. do you not think it feasible that Sir Cyril's will may be still in existence at Broome?""It may be, of course; but I do not think it probable. England is not a land of romance, Mercedes. You do not find crime of that desperate kind among the upper classes. There are only two persons benefited by the loss of the will—Sir Austin and Lady Laurayne. It is foolish to think that either of them would have done such a wicked deed, would have ventured upon anything so full of risk and danger. Lady Laurayne derives the greatest benefit front the document not being forthcoming; but I am sure she would not be a party to destroying it. It is such a serious offence.""We will leave the doer of the deed out of the question for the present, and try only to find out if the deed be done. I told Constance, mamma, that I had an idea; but I did not tell her what it was. I want to confide it to you, and to persuade you to let me act upon it for Constance's sake.""I will if it is feasible, Mercedes," replied madame. "Tell me what it is."" It is this. When next Lady Laurayne invites me to Hilldrop, let me go. She asked me to go down this summer; if she repeats the invitation, will you let me accept it? You did not seem willing before."" No, I did not care for you to go; but if you have any particular reason, any especial object, I will consent.""I know you will laugh, mamma, when I tell you what it is. You will think I am superstitious, foolish, imaginative—and I plead guilty to being all three—but, just as Constance believes that the will is at Hilldrop, so I believe that I shall find it. I cannot help my conviction any more than she call hers. Now do not laugh, mamma. When I read that beautiful life of Joan of Arc to you, you cried over the verses, and you said to me, 'Every life has its Heavenly voices, but most people are deaf to them.'""It is true," said madame, gently; "few hear and obey.""Every since Constance told me her story, a voice has filled my ears—a voice that bids me go to Hilldrop, a voice that says. 'Go; you will find the will!' The words seemed to ring in my ears all the way home.""My dear Mercedes," smiled madame, "you are full of fancies.""It is not a fancy, mamma. People said so of Joan of Arc; they said it was neither Heavenly nor Angelic voices that she heard, but only those of her own imagining. Do believe that this is no imagination of mine. Surely, if I can do anything to help Constance, I ought. She is not poor, nor does she suffer privations: but she bears patiently a great injustice which has cost her her lover and the whole happiness of her life. Surely, if I could recover for her what is really hers, I should be doing her the greatest of services?""I do not deny it; but I cannot see what you will gain by going to Hilldrop.""Let me try, mamma. You know I have often heard you say that I have inherited from my father a certain keenness—not talent, but keenness—of observation. What would escape the notice of another would not escape me: what another would hardly see would be full of meaning to me. I have frequently heard you mention this characteristic, so that there is no vanity in my speaking of it. Now, if I have this faculty of keen observation, of rapid, sure, safe judgment, of seeing farther and more clearly than some others, let me use it for Constance's benefit.""In what way. Mercedes?" asked madame."Let me go to Hilldrop and see if I can discover anything of the fate of the will."My dear child, that would be in plain English to act the part of a spy toward Lady Laurayne and her household.""No; you are mistaken, mamma," cried Mercedes. "A cruel wrong has been done, two lives


are entirely spoiled and blighted; and it seems to me quite as great a crime to break a heart as it does to take a life. Here is a gross and palpable injustice, and I maintain that what I propose to do is honest and honorable.""But, my dear child, how can that be? You enter the house under the guise of friendship, while you are really a foe in disguise.""Hardly that, mamma. My cousin has been defrauded of her property; let me go and discover, if I can, what is the truth. I should know more when I had been there a few weeks than we all know now. I shall be no spy—I shall only observe; and, if there has been no wrong done, observation cannot hurt anyone, can it?""No,. certainly not," replied madame."I do not think that deep convictions and strong impulses are given to us for nothing," said Mercedes. "An impulse which I feel powerless to resist bids me go to Hilldrop and do what I can to find out the truth about Sir Cyril's will.""I cannot say that I like your proposal, Mercedes," said madame."But suppose that I should succeed," cried Mercedes; "suppose that the will is found, that Constance is restored to her home-above all, to her lover-hat would you say then, mamma?""I should say 'Heaven be praised!' my dear," replied madame."And you would bless me, mamma?""Yes, most assuredly I should bless you, my dear child.""Well, now, mamma, let me point out to you this one thing. The justice, the right or wrong of any action, cannot depend upon its success or failure. That is impossible. If it be right in itself, success or failure should not effect it. When you say that you would be pleased at my success, that must mean that you approve of my going.""That is very logically argued," laughed madame. "I quite agree with you that, if any of Constance's friends can assist her, they should. If you can help her, do so, Mercedes; but do nothing which would in any way seem dishonorable.""You know that I could not, mamma. I love honor as much as you do. The highest idea I have of honor is to repair an injustice, and this I shall try to do. When Lady Laurayne writes to you next, asking you to let me visit Hilldrop, let me go, will you, mamma?""Yes, since you wish it, Mercedes. I will trust to you not to do anything likely to bring dishonor upon yourself; I will trust to you also to do your best to serve Constance," replied madame."Thank you," said the girl, stooping to kiss her another—"thank you for your patient hearing. I shall tell Constance that I am going.CHAPTER. XXI.LIFE was at its brightest for Lady Laurayne. There had been times, even while Sir Cyril was living, when she wondered how, after the enjoyment of Broome and what seemed to her unlimited wealth, it would be possible to live in a smaller house and with a greatly diminished income. That question was satisfactorily settled now. She lived at Hilldrop Priory and enjoyed its revenues.Sir Austin never swerved from his resolve not to touch any of the money derived from the Hilldrop estate. He believed implicitly what his mother had continually urged—that both right and law were on their side; but, as there had been some doubt and suspicion about the matter, he told her frankly that, he did not care to have anything to do with Hilldrop. Broome was his home, and he meant to live there.Lady Laurayne was very angry at first."If that is what you intend to do, Austin," she said, "I should advise you to give Hilldrop to Constance. Do not consider my feelings or wishes; never mind what base motives the world may attribute to me. Give it to her, and let me hide my shame and disgrace as best I may. Oh, Heaven, that my own son should have said this to me!"He hastened to her side, and, throwing his arms round her neck, endeavored to soothe her. "Mother," he cried, "how terribly you mistake my meaning! I know you are right, and I have never doubted your word. Do you think that, if you had not convinced me, I should have let Constance go from here? You have told me that my father changed his mind about Hilldrop, and that he destroyed his will in consequence of that change. I believe it. Why should I—how could I—doubt you, dearest mother? I am convinced it is true; but at the same time I am sure you can understand that in the circumstances I do not care to have anything to do with the place. Live there yourself, and do as you like with the money derived from the estate; I shall be quite satisfied. By law the place is mine, and my father's wishes, as expressed by you to me, are not to be disregarded. I am helpless, thought I wish matters had been different. In the time to come I think I shall make the Priory into a dower-house.""It will be the wisest thing you can do, Austin," answered Lady Laurayne, well pleased at the turn the conversation had taken.After that conversation, the arrangement concerning Hilldrop was made. Lady Laurayne went to Hilldrop Priory as its mistress, and its hand-some revenue became hers.Then she felt that, if she could only marry her daughters well, she should be one of the happiest women in the world. She was growing rather tired of the girls, whose continual quarrelling and jealousy of each other wearied her, and was anxious to get them married. They must go into society—she must entertain; and it would be strange indeed if they did not find husbands.One fine summer afternoon Lady Laurayne was reclining in her lounging-chair beneath the grand old trees of Hilldrop; before her lay the calm sheet of water known as the Priory Pool. Her solitude was broken and her peaceful dreaming interrupted by the approach of her daughter Blanche."So you have found a resting-place here, mamma," she said—"the coolest and pleasantest spot in the grounds!""Come and share it with me," returned Lady Laurayne. "But, my dear Blanche, how miserably discontented you look! What is the matter?""Oh, the quiet and dullness of this place are enough to drive one mad! It is tiresome beyond endurance.""It seems to me, my dear, that you have everything to make life pleasant.""It is all very well for you, mamma," replied Blanche, brusquely; "you are no longer young.""Pardon me, my child," said Lady Laurayne, suavely; "if that should be a source of comfort, you may take consolation from the fact that you are no longer what one may call young yourself.""Still you have had your share of enjoyment in life, mamma.""And you have had all that I could procure for you, my dear. You must remember it is not my fault if you have not secured a good establishment; I have given you every opportunity. But what is the special grievance now, Blanche?""There is nothing to do—and it is so warm!" was the impatient reply. Blanche sunk down upon the grass at her mother's feet. "Edith is so tiresome," she went on, "so contradictory! I really believe we are getting tired of each other. Having a twin-sister is not the most pleasant thing in the world.""I have no doubt, my dear, that poor Edith thinks just the same. But what is the particular grievance just now?""We want something to do. Why not invite some visitors who will cheer us up a little?""My dear: visitors are such a bore this hot weather.""To you; but they would not be to us. On the contrary, we could have some picnics and other amusements. You promised that Mercedes should come this summer; why not ask her?""I will think it over," replied Lady Laurayne, little dreaming how important those words were.CHAPTER XXII."THIS is promising, mamma!" exclaimed Mercedes, as she carried into the breakfast-room a delicately perfumed letter, with envelope of the latest fashionable tint, the writing on which was in the graceful hand of Lady Laurayne."This is promising," she repeated. "Only recently we were talking about my going to Hilldrop; and I feel sure that this letter contains the very invitation that I wanted."With a perplexed face madame opened the letter and read it."You are right, my dear," she said, slowly. "It is an invitation to Hilldrop; and Lady Laurayne says she hopes that it will not be merely for a few weeks, but that you will spend the autumn there.""When shall I go, mamma? Do not let us delay. 'That which is to be done should be done quickly' is an excellent motto.""You will have to make some preparations first," said madame. "You will see more society there than you do here with me. As you must have some fashionable dresses, we had better go to Denise for them.""That will ruin you, mamma!" laughed Mercedes. "But you are right; I must have dinner and evening dresses. I should imagine that Lady Laurayne gives very grand parties, and I must prepare accordingly. Is there not a message from the girls?"Madame read aloud:"Blanche and Edith send their love to you. They wish me to say with what pleasure they are looking forward to seeing you at Hilldrop. I hope you will all be excellent friends.""I am afraid that is not quite possible," observed Mercedes, laughingly. "Those estimable young ladies are not altogether in my style, I fancy; but I will do my best.""Mercedes," said madame, "you must promise the that you will do nothing that can in any way disgrace you.""No, mamma, I will not. I will content myself with watching and observing; I will do no more." " We will see at once, then, about your dresses," said madame."Things look a little more promising," said Blanche Tollemache to her sister Edith.They were standing together on one of the beautiful terraces for which Hilldrop was famous. Lady Laurayne was taking what she called her "after-dinner rest," which consisted in sleeping soundly, in a comfortable arm chair, for about an hour and a half. The girls, when thus left alone, found themselves dull enough, and generally went out into the grounds.A thousand times had Blanche regretted her ill nature with regard to the Duke of Hartwell. He had certainly shown a liking for Edith, and there had been a fair chance that she might at some future day have been Duchess of Hartwell; but that chance Blanche had most spitefully spoiled for her. She regretted it now. If Edith had been proposed to, it would have been a great humiliation to see her married first; but then how many good houses would have been open to the Duchess of Hartwell's sister, what invitations would have been showered upon her! What chances had she not lost by this one exhibition of spiteful jealousy!One by one the eligible men on whom their hopes had been fixed married and brought home their wives. The only one remaining was Sir Dixon Trent; all hope was not lost so long as he remained single; there was always that chance.Then the Vicar of Ravelston, who had grown rather feeble of late, had engaged a curate to help him, and that curate had become a favorite with the people among whom his lot was cast. For some time Lady Laurayne had ignored him. A curate was all very well in his place—to be smiled upon, bowed to, and treated amiably in a general sort of way, but not to be invited to places so select as Hilldrop or Broome, except in very exceptional circumstances. But, in speaking of him one day to the vicar, she heard, to her great surprise, that he was nephew to Lord Loftus of Ribstone.Lady Laurayne looked at the vicar in angry dismay."You should have told me that before, Dr. Stamford," she said. "How could I guess that he was so well-connected. I took him for quite an ordinary kind of person.""I beg to remind you, Lady Laurayne, that a curate has the status of a gentleman," returned the doctor, "and would therefore scarcely come under the category of 'ordinary kind of persons.'"The good vicar had not had a very high opinion of her ladyship since the scene in the library on the day of Sir Cyril's funeral. He had kept up an appearance of friendliness by occasional visits; but neither Lady Laurayne nor the Misses Tollemache had any place in his heart. He liked Sir Austin, though he regretted to see that he was entirely under his mother's influence."You know quite well what I mean, Dr. Stamford," said Lady Laurayne, apologetically. "If I had known that your curate belonged to the Loftuses of Ribstone, I should certainly have invited him to Hilldrop long before this.""If you ask my opinion on the matter, Lady Laurayne," rejoined the vicar, warmly, " I will tell you that I think you should have invited hint without waiting to know to what family he belonged.""I have daughters to marry," explained Lady Laurayne; "I must be cautious.""I think, as a rule, that you will find curates cautious also," retorted the vicar. "The Reverend Noel Loftus has not shown any sign at present of caring for anything but his clerical duties.""He will grow wiser in time," remarked her ladyship, to whom such things were of little concern. "I hope, Dr. Stamford. that he is not 'High.' Of all people, I should dread a High-Church curate."The vicar smiled at his own thoughts."I am afraid, then," he said, "that the Reverend Noel Loftus will not please your ladyship. He is 'High,' and I am compelled to restrain his zeal.""I hope he will not influence my daughter Blanche. She and I never agree on that point. No service is too 'High' for Blanche. When I heard her speak in London of going to 'even-song,' I told her at once that it could not be. The Tollemaches were always sound Evangelicals, thoroughly sound."This time the vicar laughed aloud. Quick-witted as was Lady Laurayne, he was her equal. He understood in a moment that, on the strength of the curate's being a Loftus of Ribstone, with some shadowy expectations, her ladyship would do her best to secure him for her daughter Blanche. Nor was it strange that Dr. Stamford laughed. He had seen Blanche pose to many different characters; but it was a novelty to find her taking the part of a High-Church devotee.Lady Laurayne was too shrewd to make immediate advances to the curate. She told her daughters, with an air of the utmost unconcern, that the curate who had recently come among them was one of the Loftus family, and she pretended not to see the gleam of pleasure that lighted up both their faces."You, my dears," she said, "will be the more interested in him when I tell you that your dear papa, Sir Alfred, knew the Loftuses well. This young man's uncle, the present Lord Loftus, was, one of his most intimate friends. It seems a very strange coincidence.""You will give some lawn-tennis parties soon, mamma, will you not?" Blanche asked, in a matter-of-fact tone."Yes, my dear; but we must not forget that we have at the same time other and more important things to think of. Strange to say, Mr. Loftus is a high churchman, Blanche. I told the vicar there must necessarily be great sympathy between you and him, for yon had a most decided leaning in that direction."And without another word, so complete was her worldly education, Blanche understood her rôle. She was to be an enthusiastic ritualist, and see what could be done with the well-connected curate.CHAPTER XXIII.IT was a lovely evening; but the beauties of nature were lost on the sisters. They strolled along, absorbed in their own thoughts, until Blanche turned to her sister, and said:"I am very glad to hear what mamma has told us. There seems to be a break in the clouds at last. I am so tired of the solitude of this place that I should welcome almost anything or anyone.""You have a High Church curate to welcome now, Blanche," returned Edith. "I know every tone of mamma's voice, every expression of her face; and, though she did not express it in words, it is plain to me that she hopes you may captivate Mr. Loftus.""I might do worse," remarked Blanche, musingly."And most decidedly you night do better," commented Edith."I hope," said Blanche, "that Mercedes will not interfere with our plans when she comes. If I had known about Mr. Loftus, I would not have persuaded mamma to invite her. She is very beautiful, mamma says. However, she is not a Miss Tollemache of Hilldrop. There is something in a name," added Blanche, proudly; "besides, I always think that Englishmen like English girls best.""And I think," answered Edith, "that men of every clime admire beauty, whether native or foreign.""I shall not be afraid," said Blanche; "I feel I can hold my own against any girl. I do not think Mercedes will attract the attention of Mr. Loftus when once I have secured him.""Forewarned is forearmed," said Edith, wisely. "I shall take precautions against any such contingency; you can please yourself.""I would not care for any man with regard to whom one had to take such precautions," returned Blanche, loftily."It is of no use taking that line with me," said Edith, laughing. "I am behind the scenes, Blanche; you always forget that.""I mean what I say," declared Blanche, with dignity."We shall see. I candidly confess that I see the signal 'Danger ahead!' and I shall take every precaution in my power. If you were a wise woman, Blanche, you would do the same.""I hate to be called a 'woman,'" Blanche said, pettishly."I cannot call you a girl, although it would be a compliment to myself," returned Edith, shortly; and then the Misses Tollemache entered the house.Hilldrop Priory had been originally built by a beneficent queen, of pious memory, as the chief house of a religious order that she desired to see flourish in England. Naturally enough, one of the most beautiful sites possible was chosen for it. No fairer landscape could be imagined than that which surrounded Hilldrop. From the upper windows of the house one could see the blue waters of the Channel, and on stormy nights the sound of the waves beating upon the shore could be distinctly heard.The large sheet of water called the Priory Pool was another feature of the place. No ghostly legends were known of either; no fair young life had been lost in its depths, no despairing shriek had rung over its bosons to die away it the woods beyond. Once upon a time carp had abounded there; now white lilies reposed on its surface and green reeds flourished around its edge.Such was Hilldrop, and, when the sun shone over the grand old house, with its fine terraces and gardens its blooming flowers and statuary, it was a home to be desired and loved.The interior of the house was not lacking in beauty. Some fine specimens of stained glass still remained at Hilldrop; now and again the visitor, in going about the house, would come across a magnificent old window. The quaint oak carvings, too, could scarcely be equalled in the country.To the artistic mind of Constance Laurayne the antiquity of the place was its greatest charm. She almost worshipped Hilldrop. All her love of the beautiful and all her reverence for art seemed to spring from it.Mercedes thought of this as the carriage sent to Ravelston Station to meet her proceeded leisurely through the magnificent avenues which surrounded Hilldrop."Well might Constance love it!" she murmured, as she saw the ruins and the noble pile of buildings bathed in sunlight. "If this had been my home, and I had lost it as she has, I should never have survived it. All me, if these old trees could speak! I wonder if beneath them any whisper has been heard of Sir Cyril's will?"Slowly the carriage wound its way round to the porch, and then Mercedes had reached her journey's end. The next minute she found herself in the spacious entrance-hall, and saw Lady Laurayne advancing to meet her."Welcome to Hilldrop, Mercedes!" said her ladyship, as she embraced her visitor affectionately. "How I wish Constance was with you!"Lady Laurayne never lost an opportunity of "looking pious" as Blanche phrased it, when she spoke of Constance. To utter her name in tones of deep sympathy, to raise her eyes with a tearful glance to heaven, to clasp her white begemmed hands, as though she was ready for any act of patience and resignation, seemed to relieve her mind greatly."You are just to time for five o'clock tea," announced Lady Laurayne. "We have two or three friends staying with us. You will like perhaps to go at once to your room? My maid shall wait upon you; I will take you there myself."This was the greatest of honors. It was seldom that the fair châtelaine escorted guests to their appointed rooms; the duty was usually relegated to one of her daughters. But she wished to show all honor to Mercedes, and she took this early opportunity of doing so. The more honor shown to her, the less could ill natured people find to say about Constance.When they had reached the room assigned to her, and Mercedes had taken off her hat with its


dark veil, Lady Laurayne looked at her with a feeling of admiration not unmingled with alarm. She had in some measure forgotten what the girl was like; one of the most brilliant and beautiful faces ever seen had not been clearly photographed on her memory. It took her by surprise now.She approached Mercedes, and took the blooming face between her hands."You are a veritable Spanish girl, Mercedes!" she said, with a smile. "You have not one English feature. Your eyes are black as sloes, your brows are dark as night.""Dear Lady Laurayne, you will make me quite vain," laughed Mercedes."As though you did not already know all about it!" returned her ladyship. "Whatever a girl may be ignorant of, she always knows when she is beautiful.""I do not understand," said Mercedes, "why I am so much like my father, and not at all like my mother, who is thoroughly English."Lady Laurayne smiled and said:"Excuse me, my dear—I must go, for I left my visitors to see you. You will change your dress for tea, I suppose?""Yes," replied Mercedes. "I have brought with me some tea-gowns of the latest fashion, and very pretty they are.""That is right," said Lady Laurayne; and again in her heart she wondered whether she had not shown a want of discretion, after all, in inviting this beautiful girl to Hilldrop—whether she had not spoiled her daughters' last chance by bringing her into contact with them. She smiled her sweetest smile while the thought weighed down her heart. "You will not be long, Mercedes?" she added. "I will send my maid to you. Do you remember your way to the drawing-room?""Yes," replied Mercedes; "I have not forgotten our first hurried visit to Hilldrop.""When you expected to find dear Constance here, and looked so surprised to see me?" said Lady Laurayne."Yes, exactly so," answered Mercedes.And Lady Laurayne thought to herself that her young visitor's speech was rather strange.CHAPTER XXIV.SOME girls would have experienced a feeling of trepidation on entering a drawing-room full of strangers. Not so Mercedes. She was free from all self-consciousness. She knew that she was beautiful, and frankly admitted to herself that she was very glad of it; but the knowledge of her beauty did not engross her thoughts. She liked to be well-dressed, of course; but, having once looked into the glass and satisfied herself that her toilet was just what it should be, she forgot herself entirely. She entered the drawing room at Hilldrop with perfect self-possession, with a grace and an air of high breeding that surprised Lady Laurayne.Her ladyship thought that a girl who could enter a room full of strangers in so graceful and well bred a manner would be equal to anything.Mercedes approached her hostess, who smilingly bade her to sit down and take a cup of tea. Before she had time to reply, Edith came up to her with a warm greeting."Welcome to Hilldrop, Mercedes!" she said. "We have been longing to see you."As Mercedes answered, she glanced around the luxuriously-furnished room, and saw that several visitors were present.The drawing-room at Hilldrop was a spacious apartment with four bay windows overlooking flower-bedecked terraces. The windows were all thrown wide open this warm afternoon, and the breeze was wafted in and filled the room with perfume.Mercedes' attention was attracted by two persons in the furthest bay. They were Blanche and the curate. A little table stood between them, on which were cups of tea. "Lovers, no doubt," thought Mercedes, with a smile; and she looked away. Than she noticed a tall man standing by the side of Lady Laurayne; who was watching her intently."Now, my dear," said her hostess, "I will introduce you to our friends." With a smile she turned to her companion. "Miss Suarez—Sir Dixon Trent," she said, briefly.Sir Dixon bowed. Mercedes, at a glance, read him without the slightest difficulty. The baronet was what the world calls a pleasant man, and he was esteemed by his neighbors more for his kindness of heart than for any brilliancy of intellect."You have chosen the best time of the year for your visit to Hilldrop, Miss Suarez," he said. "It is a grand old place and just now looks very beautiful.""I can well imagine that," returned Mercedes; and then she saw Edith coming toward them, with an anxious expression on her face.Suddenly it occurred to her that while the curate might have been captivated by Blanche, Sir Dixon had probably fallen a victim to Edith's charms. If so, not for the world would she mar their love affairs.A little further conversation with Sir Dixon, in which Edith joined, and then Lady Laurayne drew Mercedes away to the bay-window where Blanche was enjoying a tête-a-tête with the curate. She rose and welcomed Mercedes as warmly and as kindly as her sister had done; and then the Reverend Noel Loftus was introduced to Mercedes.The curate thought that Mercedes was the most exquisite specimen of womanhood on which his eyes had ever rested. He was a simple-hearted man, very impressionable and easily influenced. He had been charmed by Lady Laurayne's kindness to him, never for one moment dreaming that it was due to his family connections, or that her ladyship looked upon him as an eligible husband for one of her daughters.It had become an understood thing that on all occasions Blanche and Mr. Loftus had subjects of interest to discuss. Lady Laurayne remarked, laughingly, that she considered one of the bay-windows had been turned into a study. That the innocent curate never found out the fact that Blanche had but the shallowest knowledge of the real differences between High and Low Church only showed how entirely free from all distrust and suspicion he was.The usual mode of attack had been adopted that afternoon. Blanche had found a passage in a book that he had lent her which she could not understand; would he be good enough to explain it to her? Lady Laurayne smiled, and informed them good-humoredly that she could not have theological discussions at her tea-table; they had better retire at once to their favorite window-seat, and settle the difficulty there.It seemed quite natural to the Reverend Noel Loftus that he should seat himself in the bay-window, while Blanche's eyes were reverently fixed upon his face, waiting, as it were, for the pearls of wisdom that fell from his lips; and he was well content.Blanche was looking her best that afternoon. The heat had flushed her a little, and her eyes were bright with expectation. Her dress was such as the curate, in his own mind, thought modest and pretty; her hair, certainly auburn now, and no longer red, was worn in a style that suited her tall stately figure.The sun was shining brightly, and nature wore her loveliest aspect. Never had the curate been so happy; never had he felt so content, or so near to loving Blanche Tollemache. He had made one or two simple remarks that were very pleasant to her, and everything seemed to he progressing in the most satisfactory fashion, when, looking up,



he met the gaze of a pair of magnificent dark eyes, and all was over.There were several other groups in the drawing-room—for Lady Laurayne's five o'clock teas were very popular. Mercedes soon learned who were the guests that were staying in the house. They were a pretty young widow, very much given to flirting, Mrs. Hospice, with her niece, Mabel Ray, a quiet, amiable girl and a rich heiress, whose father had made his money by soap-boiling, and Mr. French, a barrister and author, a great friend of Sir Austin's. Lady Combe of Coombe, with Lady Riversly, had driven over to the Priory; so that there was a pretty large gathering, to Lady Laurayne's delight.Before the evening ended Mercedes had made several friends. Mrs. Hospice especially was delighted with her."I am glad that you have come to stay," she said, "and I hope you will remain some time. I have been here two days, and Lady Laurayne insists on my prolonging my visit. Between ourselves, I am glad of a companion, for the household is a trifle heavy."So much for the sincerity of the world!" thought Mercedes. "If I could hear this lady talking to her hostess, she would doubtless hardly be able to find words to express her delight.""Lady Laurayne is very fond of my niece," continued Mrs. Hospice—"and Mabel is certainly a very nice girl; but she is rather too quiet to be much of a companion to me. You have heard of her, of course!""No," replied Mercedes. "But then I have not been long in England. I have spent nearly all my life in Spain, and it is only within the last few months that mamma brought me to London. There we have seen more of Spanish than English society.""How strange! Put you look quite Spanish.""My father," said Mercedes, proudly, "was one of the bravest officers in the Spanish army.""And you have inherited some of his spirit, unless I am much mistaken," laughed the widow."There is very little that I am afraid of," responded Mercedes.Mrs. Hospice felt her heart warm to the girl, whose bright face wore the stamp of truth and honesty." I wish," she said, involuntarily, "that Mabel was more like you. She is too quiet. With all her wealth, she will never make headway in society.""Is she so very rich then?" asked Mercedes."Ah, my dear Miss Suarez that shows what a stranger you are! My niece's fortune has been one of the topics of the day; everyone in society has been talking about it. My sister," continued the pretty widow, "married a Mr. Ray, a soap-boiler. She died a few years after her marriage, leaving him this one daughter, Mabel. He lived on his old quiet, economical manner, sent his child to school, saved money—an immense amount, Miss Suarez—then died and bequeathed it all to his daughter, he left me a very handsome legacy, with a request that I would take his daughter under my charge. I have done so; but I am dreadfully at a loss to know how to act. If he had been anything on earth but a soap-boiler, I could have managed."Mercedes looked up in astonishment."Is not money made by soap-boiling quite as good as money made in any other way?" she asked."I do not doubt it, but the world evidently does not think so. When my niece goes into society, the first question is, 'Who is she?' The answer, perhaps not a very polite one, is, 'Old Ray's heiress.' The next question is. 'What Old Ray?' Then comes the answer, 'Don't you know? Ray, the soap-boiler. He is dead and she has inherited his money.' I do not say that this objection is raised everywhere. There are plenty of people who would welcome her with open arms. But with her enormous fortune, she ought to marry into some fine old family. The worst, however, of the fine old families is that they do not care for fortunes made in such a fashion. 'My grand-father, the soap-boiler,' would not sound well.""What nonsense!" laughed Mercedes. Yet she could not but feel that she would rather be poor and call a brave officer father than be the soap-boiler's daughter."That is my difficulty," sighed pretty Mrs. Hospice. "My niece's fortune entitles her to make a grand marriage. There are ducal houses in England where her fortune would be looked upon as a boon; but the sons of ducal houses do not care for an alliance with trade."Suddenly it occured to Mercedes what all this meant. Sir Austin Laurayne belonged to one of the oldest and most honored families in England; there were few places more ancient than Broome; most probably Lady Laurayne and Mrs. Hospice intended Mabel to be Lady Laurayne, of Broome. As this idea struck Mercedes, she looked up into the widow's face and smiled. Mrs. Hospice smiled in return, and they understood each other without further explanation."How quick that girl is!" thought the widow. "She would be either a very useful friend or a very dangerous foe.""That is the dressing-bell, Mercedes," said Blanche, as she joined them, wondering what their long conversation had been about. "I am very sorry that Austin is not coming this evening. He has some men staying with him, and mamma quite expected them. I am sorry, because we shall have more ladies than men, and that is so awkward.""I like a lively woman better than a dull man," said Mercedes."My dear Miss Suarez," the widow laughed, "that is rank heresy. Even the dullest, the heaviest, the most wearisome of men, from society's point of view, is superior to the most brilliant of women."The guests and the members of the family were now all in their own rooms. Lady Laurayne, with her plans and schemes, dressed as though she had nothing to do but look handsome; Mrs. Hospice looked at herself in the mirror, and regretted that so much sweetness had to be wasted on women's society; Miss Mabel Ray dressed as she usually did, without any thought at all, quite content with  the knowledge that she was one of the richest girls in the country; Blanche, with the certainty that she should eclipse Edith quite as much as the curate eclipsed Sir Dixon; Edith, with the same feeling, only "the other way about;" and Mercedes, with the anticipation of great amusement. Reading the characters of people around her was to her like reading the pages of a pleasant and humorous book.Mercedes looked charming. She wore an amber dress trimmed with black lace, in the bodice of which nestled a Marechal Niel rose, while another was fastened in the coils of her dark shining hair.Alas for the love-stricken curate! During the time devoted to dressing he had thought of her continually, and he had come to the conclusion that he might certainly hope for the happiness of speaking to her, perhaps even of having a few minutes chat with her. But he had reckoned without his High-Church pupil. The moment he entered the drawing-room Blanche pounced upon him."Come and decide for me," she said, "which of these two is the prettier." She held out to him in one hand a damask-rose, in the other a maiden's blush."I cannot choose; they are both perfect," he returned, perplexedly."That can hardly be; one must surely excel the other," she said. "Do you know the legend of the moss-rose?""No," he answered; "I am acquainted with very few legends.""I will tell it to you," she said. "A fairy had one day to choose the fairest of all flowers; as a matter of course, he choose the rose; and then he was told that he might give to her any new beauty he liked. He looked at her critically, but he could not see how any other beauty could be added. So, bidding her bend her beautiful head, he threw over her a veil of moss. Is not that pretty?""Legends and fables are usually pretty," he replied; "it is only truths that are not always pleasant.""I would sooner hear an unpleasant truth than the pleasantest of fables," declared Blanche, hoping to impress him favorably."Quite right," he said, cheerfully. Then, looking a little confused, he added, "Would you mind my asking you a few questions about the young lady with the Spanish name? Is she related to you at all?"Blanche explained the relationship between them. He listened with a slightly puzzled air. "Then she is the cousin of the lady, Miss Constance Laurayne, who—who—" At this point he found himself hopelessly involved, and could say no more.Blanche smiled, and finished the sentence for him."Who claimed the Priory because it had been her mother's? Yes, Mercedes is her cousin; their mothers were sisters.""She is very beautiful," said the curate, simply, with an air of earnest admiration."Do you admire such a very dark style?" Blanche asked. "I cannot say that I do."Then she gained her end. Dinner was announced, and the Reverend Noel Loftus, with a bow, held out his arm to her. She was at that moment inexpressibly happy, for she was proud of his attention and his apparent devotion.CHAPTER XXV.THE dinner was excellent and well-served, as were all dinners at Hilldrop. One saw at a glance that a lady of refinement had the management of the house. The decorations were in the most exquisite taste—feathery fronds of palm, roses, and choice orchids. Mercedes' quick eyes noted everything—the fine plate—which, she remarked, had not the Laurayne crest upon it—the costly glass, the well-trained domestics who moved about so rapidly and noiselessly, the recherche dishes and choice wines. She looked round the table; every face was smiling."Is this your first visit to Hilldrop, Miss Suarez?" asked a clear timid voice on her left. Mercedes had forgotten the curate, who had been all this time gathering courage to address her. She looked at him with a smile, and answered:"No. We came direct here, mamma and I, when we returned from Spain; but our stay was very brief."She saw that he wished to continue the conversation; but Blanche interposed by asking if Widow Wilson's little boy was any better—a flank movement which recalled the erring curate to his duty, but left him speechless."Is he better—that nice little boy of Widow Wilson's?" repeated Blanche, in a far more distinct voice."Widow Wilson's little boy!" he repeated, slowly. He was just recovering from the effect of Miss Suarez's dazzling simile, and to be suddenly questioned in this way concerning Widow Wilson's little boy served only to complete his confusion. "He—yes, he is better," stammered the hapless man—"at least, I think so.""You think, Mr. Loftus," exclaimed Blanche—"only think! Have you not been to see him?"He had regained his self-possession now, and knew that he must atone for his absence of mind."Yes, I was there this morning," he replied "although I had forgotten it when you spoke."Blanche mentally resolved to treasure up this slight to her powers of captivation and at a more fitting time repay it."I am glad to hear it," she observed, with a most amiable smile. "I like Widow Wilson."The last few words reached Lady Laurayne's ears, and she could not help thinking that the topic was singularly ill-chosen. Theology, district-visiting, and all such subjects were suitable when nothing else was on the tapis, and they were, of course, matters to please the curate; but, to drag them in during dinner! The very thought of it made Lady Laurayne sigh. She would never be able to make her girls understand the right and the wrong time for discussing certain subjects—never!"If they were only a little more like Mercedes!" she said to herself. "If I had had the bringing out of that girl, I would have made her a duchess."Blanche, too, seemed to realize that she might have found a more cheerful topic of conversation than either Widow Wilson or her invalid little boy."Have I told you, Mr. Loftus," she said, "that we are going to have a series of lawn-tennis parties? Do you like lawn-tennis?""Yes, I think it one of the most interesting games we have," he replied. Here was another happy opening for him; and, without waiting for another word from Blanche, he turned to Mercedes. "Do you like lawn-tennis Miss Suarez?" he asked, timidly."I know very little of it," she replied. "I never saw it played in Spain.""No, of course not. I had forgotten how short a time you have been in England. I think the game will please you. The young ladies here are very proficient: they will, of course, give you the best of instruction, and I shall be only too happy if I can be of any assistance.""It must be quite a delightful resource in the country," remarked Mercedes, absently."Yes: and, combined with amusement, you have fresh air and exercise—two things which I think ladies are very much inclined to neglect."He spoke so seriously that Mercedes could not restrain a smile."Perhaps a lady's idea of exercise differs from yours," she answered. "If you walk seven or eight miles along a good road, with the fresh air blowing ink your face, you probably call that good exercise.""Most certainly I do," he replied."Take the case of a lady who goes, we will say, to two or three balls every week and dances nearly every dance; do you not think she has as much exercise as the man who walks?""Yes, perhaps so, but certainly not of the right kind. She breathes the vitiated air of a ball-room and turns night into day. In the way of health-giving exercise I think nothing can approach lawn-tennis. It is for ladies what cricket is for boys and men.""I quite agree with you," said Mercedes.And Lady Laurayne, as she listened to their conversation. said to herself, "What can Blanche be thinking about?"The least interested and least amused person present was Edith. Sir Dixon, like most of his neighbors, enjoyed the good things of this life, and during dinner he did not, as a rule, trouble himself about anything else. He liked conversation to flow, but he did not care much for joining in it; so that Edith, who was quite as anxious as was Blanche that the assembled guests should perceive how successful she had been in attracting an admirer, relapsed into gloomy silence, over which her mother sighed in vain."If I could but brighten my girls ever so little" she said to herself, regretfully.She began to understand now why all her matrimonial speculations had failed. Men liked to be amused. Her ladyship was painfully convinced that, although her daughters were what many people called nice gills, they were "heavy." Mercedes had but to open her lips and something sparkling was sure to fall from them. Mrs. Hospice kept everyone smiling; but Blanche and Edith seemed singularly awkward, and altogether deficient in tact."One cannot have everything," Lady Laurayne sighed, as she rose from the table, thus giving the signal for the ladies to retire.Sir Dixon opened the door for them."We shall not be very long," he whispered to Edith as she passed out.But she, displeased at what she considered his neglect, did not answer.The evening was so warm that Lady Laurayne had given orders for all the windows in the brilliantly-lighted drawing-room to be left open. The room presented a charming aspect now, the light of the lamps casting a soft radiance over everything—the fair faces of the ladies, their rich dresses and shining jewels, the rare exotics, ferns, and works of art. Outside the landscape lay bathed in moonlight, and the breeze wafted in at the open windows the sweet perfume of flowers."How fresh and sweet the air is!" Mercedes said to Mrs. Hospice, who had followed her to the window. "There should be but little illness here.""It does not often happen," responded Mrs. Hospice. "Lady Laurayne did tell me how long it was since there had been either sickness or death in the house, but I forget.""Not since Miss Trafford died here," said Mercedes; "and the cause of her death, I have heard mamma say, was not sickness, but a broken heart.""A broken heart!" repeated Mrs. Hospice with a smile. "My dear Miss Suarez, do you believe in such a thing?""Yes. I know of another heart that is breaking just as surely—the heart of a most lovely and noble woman;" and tears filled Mercedes eyes' as she thought of Constance, who had lost home and lover.The pretty widow looked at her curiously for a new a moments, but did not pursue the subject. Then they conversed on general matters, until Mrs. Hospice said:"Do look round! That is posing for effect Indeed?"Lady Laurayne, her rich dress falling in graceful folds, was seated in the coziest easy-chair in the room, and carelessly folding in her hand a large feather-fan. She had closed her eyes with relief, feeling that the dinner had been a marked success. There had been no flaw in her arrangements, and she felt that she might rest on her laurels. Blanche had taken up her position in her favorite window and was alone."We are evidently not wanted there," observed Mrs. Hospice, laughingly. "By the way. Blanche would not make a bad picture as she sits there with the moonlight falling on her face. It might be called 'Expectation,' with the tall form of the curate in the distance. When he comes in, you will see her cast an appealing glance at him, and he will walk straight over to her.""You seem to understand all the arrangements pretty well," said Mercedes with a smile. "I have studied social life, my dear Miss Suarez," returned the widow. "and understand it, as you say. There will be another touching group by and by." The widow pointed to Edith, who had seated herself at a small table, not far from the door, with a portfolio of engravings before her. "As Sir Dixon passes by," Mrs. Hospice went on, "Edith will turn to him with a smile, and holding up an engraving, say, 'What do you think of this, Sir Dixon?' He will be compelled to stop and discuss its merits with her and then she will be happy.""Social tactics must be a great art," laughed Mercedes. "What will Mr. French do?""Mr. French? Oh, he will enter the room with a slightly dazed air! He generally looks as though he had just arrived from the moon, and was not quite sure as to the amount of intelligence he had brought with him. Clever men—and he is clever—often have that vacant look. He will glance round the room, and his good sense will tell him that the theological lovers do not want him, also that he would be de trop at the little table in the corner there. He will look at Lady Laurayne, and forbear to disturb her, and afterward, it is possible, discover that even a man of iron nerve must not approach my dear niece so soon after dinner. So, as a last resource, he will find his way to us here."Then what Mrs. Hospice had foretold took place. The gentlemen came in, the curate leading the way. Mr. Loftus looked a little confused, for he had determined within the last twenty minutes that he would see a little more of the charming Spanish-looking girl who had just come among them. There was really no reason, he told himself, why he should spend the whole of the evening with Blanche. He had answered all her questions; he had been very attentive to all her requests; surely he might now indulge in a tête-à-tête with Mercedes!He looked round the room, but did not see the two ladies standing in the shadow of the white lace curtains. Blanche, a picture of expectation, looked up at him with a smile, and with a pretty little gesture half indicated that there was an unoccupied chair by her side. He groaned in spirit, but obeyed her with a good grace.Mercedes and Mrs. Hospice smiled significantly at each other.Then came Sir Dixon; and, as he passed Edith's chair, she held out one of the engravings to him, "What do you think of this?" she asked.He lingered for a moment, began to discuss its beauties, and finally took a chair by her side. The two onlookers smiled again, and the smile developed into a laugh when Mr. French steered cleverly past Lady Laurayne and joined them."You seem very happy here," he said."We are looking at the stars," answers Mrs. Hospice.A subject of conversation was soon started, and Mr. French told some curious anecdotes of the legal profession which greatly interested the two ladies. Presently he asked Mercedes if she sang."Yes," she replied frankly. "Would you care to hear me? If so, I will sing for you with pleasure."Her ready grace and amiability pleased him; and he hastened to the piano and opened it for her."If you want to hear my voice at its best," she said, "go back to Mrs. Hospice. I know that it sounds best at a distance.""There is something about you that compels obedience," he replied, with a bow: and he went back to the pretty widow at the open window. Mercedes' white hands seemed to sweep the keys with a magic touch; a voice sad, sweet, and clear, filled the room."My clear Mercedes, how beautiful!" cried Lady Laurayne, when the sweet tones died away. "What a splendid voice you have!""I haven't felt so sentimental for years," remarked Mr. French.Suddenly Mercedes found the curate at her side."What is that piece called?" he asked. "It is the first time in my life that I have heard pathos and regret so beautifully blended.""Then you have not heard much tender music," she replied. "You cannot separate them. With pathos there must be regret—at least, I think so.""You are right," he agreed. "I am sure you are right." There was a passion and an earnestness in his voice which touched Mercedes, and she turned to him with a smile. It would have been true kindness if she had not done so, for the man's whole heart had gone out to her in maddest, wildest worship."What is the composer's name?" he asked. "Not that I shall ever forget one note of the song. but I should like to have the piece by me. The refrain will haunt me:
"'Only a year ago, love—Only a year ago.'"
"I cannot tell you," she answered, "who composed the music. It is the air of an old Spanish love-song, and I put the English words to it.""Ah!" he said, with a deep-drawn sigh.At that moment the watchful Blanche came up to the piano, as though attracted by the music, but really with the intention of removing the curate from dangerous influences. She sang very sweetly—but her singing had never made his face grow pale or his heart beat with a quicker pulsation. It was all mechanical—there was no soul in it.The gentlemen at last rose up to leave; and the Reverend Noel Loftus, curate of St Johns, Ravelston, reached home that night desperately and hopelessly in love.CHAPTER XXVI.THE Reverend Noel Loftus had not dreamed that the world held such a woman as Mercedes. Lady Laurayne and some of her friends were very handsome; he had met many pretty girls; but a being like this dark-eyed houri he had never seen. When he laid his head down to rest, and when he awoke in the morning, the refrain that she had sung kept ringing in his ears:"'Only a year ago, love—Only a year ago.'"He pictured her taper fingers gliding over the pianoforte keys, the light on her lovely face, the yellow roses in her hair. In vain he endeavored to occupy himself with his books, in vain he tried to concentrate his mind on his work; the blushing face, the dark eyes smiled upon him and held his thoughts captive.He had that day to visit a dying woman, and a sick child.This will not do," he told himself. "I must really pull myself together; I must dismiss her from my thoughts to-day—at any rate, until evening comes."He said this gravely to himself, believing it possible. Yet, as he walked through the green lanes and the meadows, and down the dusty high-road, the refrain of Mercedes' song still rang in his ears.Soon he reached the cottage where the dying woman was lying She was tired of life, she said. She was young, and still retained traces of great beauty; but her husband had taken to evil ways, and had neglected her and ceased to love her; therefore she was glad to die.He tried to convey to her that the only real love was not earthly, but Heavenly, and through some of the brightest hours of that bright day he sat by the side of the sufferer, consoling and comforting her; and in those few hours he learned one of life's sternest lessons."The best love is not of earth," he said to her again and again.When he left her passing slowly to the unknown land, and went out again into the pure fresh air, the quivering leaves, the summer wind, the happy birds, all seemed to be still singing the old refrain:
"'Only a year ago, love—Only a year ago.'"

But the curate tried not to hear it. "The best love is not of earth," he had said; and, as he went on his way to visit the sick child, he endeavored resolutely to keep the words in his heart.Such a tiny child it was, so fragile and fair! The mother was clasping it tightly in her arms, as though she feared the Angel of Death might come unawares and take it from her. She had wrapped a shawl round the little one and brought it into the garden, so that the blue eyes might be gladdened by the sight of the flowers."It is not fever, sir," the mother told the young clergyman; "it is what the neighbors call 'wasting away.' My little child was so healthy and strong only a year ago! Only a year ago!' she repeated, pensively.The curate started at the words. She wondered why he grew so pale, why he turned, and hurriedly paced the garden-path."I do not think," he said presently, in the hope of comforting the anxious mother, "that your little one will die. She lacks only strength. You must give her plenty of nourishing food.""I would if I could," she replied sorrowfully. He was not rich; but he put a coin into the woman's hand which caused her eyes to till with tears."I know some kind-hearted ladies," he said "and I am sure that I can promise you grapes and a few delicacies. By their aid we shall soon have your little Annie well again."As he uttered the words, it was not Blanche Tollemache whom he pictured bending over the pale pretty child; it was the girl with brilliant face and dark eyes who had sung to him. He had forgotten Blanche as entirely as if she had never existed. His word had narrowed to the small charmed circle in which Mercedes stood."A kind lady shall come to see you, little Annie, and bring you some grapes," he said, bending over the child with a smile, and then took his departure, a mother's blessing following him as he went.He walked home feeling like one who treads on air. He had a fresh reason for going over to Hilldrop—he must tell Mercedes about this sweet little child, who had been so strong "only a year ago." He hastened home to his lodgings in Ravelston, and reached Hilldrop in time for the cup of tea which seemed so much more fragrant there than elsewhere.His heart was beating fast with gladness, his eyes were dim with happy tears. simply because he was again going to see the girl who had so suddenly become the star of his life.It was not until he drew near to the Priory that he thought of Blanche, for in his mind he had associated the pretty sunlit garden, the pale wasting child, and the loving anxious mother with the beautiful face of Mercedes and her pathetic song."How strange that the woman should have used those very words—Only a year ago—only a year ago!"He was so completely at home at Hilldrop that he seldom walked up to the principal entrance, but passed in at the postern-gate. As a role, Blanche, knowing well the time of his visits, was lingering somewhere near; but this afternoon he hoped devoutly that she would have no theological doubts which she would wish him to clear away.On this occasion Fortune was kind to him. Near the postern-gate was a spot which had a fascination for Mercedes. From some ancient legend it was called the Cloister Square. Four ruined walls surrounded it, and in the middle stood a fine old cedar, with a few seats here and there on the grass. Mercedes especially liked this place; it was pleasantly green and cool. She liked to sit there in solitude and give rein to her thoughts.She sat within the Cloister Square quietly cogitating, when she was startled by the appearance of a tall figure before her. Looking up, she beheld Mr. Loftus, who was evidently embarrassed by the expected meeting.She sent him into an ecstasy by asking him if he would not sit down. His confusion and embarrassment soon left him, and in his own simple, pathetic way, he told her of the dying woman and of the sick child, and how it had struck him as a singular coincidence that the child's mother should have made use of the words that were haunting him—"Only a year ago." He did not realize how, as he proceeded, he was ingratiating himself with Mercedes.She read his character in a few minutes. She saw that he had the innocence and gentleness of a child combined with the power and earnestness of a man who has given his whole life to a great work; and her heart warmed to him, though not with love."You would like me to visit the sick child?" she said, gently. "But does not Blanche undertake such matters for you?""Yes, as a rule; but I promised little Annie you would go. Will you, Miss Suarez? I know that Miss Blanche is always kind; but, however strange it may appear, it was you of whom I thought when I beheld the pretty sunlit garden and the pale little child; so naturally I spoke to her of you. Will you go?""I would do anything to please you; but we must be discreet," she said, more worldly-wise than he. "If you have been accustomed to appeal to Miss Blanche, and now suddenly seek someone else, do you not think she will be just a little hurt? She will consider herself neglected. Do you not think so?""I—I never thought of that," he replied, in consternation."No?" laughed Mercedes. "It is only to wicked worldly people like myself that such ideas occur. But you see, Mr. Loftus, you have been great friends with Blanche, and it might seam to lookers-on as though I were disturbing your friendship. I will do what you wish. I will go to see the little child, and take her some grapes and some jelly, and I will try to comfort the mother; but—and I am sure you will agree with me—it will be wiser for you to say nothing at all about it here; then there can be no mistake, and no jealousy.""How clever you are!" he cried, with a burst of reverent admiration. "I should have blundered on without thinking of such a thing. You see all round the affair, as country folk here say.""Some of us must have our wits about us," laughed Mercedes, "or we should become hopelessly involved. Now let me think about your little girl. Where do you say she lives?"He told her, and she made a note of his instructions."I will drive into Ravelston to-morrow," she said then, "and leave the groom with the pony-carriage while I buy some grapes; then I will go to the cottage. No one need know anything at all about it.""To-morrow?" he questioned, as though the news were too good to be true.""Yes, tomorrow," said Mercedes; "and, believe me, it will be a pleasure for me to aid you. I—you must forgive me if I am somewhat plainspoken—I admire your goodness and unselfishness. Now that our little business is settled, you had better go and see the ladies," and she held out her hand to him with a smile.He was bewildered with happiness. The peerless, beautiful creature admired him, praised him, and had granted gladly the request he had made in fear and trembling. He touched the shapely hand with the utmost deference, and then went to the house, where he found the ladies assembling for afternoon tea.Mercedes did not go in to tea, but had some brought out to her; she drank it alone, while she thought of the curate and what he had said. She could not fall to see that he had fallen in love with her. With all her vivacity and brightness, she was no coquette, no flirt—indeed, she had the utmost contempt for such a woman. She resolved that she would be most cautious in her conduct, that she would not mislead him by word or look. She liked him too well to deceive him. He was altogether a new type of character to her, and she was too clever not to appreciate it.The curate never knew how the next hour passed. Blanche was assiduous in her attentions to him; but instinctively she forbore from approaching the usual theological topics. There was something in his true, honest face that made her heart beat faster. There was in this man on whom she had once looked almost with contempt a reserve of power that must make itself felt sooner or later."To-morrow!" The Reverend Noel Loftus went home repeating the word: and, when the morrow came, he watched until he saw the pony-carriage pass through the streets of Ravelston: then he hurried to the little cottage. The wish of his heart was granted. He saw his idol bending over the pale little child; he saw the white hand that had been extended to him so graciously holding out a bunch of purple grapes to the delighted little one; he heard the voice that held all the music of earth for him uttering such words of comfort that his own heart thrilled with joy."I knew she would be almost Angelic with a sick child!" he said to himself.The citrate of Ravelston had at least one happy day in his life.CHAPTER XXVII."WE do not see much of the young baronet," remarked Mercedes one morning to Mrs. Hospice. "I have been here for more than three weeks, and Sir Austin Laurayne has not yet called.""He has been from home," Mrs. Hospice exclaimed. "I did not know the reason of his long absence until yesterday. I believe Lady Laurayne knew, but would not tell us, lest my niece should lose heart and go away ""Lose heart and go away!" repeated Mercedes. "What do you mean?""I may as well tell you the truth, Mercedes, for I have confidence in you. Lady Laurayne is very desirous that her son should fall in love with and marry my niece: while I, for my part, should be only too pleased; and we are giving the young people a chance—that is all.""It is a poor chance, seeing that they never meet," laughed Mercedes. "Will they make love by proxy?""No; they will meet often enough when he returns. I know his absence is unavoidable. He is so devoted to his mother that, when he is near her, he never lets a day pass without visiting her. Lady Laurayne told me so.""And your niece—how does she like the prospect?" asked Mercedes."It pleases her. She is not emotional fortunately. Sometimes, when I look at her placid face, over which, Mercedes, no ripple of passion, of pleasure, of pain, ever seems to pass, the idea occurs to me that she simply vegetates—exists rather than lives. A wretched idea, is it not? I am thoroughly ashamed of it: but her inertia, her absolute want of animation, forces me to entertain it.""Sir Austin will not have a very lively time of it," laughed Mercedes."Let us spend this morning out among the ruins," suggested Mrs. Hospice. "I am afraid that I am not what the world calls devout: but I do love that old ruined church. I will take my books and work: perhaps the girls will come too."They assented cordially to the proposal, and had a pleasant little impromptu picnic among the ruins. The high walls sheltered them from the son, and the balmy air was delightfully refreshing: a table laden with fruit and ices was brought

from the house, and a few rags laid upon the grass formed pleasant lounges."What lovers of luxury we are!" cried Mercedes. "And to think that where we are sitting now, years ago pious black-veiled nuns knelt and wept and prayed! What tears those old walls have seen! What strange prayers they have heard!""You are moralizing, Mercedes," cried Mrs. Hospice; "and moralizing on such a glorious day is unpardonable. For a punishment you shall sing us a song.""A song out here!" said Mercedes. "I should be ashamed for the birds to hear me!""You need not be ashamed," replied Mrs. Hospice; "and so the birds would say, I'm sure, if they could only tell us their thoughts.""Blanche, Edith, Miss Ray, do you wish me to sing?" asked Mercedes.The unanimous answer was "Yes.""I will sing you an Irish love-song," she said, "for, next to the Spanish, the Irish love-songs are the finest in the world;" and, after the lapse of a minute or two, the beautiful voice rose sweet and clear, sweet as the trilling of a bird in spring.The sweet voice soared above the ruined walls and their thick covering of ivy, reaching the ears of a man and woman who were standing talking on the sloping path that led from the ruins to the house. The man, as he listened, hastened to a point whence he could obtain a view of what was passing, and he stood like one entranced until the music ceased. Then he rejoined the lady hastily."Mother, he cried, "who is that?""Who is who, my dear?" returned Lady Laurayne—for it was she-startled by his impetuosity out of her usual calm."The young girl singing," he replied, his eyes fixed eagerly on her face."Mercedes, I should think, from the voice," she said, not too well pleased with his empressement—"Mercedes Suarez, the cousin of that unfortunate Constance. I told you she was coming, and invited you to meet her at dinner, you remember; but you could not come.""So that is Constance's cousin! I had pictured such a very different person," he remarked. "The girls said she was in every way the exact opposite of Constance. You know Constance to my thinking, one of the most beautiful of women —divinely tall and most divinely fair.""Yes, I know, Austin." said Lady Laurayne, soothingly. "She is indeed a very lovely woman."She knew that her son sympathized with and loved his half-sister,
and she therefore abstained carefully from saying a word about her
which could jar upon him. She was far too politic and worldly-wise to commit such an error."You must introduce me to her at once, mother," he said. "What a voice, what a face!" And they went to the ruins together.Mercedes was on the point of commencing another song when Sir Austin and his mother appeared at the ivy-covered arch which had once been the principal door of the old church, she saw them at once, and shrunk back. She could sing to unappreciative listeners, to the girls whose cold hearts and natures she warmed by the fire of her own; but she could not sing to this tall, hand-some stranger who had come so suddenly upon the scene and gazed at her with eyes gleaming with admiration. She went back to her seat at Mrs. Hospice's side."Why, this is quite a picnic!" cried Lady Lauranyne. "How cool you all look on this warm day! Come, Austin, let us join them."There was a slight flutter in the little circle, such as will occur when a very handsome and eligible man makes his way among a group of unmarried ladies. The twin-sisters hastened to meet their brother, of whom they were justly proud.Mrs. Hospice, with a merry twinkle in her eyes, whispered to Mercedes:"The disciple of high art come at last, and making his way in this direction, too!For Sir Austin, having kissed his sisters, was hastening toward Mercedes."I have asked my mother to introduce me, Miss Suarez," he said, "but I need hardly have done so, as you are the cousin of my dear sister Constance. Although unfortunately she and I are not agreed on one point, yet I love her dearly."He could not have more surely won his way to the girl's heart. As she looked at him, her brilliant eyes read him unerringly. Noble and true, proud, frank, and generous, he was a man to be trusted implicitly; with a quick, ardent, passionate nature, yet endowed with the grace of self-control. To think that he would have wronged Constance was absurd. If he erred at all, it would be on the side of quixotic generosity, not of fraud and injustice. This she read clearly as she looked into his face."I am pleased to welcome you to Hilldrop," he went on, "and I hope you will come to see Broome. It is not such a fine old place as this; but it has charms of its own. I am very sorry that I have been away so long; but, now that I have returned, I shall come over as often as possible.""Dear me," thought Lady Laurayne, "that is enough for once! Mabel will be jealous!"The young baronet was not to be lured from this newly-found beauty. He wished Mercedes would speak to him; he longed to hear her voice and to look into her dark eyes again: but she persistently turned her face from him, and, picking a spray from a creeper near her, wound it nonchalantly round her taper fingers."I have heard of you very often," he continued, "and was most anxious to see you."Still she did not look at him; nor did she appear to take the slightest interest in what he said. A sudden and, to her, quite unaccountable fit of shyness had come over her."Are you displeased at seeing me?" he asked at last, with a smile, finding that he could win neither word nor look from her."By no means," she answered. "Constance and I have often talked about you.""I am glad to hear it," he said. "The wretched affair of the will has caused me much misery. I would rather have lost fifty Priories than dear Constance. The whole thing was terribly unfortunate; but, you see, I am head of the family, and I was informed that it would have been in direct opposition to my father's wishes to part with the property, which he intended to go with the family estate. However, we will talk of this at another time. It is long since we heard of Constance—I do not even know where she is; but you will give me her address?"He had interested her thoroughly now, and almost immediately her shyness vanished."I cannot give it to you without her permission," she returned; "but I will write and ask.""You are faithful as you are beautiful," he was going to add; but he checked himself."Austin," said the soft voice of Lady Laurayne, "will you give Miss Ray an ice?"Mercedes withdrew at once, while Mrs. Hospice watched what followed with quiet amusement."An ice? Yes, certainly," replied Sir Austin, who felt that he must pay the heiress some attention."You are quite a stranger, Sir Austin," she said, after thanking him. "I did not expect to see you again.""You could not have been so cruel as to go away without allowing me to say good-by," he answered, laughingly."You cannot charge me with cruelty," returned Mabel. "It is you who have been away. What have you been doing with yourself?""I am afraid the only answer I can give is that I have been enjoying myself," he replied—"which is, after all, a very poor way of employing the time.""I think it is the best way," she said, languidly, "except when one is obliged to work. How very warm it is, Sir Austin! But certainly this is the coolest part of the grounds. Would you give me some grapes? I prefer those large green ones; they are delicious!"He chose a fine bunch and handed them to her. As one by one the grapes vanished, Mabel enlarged languidly upon the various kinds of grapes and their flavors, Sir Austin yawned without disguise; he could not help it. The day was very warm, and he longed to get away to the ivy-covered arch beneath which he could see the beautiful Southern face he so admired.Mercedes, though she averted her eyes resolutely from him, was intensely conscious of his presence, and she hated herself for being so.Presently Sir Austin could no longer restrain his longing; and, leaving the heiress' side, he approached Mercedes. Miss Suarez blushed crimson as Sir Austin seated himself by her side."I overheard your song," he said to her. "What a charming voice you have! I hope I shall have the pleasure of hearing it again.""Thank you—I hope you will," she returned. with a smile. "I am very fond of singing, and I should not like to think that that was my last song.""I wish you would sing it again," he murmured, persuasively.She knew that it was impossible in her present confusion. She felt she could not sing to him; yet she could not tell why."Not now," she said; "I will sing that and any other song you like at another time."CHAPTER. XXVIII.THREE weeks had passed since Sir Austin first saw and heard Mercedes singing her pretty Irish love-song. They had not been uneventful weeks at Hilldrop. Mabel Ray had grown, if possible, more placid and more disposed to take her case than ever, and Mrs. Hospice saw the hope of marrying the heiress to the owner of Broome was a vain one. Sir Austin fully acknowledged the charm of her large fortune, but had no desire to make it his own: and the aunt and niece were both thinking of seeking other quarters, where the chances of matrimony were greater than they were at the Priory. Miss Ray must secure a husband, and there was certainly no man there likely to marry her. Mr. French was not to be thought of; Sir-Dixon did not like her; Sir Austin laughed when they talked of his marrying her. There was no one else; and Mabel mildly intimated to her aunt that it was time to seek fresh woods and pastures new.The curate had gone on his headlong way. He had struggled to control the fierce passion of love that consumed him; but it was of no avail, and he finally yielded himself to it. He could not stem his love for Miss Suarez; but he would never tell her so. She should never hear it from him, never know it. The life before him might be full of pain; but during these few bright days when she was with him he would indulge his passion and be happy. Yet it was a melancholy passion of happiness, after all. He would sit and look at her; and his earnest, sensitive face would at times grow pale when she drew near. His whole frame trembled at the sound of her voice. It was as deep, true, and unselfish a love as ever filled a man's heart or was laid at a woman's feet.During all this time Mercedes made no progress with her self-set task. She had detected nothing in Lady Laurayne's manner to implicate guilt, and the whole family seemed so happily content as to disarm suspicion. Still she clung to her purpose.A great event, however, had happened at Hilldrop. To the exceeding delight of Lady Laurayne and the joy of Edith, Sir Dixon had proposed at last, and had been accepted. They owed success in some measure to Mercedes. She had never neglected an opportunity of speaking well to Sir Dixon of his love. When he seemed inclined to flirt with her or to sentimentalize with her, she always adroitly turned the conversation to Edith, praising her as only a generous-hearted woman can. She talked of her dark eyes and her pretty hair until she persuaded Sir Dixon into believing her a beauty.Edith admitted that she owed much to Mercedes. Nothing, she said, could have been more honorable than her conduct. If Blanche had acted so, her life would have been very different. Mercedes had never made the least attempt to draw her lover from her, had never sought word or glance from him; but she had, on the contrary, done everything in her power to make things pleasant and bring about the engagement. "So different from Blanche!" thought Edith, bitterly.Sir Dixon did not care for a long engagement, for he needed a wife at Werne. Did Lady Laurayne think six weeks would be sufficient? Her ladyship, after a little hesitation, did not see any objection, and the wedding-day was fixed. Then Miss Ray decided upon remaining for it, and she even went so far as to volunteer to be one of the bridemaids; and Lady Laurayne, knowing that she would make Edith a handsome present, was only too pleased to accept her offer.Thus the party at Hilldrop was not broken up. But life there became much gayer than it had ever been before. There was an unending series of little festivities in the house. Sir Dixon was there morning, noon, and night, and, to keep him in countenance, the curate was invited almost daily, while Sir Austin well-nigh deserted Broome.They were happy days to most of the party; to the curate, however, whose love became more hopeless, they brought nothing but despair. Blanche had not discovered his infatuation for Mercedes. Her vanity was so great that she required strong evidence to assure her that Mercedes had drawn away Mr. Loftus from her.During those bright days another important occurrence took place at Hilldrop. Sir Austin fell deeply in love with Mercedes; and she, though she would not own it even to herself, was as deeply in love with him. Lady Laurayne had not awakened yet to the knowledge of this unpleasant fact; but when she did, there was a coolness for the first time between mother and son.The harvest was just over when Edith's wedding took place—and a very pretty wedding it was. Lady Laurayne, finding that Mercedes had exquisite artistic taste, left most of the decorations and arrangements in her hands. The old parish church at Ravelston was bright with flowers. The vicar, the Reverend Vaughan Stamford, assisted by the Reverend Noel Loftus, married the happy pair. Throughout the solemn ceremony the curate was scarcely conscious of aught but the face of the woman he so madly loved. Would she ever utter those devout and beautiful responses; and, if so, who would stand by her side? Sir Austin seemed quite absent-minded; his eyes were riveted on Mercedes' lovely Southern face, and he was wondering whether he would ever be able to induce her to stand before the altar with him.Then the wedding-bells pealed forth, the children flung flowers before the bride, and in the glorious sunshine the party drove home to Hilldrop. A sumptuous déjeuner was served, and the usual speeches followed; then, amid tearful congratulations, the bride and bridegroom started for Dover, en route for Paris.A week or two before her wedding Edith had one day sought her sister with a proposition which she thought would make her happy."Come and join us in Paris, Blanche," she said. "Sir Dixon says he shall be delighted if you will. He asked me to try to persuade you. It will be better than stopping here; we shall see some of the very best Parisian society, and your style is certain to be admired.""Do you mean what you say?" asked Blanche, almost inclined to doubt what she had heard. "Do you mean that I may come to you during your honeymoon?""I do, indeed. After all, though we have quarrelled dreadfully, I love you dearly. I should not long be happy away from my dear twin-sister. Come to us in Paris you shall not repent it."So Sir Dixon and Lady Trent started for Paris, where Blanche joined them later on.Mrs. Hospice and her niece took their departure from the Priory, the widow expressing to Mercedes a hope that their friendship would be life-long."I have never met a girl I liked so well as you, dear," she said. "I wish my niece resembled you.""Perhaps in that case she would not have had a fortune," laughed Mercedes; and they parted with mutual regrets.A few days afterwards Lady Laurayne remarked that it was most fortunate all her visitors had left when they did. A serious defect had been discovered in the kitchen-range, which would necessitate various rather important alterations."I shall be miserable," said her ladyship. "I cannot endure a house with workmen about it; there is never any comfort. Frazer, the architect, says that one part of the kitchen must be entirely rebuilt. It will take some months, I am sure. After all, a substantially-built modern house is better than an ancient pace like this."She was complaining to Sir Austin, who laughed, as he answered:"You were anxious enough to live at the ancient place. mother. Come and stay with me at Broome for a few weeks or months, just as it suits you."But Lady Laurayne hesitated. Of late she had revealed a decided antipathy to Broome."I have asked Mercedes to stay with me." she replied. "Of course, losing both the girls makes me feel lonely; and madame has consented to leave her with me for a few weeks longer.""That need not be an obstacle," said Sir Austin with a hot guilty flush, while his heart thrilled with delight. "Bring her with you. Why should she not come to Broome? Shall I ask her?" he added, eagerly."No, I will do that. It is very good of you to propose it. I shall ask Mr. Frazer to hurry on with the work as rapidly as possible: for, after all, though you are so kind, and I love the place for your dear father's sake, I am never quite well at Broome. It lies lower than Hilldrop, and has not the same bracing air. I never sleep well there; I miss the woods and the sea-breeze.""It is a pity one cannot carry them there," he returned, with a smile. "Still, I am glad you are coming. It will seem like old times to have you there again.""I must own," wrote Mercedes to her mother, "that I have in no way succeeded; nevertheless I cling to my conviction and to my belief in Constance's."She wrote those words to madame one day, and on the next Lady Laurayne told her of the impending domestic alterations, and asked her if she would accompany her to Broome.To Broome? The color faded from her face at the thought. To Broome? Why, that was the very thing she most desired! She had come to Hilldrop to see if she could find a clew to a mystery: but the mystery itself was centered in Broome. Certainly she would go! And once more her heart glowed with ardor for the task she had undertaken.CHAPTER XXIX.IT was in early September that Lady Laurayne, with Mercedes, went to Broome. Mercedes did not feel quite herself; a foreboding of coming evil seemed to possess her, which was not lessened but rather increased as the carriage stopped at the great entrance door, and she gazed on the high walls and massive towers.Sir Austin received his guests. Lady Laurayne looked a little paler than usual, but did not complain of indisposition."I am very pleased to see you, mother, and you, Mercedes. A house without ladies is terribly desolate. Mine has been so to me; but now it will be an elysium." He kissed his mother, and clasped Mercedes' hand in kindly greeting. "Welcome to Broome, Mercedes!" he said. "Is it like coming home, mother?" he asked presently. "Which is home, really—Broome or Hilldrop?""Hilldrop," was the decided answer. "I do not care so much for Broome; it is your home. Austin, not mine.""I should like my home to be yours, mother," he said. "I cannot tell you how dull a house is without female society.""You must marry, Austin," his mother suggested."I hope to do so some day," he replied; and involuntarily, as he looked at Mercedes, she looked at him. Their eyes met; his fell, while her face flushed rosy red.Her ladyship took off her bonnet and mantle. "I will rest a little before I go upstairs," she said. "Austin, ring for Mrs. Medhurst; she will take Mercedes to her room."Mrs. Medhurst, who had been housekeeper at Broome for more than thirty years, and was very desirous of seeing her young master married, thought, as she conducted the young lady to her room, that, if he searched the wide world through, he could not find a more beautiful face than Mercedes'.Miss Suarez was much struck with the size and magnificence of Broome. The corridors were wide, and lined with pictures. The grand stair-case was of polished oak that shone like a mirror. The suites of rooms were almost innumerable."Your room is situated south," said the housekeeper to Mercedes; "but if there should be any other you would like better it shall be prepared for you, miss."Mercedes smiled when she saw the spacious and elegant room. It had three large windows which overlooked that part of the grounds where the brawling river ran. The view was most charming, and she uttered a little cry of delight and admiration that quite won the housekeeper's heart.Mrs. Medhurst, opening a door, showed her a perfectly appointed sleeping-room a door on the other side led to a cosily furnished boudoir."You are close to Lady Laurayne, miss," the housekeeper went on. "She has the rooms on the other side of the corridor. The door of her room is just opposite yours. This," she continued, walking a little way down the corridor, "is the room in which our good master Sir Cyril died. It has not been touched since his death. Lady Laurayne would never allow it to be used; and Sir Austin has never broken through any of her ladyship's arrangements."This was the room, then, that Constance had described to her, where her father had died with her name on his lips. This was the room where Lady Laurayne had passed the long and dreary night-watches that Sarah King had so graphically described. Was it possible that, after all, Sir Cyril's will was hidden here?Mercedes gazed in silent wonder at the walls the many stories she had read of sliding panels and secret hiding-places recurring to her mind. Then she remembered what careful hands had



searched that room. Even Sir Austin, Constance had told her, working in her interest, had spent hours there. How could the will be there?As they went back to Mercedes' room the house-keeper pointed to the door opposite."That is her ladyship's room miss," she said: "so that you will not feel lonely.""Oh, thanks—I am never lonely!" Mercedes replied.Then, saying that she would send the maid Catherine to help Miss Suarez to unpack, the housekeeper went away."Now the real work of my life begins," thought Mercedes. "Well, I will do nothing that my conscience can reproach me for. I must not take undue advantage of my position as guest, or of any kindness on the part of Lady Laurayne; yet, if Sir Cyril's will be bidden here, I must find it."Shortly afterward she went downstairs. She found Sir Austin waiting for her in the hall. "I thought I would wait here, just to tell you that my mother has fallen asleep; and, as she seems tired, with your permission, we will not disturb her. It is a cold, disagreeable day. I am sorry that you should have seen Broome for the first time under such unfavorable conditions; but there is a fire in the library, with some of the new magazines, and a box from Mudie's.""Nothing could be better," she declared."Not even sunshine?""It is sunshine after its kind," she replied; "with a bright fire and plenty of books, one may defy even the dullest of gray skies."He led the way to the library, the room to which Constance had heard the words which deprived her of her it once, fortune, and lover. Mercedes' imagination conjured up the whole scene—the imperious lady Laurayne, with her handsome son by her side; the vicar, with troubled face; the lawyer, full of suppressed indignation; the two girls, caring only for their own interests; Con-stance, calm and stately in her pure loveliness, listening to the decree which robbed her of all she valued most.For some nannies Mercedes was so lost in thought that she did not notice that Sir Austin was addressing her."Mercedes, what are you thinking about?" he asked for the second time."I was thinking of Constance," she answered."I thought you were," he said simply. "While your thoughts were with her, a veil of sadness fell over your face. Tell me, is she so very unhappy?""Ah, yes! Not unhappy in the ordinary sense of the word. She does not weep, or look sad, or complain but one can see that her heart is slowly breaking.""She is too noble a woman to break her heart over the loss of money," said Sir Austin."She has lost more than that," returned Mercedes—"that is the least of her troubles;" and she turned away with tears in her eyes to examine the box of new books."I have often wanted to ask your opinion about the matter," said Sir Austin, "I know you are frankness itself, Mercedes; tell me what you think of it.""I doubt whether you will care to hear it," she answered. "I think, and have always thought, that Hilldrop ought to belong to Constance. It does not seem to me that the Laurayne branch of the family had the slightest claim to it.""That is perfectly true," replied Sir Austin, "in one sense: but you must see that the law throws it, as it were, upon my hands, whether I like it or not. To tell you the honest truth, I would far rather not have had it. I do not want it. If it were in another county, it would be a different thing but it seems absurd to have two houses within a few miles of each other. I can only repeat that I honestly would rather not have it. I should have preferred to see Constance at home and happy there; but I was in a position from which there seemed no escape—the law compelled me to take it; while my mother assured me that for sometime before my father's death he had quite changed his mind concerning Hilldrop, and intended it to go with Broome, and to leave Constance money instead. My mother says also that my father expressed a wish to buy up the land that intervenes between the two estates, to convert them into one, with Broome on one side for the head of the house, and Hilldrop on the other for a dower-house, or a residence for the ladies of the family. My mother declares that his heart was set upon it."Then it seems strange, does it not, that, being, so anxious about it, he said nothing to his lawyer or to anyone else, made no arrangements, and settled nothing?""Yes," allowed Sir Austin, thoughtfully, "that is true; but then, you see, Mercedes, he died quite suddenly. His illness was a most unexpected one. How many men delay settling their worldly affairs, meaning all the time to put everything straight, yet failing entirely! That is what my dear father did. I would gladly make over Hilldrop by deed of gift; but, I have my mother's assurance that, if I do so, I shall be acting in direct contradiction to my father's wishes; and no man likes to do that."Looking at the noble, handsome face, Mercedes felt that it was impossible for her to say that she believed his mother to have been guilty of deliberate, wilful falsehood. His faith in his mother was boundless."I have never liked the position in which I am placed," continued Sir Austin, "and I never shall like it; but, Mercedes, I think Constance has been hard on me in refusing all help. I should have been so much happier had she taken the money I offered her. I cannot understand why she refused.""I can," promptly returned Mercedes. "In her place I should have done exactly the same. She wanted what was her right, and not a gift. It seems natural enough to me that she should want her mother's own inheritance, not her father's money.""I wish to heaven she had it!" he cried. "I may tell you, Mercedes, now that we are on the subject, that Hilldrop is the bane of my life. It distresses me to know that Constance is deprived of it: yet I cannot bear to run counter to my father's wishes and take it away from my mother, leaving the law altogether out of the question. It has really spoiled the happiness of my life. When I go to the place, I always picture Constance there; and thinking of it continually as I do makes me miserable. Since she left us finally, and refused to let its know where she is, I have been most unhappy. By the by, did you ask her if I might have her address?""Yes," replied Mercedes: "but she said you had better not—there would be nothing, gained by writing. Do you know Sir Austin," Mercedes added, "that Constance has a strange conviction?" She laid the book she held upon the table, and approaching, gazed fixedly into his face, everything forgotten except Constance. "She has is strange belief that has grown into a conviction with her, a conviction that will go with her to her grave.""What is it?" he asked."This—she firmly believes that the will is still in existence, and is concealed or mislaid somewhere here at Broome.""Constance believes that?" exclaimed the young baronet, in a tone of surprise."Yes, implicitly. I repeat that her belief has grown into a deep-rooted conviction."He was silent for some minutes: then he said quietly:"It seems very strange, Mercedes. On what is her conviction founded?"Mercedes was forced to be silent. She could

not tell him, the son of Lady Laurayne, what was suspected of his mother—how Sarah King had watched her, and what she had said."I cannot tell you," Mercedes replied, after a brief pause. "Many circumstances led her to that belief.""But, Mercedes, for the will to he hidden at all, it must have been done purposely, and that, you know, could not be." He would sooner have doubted himself than his mother. "Mislaid it may have been, though I cannot imagine such a thing; but I feel quite sure, so close was the search, that, if such had been the case, it must have been found."She could not tell him that her cousin's implicit belief was that his own mother had either destroyed or hidden the will. She felt that it would have been easier to plunge a dagger in his breast.CHAPTER XXX.ONE thing was clear to Mercedes—Lady Laurayne was not the same woman at Broome as at Hilldrop. There she had been ever calm and suave, never hurried, never unsettled: here she was always restless. When at Hilldrop, she was never so happy when reclining indolently on a luxurious couch; at Broome she was rarely still. She wandered up and down the great rooms until her son asked her laughingly if she was training for a walking-match."No, she told him; "but the air at Broome has a curious effect upon me. It always makes me restless and irritable."One quiet bright afternoon they were all sitting together, Mercedes reading a book, Lady Laurayne busy with some fresh periodicals, Sir Austin writing, when a sudden gust of wind blew open the door, which had not been properly secured, with a great noise.Mercedes, on looking up, saw that Lady Laurayne was pale as death. She had started up, her hands clasped, with a low cry that was almost a wail. After a moment however she made an effort to shake off the terror that had seized her."What opened that door, Austin?" she asked excitedly. He went up to her, put his arms round her, and kissed her."My dearest mother," he said, "why, you are trembling! Sit down again. How nervous you are? You must think that Broome is haunted.""I am ashamed of myself for being so nervous," said Lady Laurayne; "but I cannot help it. Take no notice of my folly, Austin. I believe that the kinder one is to nervous people, the worse they become.""I hope I may never treat you otherwise than kindly," he replied. "You will be better soon, I trust. I do not think the autumn is a healthy season here. When you were here last autumn, you were ill all the time." Then, after a pause, he added, "Yet you were well enough at Broome when my father was alive.""I am not so young as I was," her ladyship rejoined; and then she turned the conversation. But Mercedes remembered what passed. If Constance was right, Lady Laurayne might well feel nervous, agitated, and ill when she came to Broome. The little scene set her thinking.And now some of the difficulties of her self-imposed task came home to her. She had learned to love the handsome young baronet with her whole heart, and yet she was doing her best to prove that the mother he loved so dearly was a criminal. It was a strange. awkward position—she felt it to be so—and nothing hut her great love for Constance would have given her patience and courage to persevere. The recent incident had deeply impressed her. And it had shown her that their suspicions were it entirely unfounded.That same night, too, Mercedes herself was unexpectedly alarmed. Her mind was full of Sir Austin and of Constance, of her cousin's mother and Sir Cyril; she thought of them until sleep seemed to have fled from her pillow. It was mid-night; she could hear the great stable-clock striking. The whole house was wrapped in profound slumber; there was not a sound to disturb the stillness of the night.Suddenly she heard the turning of a door-handle. There was no mistaking the sound—a door-handle was being slowly and cautiously turned; then she caught the creaking of a door that was being carefully opened.The night-light was still burning, and she looked up hastily to see if it was her out door; but that was as she had left it—closed. She did not feel alarmed; but she wondered what was the meaning of the unusual sound. As she did so, she heard soft footsteps suddenly pass her door, and then die away in the distance."It must be one of the servants," she thought. "Something has been forgotten or left behind."Yet It was strange. What could a servant want in that corridor after midnight? Perhaps Lady Laurayne had required something, and had rung for her maid.
Whatever it might be, there was certainly nothing to alarm her, Mercedes assured herself; and presently her wakefulness left her, and she fell into a deep sleep.When she came down to breakfast the next morning, Lady Laurayne was awaiting her, looking well, bright, and happy. After the usual greetings had been exchanged, and when Mercedes had her breakfast before her, she turned to her ladyship."Are you quite well this morning?" she asked. "Yes, quite well, thank you, my dear," was the reply, in a tone of surprise. "Why do you ask with that peculiar intonation?""Because I was afraid that you were ill," Mercedes answered; and then she related her experiences of the night.Lady Laurayne looked up in alarm."Are you sure, my dear," she said, "that you are not mistaken?""I am quite sure I heard a door open and close. I heard the sound distinctly, which was such as would be produced by a door-handle that was not quite fast.""Then it must have been mine," said her lady-ship. "I remarked yesterday to my maid that the lock must be seen to. I am annoyed by it; every time I open or close the door it rattles.""Yes; that is precisely what I heard," said Mercedes. "The door was certainly opened or closed, and then footsteps—very light they were—passed down the corridor."Lady Laurayne looked pale and frightened."Mercedes," she said, "did it sound like the step of a man or of a woman?"Deadly fear was in her eyes as she asked her question."I could not possibly tell." Mercedes replied. "It was a soft, gliding step. I heard it very distinctly.""Austin," said his mother, do you think it was a thief?""Impossible!" he replied. "Do not think any more of it, mother. One of the servants probably forgot something or other and went hack to fetch it. That is a very simple explanation.""That is possible," said Mercedes.Lady Laurayne was silent during breakfast; but when it was over and Sir Austin had quitted the room she said:"Mercedes, come upstairs with me: you cannot tell how nervous you have made me. I want you to try the handle of my door, and tell me it you think that is what you heard.""I shall be vexed," replied the girl, "if I have made you nervous. Indeed there is no cause for it. But I was afraid you were not quite well, and had rung for your maid.""I slept soundly all night," said her ladyship;



I do not remember waking once. You alarm me when you say you heard footsteps coining from my room and the handle of my door turned. I am horrified. Come with me."They went up to the corridor, and Mercedes shut herself in her room while Lady Laurayne opened her own room door and afterward closed it. She then went to Mercedes."Was that the sound you heard?" she asked."Yes; that was it exactly.""Then," exclaimed the pale, frightened woman, "some one must have tried to enter my room! Yet, now I remember, it was locked this morning; I unlocked it myself. Oh, Mercedes, what does it mean? Let me sit down for a few minutes; your news has quite unnerved me. What could it have been?""Nothing, indeed, Lady Laurayne. I am truly sorry that I mentioned the occurrence. We shall no doubt laugh when we find out what it was!"Lady Laurayne sat for some time in perfect silence; then, looking up at Mercedes, she asked :"Do you believe that the dead ever come back?"This strange question puzzled Mercedes."I could well believe they do," she replied, after a pause, "if they have any mission on earth, any injustice to remedy, any wrong to set right;" and she saw how Lady Laurayne shrank from the words.CHAPTER XXXI.MERCEDES devoted herself to Lady Laurayne at Broome; and Sir Austin, finding that his mother did not improve, and was still nervous, invited a few friends to meet her."You are as bright and cheerful a companion as anyone could wish," he said, to Mercedes; "but I think my mother wants something to distract her. I find her greatly changed since Edith's marriage; she seems to be always brooding over something unpleasant. I will invite some nice people, and see what a little gayety will do for her."But Mercedes knew that nothing could minister to a mind diseased; and that such was Lady Laurayne's unhappy condition she felt sure.Sir Austin did as he proposed. He invited a party of friends to Broome, and a very happy fortnight was spent. Mercedes was positively worshipped, and not the least devout of her worshippers was the Reverend Noel Loftus, who came over almost daily during the fortnight. Now it was the end of September: the guests had all left, and they were alone again."Mercedes," said Sir Austin at breakfast, one lovely morning, when the autumnal tints were surpassingly vivid in the brilliant sunshine, "you have never been round the grounds and gardens thoroughly, have you?""No; I am sure I have not seen all the pretty nooks and dells," she replied.Come out to-day. I have brought some choice shrubs, and I should like to have your opinion as to where they should be planted. Mother, will you come with us?"Lady Laurayne assented. She was looking better and stronger, and her son told her laughingly that there was no tonic so good as a course of gayety.The trio went out into the grounds together. Sir Austin, who had long realized that unless Mercedes smiled upon his love his life would he blighted, felt extreme delicacy in approaching her while she was his guest; he would not seek a tête-à-tête with her. Had she been a princess, the young baronet could not have treated her with greater deference.Mercedes that morning wore an elegant costume of gray, relieved with touches of scarlet: a gray hat trimmed with a plane of the same color shaded her lovely face. With a dainty flower in the bosom of her dress she made a charming picture."Mercedes," said Lady Laurayne, as she looked at the girl, "do you know that you seem to me to illumine this old place like a spirit of light?"But she repented the words as soon as they uttered. She saw on the face of her son such a look of fervent, passionate admiration and love that she was appalled."That must never be," she thought to herself. "How blind I have been not to see it until now!" They strolled leisurely about the gardens and grounds, and presently came to a level stretch of greensward which was overlooked by the windows of the great library. In one corner was a board hidden by the long grass which overhung it, and so overgrown with moss as to be almost indistinguishable from its surroundings.As they walked past it, Lady Laurayne took Mercedes' arm."Help me, my dear," she said; "I am somewhat fatigued."She placed her arm within that of Mercedes; and Sir Austin, turning suddenly to his young guest, said:"You would never think there was an old well here, would you?"Mercedes looked round, but, seeing nothing, replied:"No; I should never have dreamed of such a thing.""Then it is clearly no eyesore," he said. "There was a question once of filling it in; but my father would not hear of it. He, like myself, preferred to keep everything just as it was. You cannot discover it, Mercedes, even with those keen eyes of yours."She could detect nothing, so overgrown was the board with green moss."No," she replied; "nor do I believe that even you, with your thorough knowledge of the place, can see any well here?""Mother," said Sir Austin, "did you know there was a well here?"There was a sudden stiffening of her frame, an effort to look indifferent, to steady every nerve, which Mercedes could not fail to notice. Then her whole frame seemed to thrill as from some violent emotion."A well?" she questioned. after a brief pause. "I am not sure that I remember one. Is it full?""No; it has been dry for many a long year. Can you see it, mother?"No, my dear," her ladyship replied; "I cannot."He took a few steps forward, to where the grass grew longest and thickest, just beneath the walls of the house."It is here," he said. "Listen"—and with his stick he rapped upon what was evidently wood. "This was the famous St. Thomas' Well," he said; "but the water has long stopped flowing. You see now, mother? Look, Mercedes! You can see the circle of wood, although the grass hides it. Now come nearer—you can see the wood itself:" and he brushed some of the long grass aside, and removed some of the thick, green moss."Is it fastened down?" asked Lady Laurayne."No," he replied. But I think it should be. Of course no one wound ever walk here, and of course a child or a delicate person could not move it. But I deem it dangerous; and I shall have it fastened down, I think.""Is it very deep? " asked Mercedes, suddenly."I do not know," he replied. "I have heard most extraordinary stories of it. Some people have thought it was fed by the river, and that the stream ran away underground. Then it was supposed to be of marvellous depth, for, when anything was thrown in, no one could ever hear a splash.""My dear Austin," said Lady Laurayne "there must be a bottom to it.""Yes," laughed Mercedes; "the idea of a bottomless well is rather too absurd! I should say myself that it is not so deep as it was; it must have been partially filled as time went by. Please let me look down," said Mercedes; "do, Sir Austin!""Certainly you shall," he replied."Oh, no, not do not uncover it, Austin!" cried Lady Laurayne."It will not hurt me, mother," he replied. "You forget I am not a child. Let Mercedes have a peep if she wishes it. This lid has not been raised for years, I should imagine." But he raised it more easily than he expected. "I need not have boasted of my strength," he said; "it required none. The board came up quite easy. Now, Mercedes, look down. Mind you do not fall in. We do not want to lose your sweet society.""Take care, my dear!" cried Lady Laurayne. "Oh, do be careful! Austin, mind she does not fall in."Mercedes knelt down in the long grass and bent her head over the dark, yawning aperture. It was somewhat contracted, and had a close and musty smell."No one would believe that clear water ever flowed here," she said. "What a horrid hole! I should have it filled up if it were on my property.""Yes. I think it would be as well, Austin," remarked Lady Laurayne. "I would have it done at once.""You look very tired and pale, mother," remarked Sir Austin, as they entered the house. "This September weather never suits me," she replied. "I will go to my room for a time and rest."Sir Austin gave her his arm up the broad stair-case. She seemed to recover somewhat when she reached her room, chatting cheerfully and laughing with some of her usual spirit. Then he left her to rest; the fresh air had made her sleepy, she said. But two hours afterward, when her maid went to rouse her, thinking she had probably rested long enough, she found her mistress lying on the floor in a swoon so profound that at first the woman thought it was death.When at last Lady Laurayne opened her eyes, She called immediately to the maid:"Shut the door! Does anyone know that I have been ill?""No, my lady, no one knows; no one has been here.""Do not tell them!" she gasped. Then, recovering herself a little, she continued: "Sir Austin is always so anxious about me when he knows that I am not well.""I shall say nothing, my lady," said the maid. In a few minutes Lady Laurayne was quite herself again."I cannot think what caused me to faint," she said."It is the weather, my lady—nothing else. I never think these warm autumns can be healthy." The maid said nothing of what had happened to her ladyship, and Lady Laurayne kept her own council. Mercedes, however, saw there was something unusual affecting her. She was more restless; she talked more about the time when she should return to Hilldrop. She clung to the companionship of Mercedes, and seemed never to like being left alone. She was watchful, too, to see if her son really seemed to care for this dark-eyed, beautiful girl, who was a ray of sunshine in the grand old house.Mercedes had written many lengthy letters to her mother and Constance about Broome—how she loved the place, with its bright profusion of golden broom, and how she admired the handsome young baronet. She kept them au courant as to everything that happened; and the almost daily letters from Broome were eagerly looked for by the mother and cousin in London. But, as she read them, over the fair face of Constance Laurayne would come the melancholy expression that Mercedes had ever disliked to see. "She is no nearer finding the will," she would say to herself—"no nearer. Alas, even my present faint hope will soon be quite gone!" For Mercedes could not make substances of shadows, and at present her discoveries had been but little more. At Hilldrop, where the long bright days had been free from care or sorrow, she had seen nothing to arouse her suspicion. There Lady Laurayne was bright, cheerful, and always occupied; there she had no leisure for gloomy thought. But here at Broome it was quite different. Here one could see plainly that her ladyship had something on her mind; that at times her thoughts were far from pleasant; that there was some secret source of anxiety that made her restless. Mercedes often thought of the question which Lady Laurayne had asked her as to whether the dead ever came back. What could have made her ask such a question? Was it the living or the dead that she feared? Did she think Sir Cyril would return to upbraid her for what she had done?One afternoon the curate came over in time for afternoon tea with Lady Laurayne and Mercedes, the one delight of his life. Sir Austin was out. Lady Laurayne, who was in most gracious humor, looked very handsome and stately in a dress of mauve silk, with collar and cuffs of point-lace; Mercedes wore a dress of pale amber, with some yellow roses at her throat.As Mr. Loftus entered the drawing-room, his eyes rested on his hostess and her lovely companion. Yes—there was the angelic face of which he could never cease thinking!"I have had a letter from Miss Blanche," he said to her ladyship—"a charming letter. I thought you would like to read it, Lady Laurayne.""There are evidently no secrets in it," she remarked, laughingly.He held it out to her, little dreaming of the disappointment her ladyship felt at his readiness in giving it to her to read.It was an eminently proper letter. Sir Dixon and Lady Trent were quite well, and so happy that the writer was doubtful when the honeymoon would end—which," she added, "is very satisfactory." She told Mr. Loftus how often, in spite of the delights and gayeties of Paris, her thoughts reverted to Hilldrop, where he had spoken such words of wisdom to her; that she hoped he would not forget her: and that, although she was so happy, and enjoying herself very much, she looked forward to the time when she should return to the Priory, to her readings with him, and her work among the poor."A very nice letter. Mr. Loftus," she said. "My daughter seems to place implicit trust in you. I like what she says about the churches in Paris very much. I, too, have had a letter this morning, with news which will interest you. It is of some. one whom you know."The curate looked puzzled."You remember Miss Ray," Lady Laurayne continued, "the heiress who was staying with us lately at Hilldrop? She is going to be married."The curate smiled."Married? I am surprised!" exclaimed Mercedes. "Pray who is that dear, stolid, amiable, lifeless girl going to marry?""The old Earl of Hazeldale. He is over sixty, but he has a very ancient title. I remember him twenty years ago; and at that time his sight was defective, and he was quite deaf. There will not be such animation on either side; but they will doubtless be contented.""Poor Mabel, her gold weighs her down!" said Mercedes. "So she will be a countess, after all. Well, no doubt she thinks herself very fortunate. Mrs. Hospice will be pleased enough; she was growing rather tired of her charge. To have a niece a countess will delight her."Then fortune was kind to the curate; the housekeeper desired to see Lady Laurayne, and she excused herself for a few minutes."Mercedes," she said, "take Mr. Loftus through the gardens. Perhaps he will stay to dine with us;" and her ladyship, little dreaming what happiness she had afforded the curate, withdrew."I am to take you for a walk, as the children say," said Mercedes. "I must put on a hat, for the wind is cool.""I never dreamed of such a pleasure as this, Miss Suarez," the curate remarked, as they walked between rows of gorgeous hollyhocks and sunflowers and magnificent dahlias.She looked at him, smilingly."Is it really a pleasure?" she asked."The greatest that could be afforded me," he replied. "Could I have had the choice offered me of what I should most dearly like in the world, I should have elected half an hour with you, Miss Suarez. I can scarcely remember to have had the pleasure and honor of a tête-à-tête with you, except on that day, the brightest of my life, when you went to see little Annie Southam; and it is such happiness to me to see you alone.""Why?" she asked, with laughing eyes.But the laughter died out of them as she noticed the serious expression of his face."Why? It is easy to tell why," he replied. "I like to know that you are thinking of me and of what I am saying. Of course, when others are with us, they occupy your attention.""I am sure I always give my full and most earnest attention to you, Mr. Loftus," said Mercedes. "You are always kindness itself to me," he declared. "But I cannot tell you what a pleasure it is to be to be alone with you, if only for a few minutes.""You are very good to think so much of me."If she did not desire at avowal of love from him, she had certainly said the most unfortunate thing possible."Not at all," he said; "I simply cannot help it. I can no more help it," he went on, pointing to the sunflowers, "than those flowers can help turning to the sun. Loving him, they follow him. You know those to beautiful lines:"'As the sunflower turns on her god when hesetsThe same look which she turned when he rose.'"Hardly thinking what she said, and anxious only to spare his feelings, she said:"But you reverse the position: you should be the sun and I the flowers.""No" he returned, with such earnest humility that her very heart was touched—"that could never be. When I am with you, I always feel that in everything, in every gift of nature or of grace, you are far above me. You are to me what the sun is to this flower, what the blue heavens are to the outstretched hand of puny man&far, far above me.""You think too highly of me," said Mercedes; and her eyes were dim with tears at the thought that such earnest, unselfish love was lavished upon her without her being able ever to return it."I know," he said, hurriedly, "that it is only a dream, a beautiful dream. It will die, as the sunflower there will die. When I first saw you, my heart went out to you; but I have never dared to presume, even in my thoughts. I have always presume, that my love was in vain. You will go away from here, and my dream will be dispelled. I shall awake pained and comfortless, all for a dream's sake; yet I would rather have loved you thus madly for one brief summer than have been loved by the fairest woman on earth. You will be angry with me for saying this. I never intended to utter one word of it; but I have been unable to control my passion.""How could I be angry?" said Mercedes. "I am sure no woman ever had a more unselfish or genuine love lavished upon her. I can only deeply regret that I have none to give you in return—nothing but the friendship that will always be yours.""I am more than content," he told her. "I have never dared to hope for your love. I shall die as the sunflower dies; but I am glad now that I have told you of my love. You will know now that you are my queen, and I m your slave. I dare not ask for your love—it can never be mine; but I offer all my life to you. If ever it can be of service to you, command it. I lay my love and my life at your feet." Then, in a calmer tone, he said: "Will you give me one of those yellow roses to keep in remembrance of this?"Without a word, she took one of the coveted flowers from her breast, and he kissed it as a child might have done."I shall keep this always, and while I live I shall love the sunflower. It has helped me to tell you that which I hardly dared to say.""You make my heart ache," said Mercedes. "How can I make you any return for the unselfish love you lavish upon me?""You have made me a return," he said; "you have given me sweet words and this rose."CHAPTER XXXII."I FEEL sure," thought Mercedes, "there is some mystery connected with that well—Lady Laurayne turned so pallid when I spoke of it suddenly, and then made such a desperate effort to recover her self-possession."She pondered the matter, and resolved to speak of the well again. So the same afternoon, as they were walking through the gardens, Mercedes said, abruptly:"If I were Sir Austin, I should have that old well converted into a fountain."As she uttered the words, she looked straight into her ladyship's handsome face, which quivered and paled as though she were about to faint."It is rather too near the house," she replied, after a momentary pause; "and, if it is really dry, it would be a costly affair.""That is true," said Mercedes. "I did not, think of that."She had gained her point. She perceived that for some reason or other St. Thomas' Well had unpleasant associations for Lady Laurayne, which either distressed or annoyed her&she could scarcely tell which.After they had promenaded for some little time, Lady Laurayne went back to the house, leaving Mercedes in the garden alone. She stopped in front of the sunflowers, and let her thoughts warder to the curate."How sad such noble love should go unrewarded!" she thought.Then she heard footsteps, and a hand was laid on hers."What a brown study you were in, Mercedes!" exclaimed Sir Austin. "What do you see to admire in that very gaudy flower?""I can see a great deal," replied Mercedes, as she thought of the curate's gentle, wistful face."To me it has little beauty," he said."You have not my eyes," retorted Mercedes."I wish I had. But no—I do not wish it, for in that case I could not admire them, and now they are as beautiful as the stars to me.""What nonsense you are talking, Sir Austin!" she said. "I must go to Lady Laurayne. She wants me, I feel sure.""Then, Mercedes, I shall be tyrannical for once, and not let you go."Her eyes had filled with tears of loving pity when the curate had declared his passion for her; but, now that Sir Austin's voice took the same sympathetic, caressing tone, it seemed to her as though her heart was aflame. Her face burned. Her hands trembled."You never care to talk to me now, Mercedes," he said, with an injured air, and I feel I have a right to complain. I cannot think why you should treat everyone so graciously except myself.""Excuse me! We all look to the lord of Broome for his gracious approval," she replied, with a quizzical glance."Ah," he said, "the lord of Broome would be very grateful to you for a little approbation! As I said just now, you are far kinder to everyone else than you are to me. You will talk and walk with my mother for hours. Even Mr. Loftus—who certainly cannot have much to say to you—you entertain for an hour at a time. But, if I—the lord at Broome, as you satirically call me—appear on the scene, you are full of excuses. Lady Laurayne wants you, or some equally trivial plea is urged. I will not bear such sweet tyranny any longer—do you hear Mercedes?""I hear," she replied briefly, a snide curling her lip."Hear and heed, I hope. What have I done that you should be so cold to me, Mercedes?"Cold! How could he mistake her? Her face was burning as she bent over the flowers in the hope that Sir Austin might not see the crimson blush that suffused her cheeks."I must insist, Mercedes," Sir Austin continued, "on your telling me what I have done. When you came to Broome, you were as frank and often with me as if you had been my own sister. You were ever ready to chat with me, and we laughed and amused ourselves the whole day long. Now you treat me with undisguised coldness, and avoid me whenever you call. What have I done to deserve this?"Could he but have known that shy, sweet Mercedes loved him with the whole passionate love of her heart, that she avoided him because she feared he might guess her secret!"You have done nothing," she replied."When have I failed in anything I should have done, then? There are faults of commission and omission; have I been guilty of the latter?""No," she replied.Still she would not turn her face to his, but gazed fixedly at the gaudy flowers before her."Never mind the flowers, Mercedes. Look at me. You make me very unhappy. What have I done? Why are you changed to me? Is it because you see that every day of my life I love you more and more, until I can think of nothing, care for nothing but you, dear? Is that the reason?""How could I dream of such a thing?" she asked."Ah, Mercedes," he cried, "my love for yon has never been declared in words, but you must have known it! The deepest love is often that which worships in silence. I have not said in words that I love you, for you are my guest, and I hesitated to declare myself. Had you remained at Hilldrop, mine would not now have been an unspoken love. Now your coldness and shyness have forced this avowal from me."Her heart thrilled with delight. How she loved this handsome young baronet who was bending over her, his face aglow with passionate ardor. Yet how could she accept his love when she was seeking to convict his mother of a base dastardly crime? The bare thought was horrible to her. And yet she loved him so dearly that she could have flung her arms around his neck and wept happy tears upon his breast; she could have kissed the face bent over her with love unutterable. But Lady Laurayne stood between her and her lover."When first I saw you as you stood among the ruins of the Priory, singing a beautiful Irish love-song, I wondered what you thought of me. Do tell me, Mercedes; do tell one, darling.""You must not call me 'darling,' Sir Austin," she said. reprovingly."I wish you would let me call you 'Lady Laurayne,' I wish I might call you wife—the sweetest wife that man ever won.""You must not say such things to me," she protested.But why not, Mercedes? Surely you will not deprive me of all hope! Give me a definite answer, I entreat you.""I cannot," she answered."Neither 'Yes' nor 'No?'" he cried."Neither, Sir Austin.""You do not reject me?" She held out her hand to him."You will accept me?" he cried, eagerly.She drew back and looked him steadily in the face."If I am worth winning, I am worth wooing," she replied, "and you must be patient. You have known me but a very short time, and now, after you have made love to me for half an hour, you want me to promise to be your wife. Wait; give me time to think, and do not refer to the matter any more just now. Ah! here comes Lady Laurayne!"One morning—the morning of a day which Mercedes never forgot—Sir Austin had to drive to Ravelstone on business. He said "Good-morning" to his mother, and then turned to Mercedes."I have a favorite whip here," he said "the tassel of which is loose. Would you mind getting a needle and silk to fasten it for me? Bring them into the hall, will you, Mercedes?"She hastened to find what she needed, then followed him to the hall; but, on examination, there appeared to be very little amiss with the tassel. She looked up at him in surprise."It is quite fair, Mercedes," he laughed—"perfectly fair. You must have known that I wanted a few words with you before starting; yet you would not look at me or give me the least chance of speaking. You are too cruel!""What do you want me for?""What do I want you for? Why, to say something to you! I want to be treated properly, Mercedes.""I do treat you properly, Sir Austin.""You do not," he cried: and there was such a wistful expression on his face that she turned away, unable to bear the sight of it. "Although we are not engaged in the eyes of the world, Mercedes, there is a tacit understanding between us—you cannot deny it. You did not discard me; you did not refuse to listen to me while I made love to you; and that gives me a right to say what I do. Now, is it not so? Say 'Yes,' like the truthful girl you are! Say 'Yes,' Mercedes!" he repeated, with such imperious passion that she murmured:"Yes.""You admit that frankly, fully, candidly, and willingly?""What a string of adverbs!" she exclaimed. "Never mind the adverbs. You admit it?""Yes," she replied, "I admit it.""I wish," said Sir Austin, looking at her irresolutely—"I wish I dared take you in my arms, Mercedes, and kiss all those defiant words of yours away.""You dare not," she returned, calmly."No," he murmured with a sigh, "that is quite true; I dare not. I wish I dared.""What more do you want to say now? I have admitted—""Go on, Mercedes.""I admit frankly, Sir Austin, the tacit understanding.""My darling!" he cried.But she held up her hand to restrain his impetuosity."Now what more?" she asked."Why, I wish to be treated as the circumstances warrant me to expect!""How is that?" she inquired. "If you tell me, perhaps I may consent."There was a mischievous gleam to his eyes as she put the last question."I will tell you, though I am hurt that you did not find it out instinctively. For instance, when I am going away. as I am this morning, you should contrive to see me alone for a few minutes, remembering that I have to leave you for a whole day.""I will remember it for the future," she replied meekly.Then you should bring me a flower—one that I can wear in my coat. You should fasten it with your own hands, and kiss it when it is there.""I can do that," said Mercedes; and she hastened away as much to hide her blushes as to seek a flower.But she soon returned with one for him, and his face glowed with passionate love as she fastened the pretty blossom in his coat."Now you must kiss it," he went on.She bent her head and touched the flower with her dainty lips."You improve quickly, Mercedes," he said, with a smile. "One lesson more, and I have finished. When I run going away for a day, as now, you must kiss me and say 'Good-by.'""No, that I cannot do," she replied."But, my dear, you must. Why should I be ill-treated? It is the universal custom when a young lady admits—""You are sure?" she interrupted."I am certain," he replied.Then, for the first time, Mercedes raised her head and touched his lips with hers. A crimson blush suffused her face. He looked at her with passionate admiration."I do not think I can go at all now," he declared. "Oh, Mercedes, how I love you!""Remember," she said, with a smile, "there are to be no more lessons today. Good-by, Sir Austin!""Good-by, dear love! "he replied.She hurried from the hall and re-entered the room where she had left Lady Laurayne."That tassel must have required very careful fastening," remarked Lady Laurayne, dryly."Do you think so?" inquired Mercedes, innocently.And then they sat in silence for some time, Mercedes working busily at some pointlace for Lady Laurayne. Presently they heard the sound of carriage-wheels coming toward the house."It is early for visitors," said her ladyship. "Who can it possibly be? I do not know, either, that I feel inclined to receive anyone just now."Then the carriage stopped, and they heard the ringing of the door-bell. A servant came into the room with a card, which she handed to Lady Laurayne."'Captain Lancelot Dysart,'" she read aloud. "I do not remember the name, Mercedes."But Mercedes sprung forward, pale and agitated."Captain Dysart!" she repeated. "Do you not know who he is?""No; I have no recollection of the name," replied Lady Laurayne— "not the slightest.""Ask Captain Dysart into the drawing-room," said Mercedes, turning to the man-servant; "Lady Laurayne will be at liberty in a few minutes.""Why, Mercedes, who is he? You look pale and anxious. What is it?""I am afraid it is bad news," she answered slowly. "Do you not know who he is?""No, my dear, I do not indeed," replied Lady Laurayne, growing more agitated. "What had news can there be? Can anything be wrong with Edith or Blanche?""No, it is nothing of that kind. Captain Dysart was engaged to Constance. Did not Sir Cyril tell you?""Yes, I remember now," her ladyship faltered."And the engagement was broken off by his father's desire when she lost Hilldrop.""No, I never heard that. Constance never told me anything of the
sort. After the—
the quarrel, she was never on good terms with me.""It happened so, however; and Constance not only lost her home, but her lover also.""But what can he want here?""We must go and see," replied Mercedes. "What have you to fear? What harm can his visit do you?""I am not afraid; but I detest being reminded of that most unfortunate affair. You must come with me, Mercedes.""With pleasure, for I should like to see him. And I am curious to know what has brought him."Could there be bad news of Constance?They entered the drawing-room together, and, saw a tall, handsome, military-looking man awaiting them, with an expression of deepest anxiety on his face. He bowed low as they drew near."I presume I have the honor of speaking to Lady Laurayne," he began. "I am Captain Dysart, and I have call to see you on, to me, very important business."Her ladyship introduced the captain to Mercedes, whose delight at seeing him was great. He clasped her hand in warm greeting."So you are Mercedes," he said, "of whom I heard so much in the past, I did not know that you had returned from Spain. Is madame in England?""Yes, my mother and I came back together," she replied."I am truly glad. I shall hope soon to make her acquaintance." Then he added: "Perhaps you will be able to help me in my present difficulty, Miss Suarez. I came to Broome, hoping that Lady Laurayne could give me Constance's address. I am determined to find her; and you will assist me, I am sure, if you can."CHAPTER XXXIII.CAPTAIN DYSART, seeing that Lady Laurayne looked somewhat distressed when he questioned her as to Constance, turned to her and said apologetically:"I hope your ladyship will not look upon my visit as an intrusion. I did not know where else to go in search of information, and I have been almost distracted."Then the innate tact and sense of propriety which had always distinguished her ladyship asserted themselves."I and very pleased to see you," she began, "and I beg that you will remain with us for a few days. I shall be delighted to aid you in every way I can, and I am sure my son will also.""You are very kind," he returned. "I will avail myself of your hospitality for a day or two." Captain Dysart recalled the bitterness that had existed between these people and the woman he loved with such unutterable love, and how, although they had been so inimical to her, they yet were anxious to bestow a fortune on her. Looking at handsome, stately Lady Laurayne, he felt loath to think ill of her. He had gone there believing that, although Constance would make no compromise with them, they were still anxious to be friendly with her."Constance has not written to us since the last negotiations failed," said her ladyship; "and then we did not know her address, for her letters came through Mr. Anderson, the lawyer.""Do you know it, Miss Suarez?" he asked."Yes, I know it," replied Mercedes. "But she gave it to me in confidence, and I must not betray her trust. I do not think I can give it to you without first obtaining her consent.""It is of no use asking for that," remarked the captain. "Constance is than as a rock when she comes to a decision. She will never give you permission. I most hope to be able to persuade you; that is my only chance.""If I may ask such a question, why has Constance refused to see or write to you?""I have not the slightest objection to reply to your question, Lady Laurayne," he returned: "I can soon answer it. My father, who is one of the proudest men in the world, has always declared that he would disinherit me if I married a woman without a fortune. It seems monstrous, since he himself is very rich. I am ashamed of his views, but I can do nothing.""Of course not," said Lady Laurayne. "Besides, it is what some would call a laudable ambition.""Hardly that," declared the captain. "When my father first heard of my engagement, he was delighted, and he wrote to Constance to that effect. Unfortunately, in that letter he told her how greatly it added to his delight that she possessed a fortune. 'For,' he wrote, 'I have always been perfectly frank with my son. He knows that, if he marries without money, he will never have one shilling from me.' Constance laughed at those words at the time but she did not laugh when the blow fell. When she knew that she had lost Hilldrop through her father's fault in not making or in destroying his will, she wrote to release me from my engagement. She would never drag me down to poverty, she said; and she has ruined two lives by her decision. I cannot live without her, and she will never he happy as she is. I therefore intend to make one last appeal to her; and, if I cannot persuade her to change her mind, I don't care what becomes of me.""But," said Lady Laurayne, "my son, Sir Austin, has offered Constance twenty thousand pounds; and I am sure that he would make it thirty thousand. Would your father not think that sufficient?""He might," answered Captain Dysart; "but, you see, Constance would not take it. She will accept nothing from Broome. She claims her mother's inheritance&nothing more nor less.""It is very unfortunate," said Lady Laurayne, sighing deeply, "and I think Constance is very foolish.""I so thoroughly understand her feelings in the matter that I cannot call her foolish," the Captain replied promptly. "I may add, too, that I respect her motives, and therefore cannot discuss them. But find her I will, if it be possible; and marry her I will, if I can persuade her. I would rather suffer poverty with her than be a millionaire without her. You must help me, Miss Suarez.""I do not absolutely refuse," Mercedes said; "but I must have time to think before I promise."Then, Captain Dysart having partaken of some refreshment, Lady Laurayne suggested that Mercedes should show him the house and grounds.He was delighted with the grand old mansion. "Is Hilldrop like this?" he asked.She told him that it was not—that it was smaller, more picturesque, different altogether, and that everyone preferred it to Broome."I like it better than I do this place," she added."I cannot tell you how delighted I am to meet you here," the captain said, after a pause. "I feel that I shall have a true friend and stanch ally in you.""You may rely upon me," she replied; "for I love Constance with my whole heart, and I would do anything to help to make her happy."While strolling through the grounds, Mercedes, at his special request, gave him a full account of her interviews with Constance; she also told him of her firm and unalterable opinion that the will was still in existence somewhere at Broome. They talked together for two hours; but Mercedes said no word to him of her mission at Broome. If she succeeded, all would be well; if she failed, he would know nothing of it.He, in his turn, had told her what had brought him home. The war was over—he had won honor, fame, glory; but what were they to him without Constance? She alone could bring him happiness."Can I induce you, do you think," he said, "to give me the address?""I cannot reveal it," she said; "I cannot break my promise. To have to refuse you pains me more than I can tell you, but I cannot help it." "I honor you," he cried; "I do indeed. How-ever, I have thought of another plan. You have no compassion for me; but your mother will have. I will go to her. To-morrow morning I shall start for London, and win from your mother what I cannot win from you."CHAPTER XXXIV.IT had been a long day of suspense to the girl. Sir Austin had been away during the greater part of it, and though she had spent the hours in the company of Lady Laurayne, her thoughts had been with Lancelot. Would her mother give the address? she had wondered. And, if so, what would happen?It was late that evening when she retired to rest. She had intended to read herself to sleep; but the book she had chosen was one that excited her brain and imagination, and, instead of inducing sleep, kept her wide awake.It was midnight when she laid the book upon the table; but, though her eyes ached, she was not tired. She went to the window, drew aside the blind, and looked out.As Mercedes was gazing abstractedly into the darkness of the night, her attention was attracted by a sound such as she had heard one night weeks before—the rattling of a door-handle and the opening of a door.She determined instantly that she would endeavor to solve the mystery. She put out the lamp, took off her shoes lest her footsteps should be overheard, and listened. The sound was repeated ; and now she felt sure that Lady Laurayne's door was being opened. Soft footsteps sounded outside, and then slowly Mercedes unfastened the lock of her own door and went out into the corridor. Before her stood Lady Laurayne her face ghastly pale, her eyes wide open. Her hands were outstretched as though she were following someone and appealing for mercy. Though horrified and alarmed, Mercedes did not lose her presence of mind, and, closing the door of her room, she followed the gliding white figure. Very soon her fear died away, for she saw that Lady Laurayne was walking in her sleep.
Mercedes determined upon following her. A wild idea—half hope, half fear—that Lady Laurayne was going, as sleep-walkers often do, to the spot that haunted her in her dreams, took possession of her.Silently the white figure proceeded down the diva corridor, pausing presently before the door of Sir Cyril's room, the room in which he had died. Mercedes began to feel sure of success. But after only a momentary stoppage the sleep-walker moved on, and hope began to wane in Mercedes' breast. Lady Laurayne made no further halt, but passed through the corridors and proceeded to descend the staircase.Down the wide oaken staircase, where the marble statues were only just discernible in the dim light the white-robed figure went with hands that were clasped in supplication, closely followed by Mercedes—down until the great hall was reached, and then Lady Laurayne halted.Suddenly her ladyship spoke. From where Mercedes stood she could hear the words distinctly:"Must I—oh, must I go?"As though she had received a command she could not but obey, she turned aside to the library door, unlocked it and went in. Lady Laurayne closed the door carefully behind her, and

Mercedes as carefully and silently opened it. There was no light in the library; the windows were all closed, the shutters securely barred. There was not a ray of light to guide her, yet with unerring precision Lady Laurayne made her way to the window, Mercedes following her in perturbation, with outstretched hands, lest she should strike against a chair, or by any other noise suddenly awaken the sleeper. Lady Laurayne unbolted the window, which was secured by strong bolts, and then opened it. It was a long French window opening on to the lawn. She stepped out on to the grass, Mercedes following close behind her. Slowly the white-robed figure walked across the lawn.Lady Laurayne had reached St. Thomas' Well, which for so many years had been disused. She stood by its edge murmuring incoherently for some minutes.Lady Laurayne knelt down and began with her slender white hands to draw away the moss-covered board. Slowly she dragged the old lid from the well, pulled it on to the grass, then knelt down, and bending over, looked into the depths of the well. How long she knelt there and gazed, with head bent over the gloomy abyss, Mercedes could hardly say; but she rose at length, forced the old wooden cover hack into its place, stood for a few moments wringing her hands, then slowly and noiselessly as she had come, returned to the house, Mercedes following in her footsteps.Mercedes watched steadily until the door of Lady Laurayne's room was fastened and the peacefulness of night reigned once more throughout the house; then she went back to her own room—but not to rest. Her heart was beating wildly, her face was flushed with triumph, her whole frame trembling with elation. Yet she could not but feel pity for Lady Laurayne, for was she not the mother of the man whom she, Mercedes, loved, the mother of the man who loved her, and who trusted her so implicitly that he would have placed his life and his honor in her hands?Too excited to sleep, Mercedes paced up and down her room, longing for morning, and endeavoring to form a plan for future operations. The will was in the well: that she firmly believed. But how should she verify her belief? Who could help her to do so? It was clear that someone must go down in search of the missing will; no other step would serve. If she could but tell Sir Austin! But she felt that that was impossible. She could not appeal to the son to assist her to establish the mother's guilt. She wanted some friend who was strong, willing, and full of resource. She thought with regret of Captain Dysart, who, she was confident, had courage to lead a forlorn hope; he, however, was not at Broome. To whom, then, could she apply at this hour of need?As she pondered, suddenly there sounded in her ear the voice that had whispered to her, "If my life can serve you, it is yours." She did not need any man's life; but the service she needed was one that that kind friend could render her. Mr. Loftus was a strong, courageous man; and she was sure he would willingly help her. She would send a note to him, and tell him that she had something of importance to say to him: she knew he would come to her. Then, with her mind more at ease, she lay down and tried to sleep.The curate came in response to Miss Suarez's note, delighted that he could be of service to her. Lady Laurayne was in her room, "not well—overtired." Mercedes knew only too well the cause of the indisposition. Sir Austin had accepted an invitation to visit an old friend living a few miles away, and would be absent a day and a night."We can talk at our ease," she said to the curate. "How good of you to come at once! But you are always kind and true. Well, now, I want to put your friendship to a severe test.""It will bear any you can put it to," he replied, simply but earnestly."I want you," she said, " to render me a service—one that will be attended with some risk, perhaps even danger, and is sure to be very trouble-some and disagreeable.""Whatever it may be, I place myself at your disposal," he replied."Thank you. I knew you would. It is so disagreeable a task that I hesitated to ask you; but I felt sure you would assist me. Have you ever heard of a very old stone well here at Broome, once known as St. Thomas' Well?""I have a faint recollection of having read of it in the history of the county. It was close to an old shrine, and the waters were supposed to work wonderful cures.""Yes, that is it," she replied. "Well, now I will tell you what I want. I have reasons for believing that something of great value has been thrown down that well. If I had not good grounds for my belief, I would not ask you to run any risk. I cannot tell you what the lost object is; but, if it be there, and you find it, you will understand my reticence. Now, what I wish to say to you is this. Dare I ask you to go down in search of the missing document?""I will go to the uttermost ends of the earth it you wish! When do you wish me to make the attempt?""To-night." she replied. "Sir Austin is away, and Lady Laurayne is keeping her room, so that it will be a capital opportunity. I do not pledge you to secrecy; I know you will keep my trust sacredly.""You may rely upon me," he replied.They went into the grounds, and walked to the old well, and the curate, following Mercedes' direction, raised the moss-covered lid."It does not look very inviting," he remarked, with a faint smile."I will not let you descend," she said, hurriedly, "If you think there is any danger.""No man stops to consider whether there is danger when he has a duty to perform. I have not the slightest fear," he replied."But how." she asked, will you get down?""I know a farmer in Ravelston who has a rope-ladder, and he will willingly lend it to me," he replied. "With some strong rope I shall fasten the top of it to that old beech—the trunk is stout and strong—and the rest will be simple enough. Shall you be here with me?""Of course I shall," she replied, emphatically. "Do you think I would leave you to act alone?""At what time shall I come?" he asked. "Soon after eleven," she replied; "and I shall be waiting here near the well for you. I will see that the gate is open. May Heaven prosper us!"CHAPTER XXXV.IT was eleven o'clock. Heavy clouds obsured the face of the moon and favored the work which Mercedes and the curate had in hand.Mercedes had taken every possible precaution. She had been to Lady Laurayne's room when she was supposed to be retiring for the night, and her ladyship had told her how she had been disturbed in her rest the night before. She had dreamed of Sir Cyril, she said; and he was angry with her, and that had troubled her greatly, even though it was only a dream.Throwing a warm cloak around her, Mercedes went into the library, and thence through the French window into the open air. The stable-clock was striking eleven, and at that moment she heard the sound of footsteps, quiet and cautious, approaching.She went forward, and met the loyal friend who thought so little of his own life and so much of hers."I am here to the minute," he said; and their hands met."You are indeed punctual, thanks!" she returned.He had brought with him a long rope-ladder which he now laid down upon the grass; then he took off his hat and wiped the great drops of perspiration from his brow."I have a lantern," he said; "but I need not light it until I am ready to go down. I can see to fasten the ladder."She watched him as he attached a rope to the topmost rung of the ladder, and then tied it securely round the trunk of the beech-tree; then he walked to the well and raised the wooden cover, Mercedes standing close by his side."The moment has arrived," he said. "See"—and he turned to Mercedes—"the lantern must be fastened to my arm; will you do it?" And she complied with his request."Mercedes," he said, "while I am down, will you keep your hands on this rope—the rope that fastens the ladder to the tree? We must not forget that sometimes there is a great deal of gas in these old wells. If you will keep your hands on the rope, while you feel any vibration you will know that I am safe; but, if it ceases, then there will be some cause for alarm.""You shall not go if there is danger," she cried."I am not afraid, Mercedes; I have no fear—not the slightest. Still, it is possible I may never come up alive. I am going to take a mean advantage of you. As this may be my grave, I am going to ask you for that which will make even death sweet; let me kiss your hand, and hear a few kind words from your lips, will you?""I will do more than that, since you risk so much for me," she replied; and she raised her sweet face to his.He grew white with emotion as he touched her lips with his own. To him that kiss was the very sacrament of his love."Bless you!" he said. "If this is my last look at your beautiful face, I say may Heaven bless it! It has been the guiding-star of my life since I first beheld it." He took the rope in his hands preparatory to descending. "Place your hands on the rope now," he said. "But before I descend you must tell me one thing, Mercedes. If I reach the bottom of the well in safety, what must I look for? You must give me some directions.""Look out for what will now be a discolored roll of parchment," she replied.Slowly and silently the curate descended. As his face reached the level of the ground his eyes sought hers with a look of unutterable love. Then the faint gleam of the lantern-light vanished and she was alone in the darkness and silence, her hands tightly clasping the rope.She steadied herself and concentrated her attention on the vibrations of the rope. She found that she could follow his progress as the rope vibrated with each step that he took.He was safe so far: that was an unspeakable blessing! Had he not told her that when the rope ceased to move he might be in danger? Then suddenly, even as the thought came to her, she felt a strange jerk, and the next minute the rope lay quite still in her hands—the vibration and the movement had ceased.She uttered a low cry of despair. What had happened? She raised her hands with a despairing cry. She would have given her own life at that moment to see him back again by her side. There was no sound. She was pale with terror and dismay, and the thought that her devoted friend had lost his life in her service almost maddened her.For a few moments she was silent with horror and pain; her face was ghastly white, her whole frame had grown deathly cold, her hands trembled, the very breath seemed to die on her lips, when suddenly—ah, thank Heaven!—the rope moved again! He was safe!Once more, and now with grateful, happy tears, she clutched the rope. With each step there was a distinct vibration. Again she could have counted the curate's footsteps; but they were much slower than before.How long a time it seemed! A fever of impatience consumed her. 'What had he with him? Had he found the will, or was the whole thing, after all, a chimera of her own brain? Surely she could leave the rope now; he must be nearly at the top. Again she knelt down and looked into the darkness. Ah, thank Heaven! there was the faint light of the lantern! He was coming up, then, safe and well.The light came nearer and nearer; she could almost discern him. Presently she saw his face raised to hers, while she watched him as he mounted wearily step after step of the dangling rope-ladder.She called to him, but he did not hear her. Clearer and clearer, however, grew the light of the lantern. She bent her head over the brink again, and discovered why he was coming up so slowly—he carried something in his hand!CHAPTER XXXVI.YES, he had certainly something in his hand. She called to him again, and this time he heard and answered her."I am safe," he said—but he did not add the words "and well"—"quite safe; and I have found something."In a few seconds he stepped on the grass, she uttering a little cry of delight. It died on her lips, however, for he fell at her feet as one dead. Gently and tenderly Mercedes bent over him."It is nothing," he said, faintly, after a pause. "I believe I have found it, Mercedes.""Thank Heaven! Oh, thank Heaven!" she cried, overcome with joy. "Look up and speak to me. Are you ill, Mr. Loftus?""The air was so bad," he replied, with a shudder, "that I am faint and giddy. I cannot get up just yet; I must rest here."He detached the lantern from his arm; but Mercedes did not notice that the limb seemed almost useless to him. She was too excited to think of anything just then but the recovery of the will. Then he held out to her a discolored roll of parchment."That is what I found," he said. "It had fallen on end ; and in the course of a few years it would have disappeared forever. I have, however, the joy of giving it to you, Mercedes."She took it, all damp and mud-stained, from his hand. She felt inclined to receive it on her knees, so truly thankful was she. It seemed to her as though it had been restored through a miraculous interposition of Heaven."How am I to thank you?" she said. "What am I to say to you? How can I show my gratitude to you? I think I must tell you what this is." She bent over him and whispered: "This is Sir Cyril's lost will. This gives Constance Laurayne her lost fortune and her lost love—gives them both to her; and she will owe all to you.""Not to me, Mercedes—to you," he asserted."No, to you, I repeat. I could not have gone down that horrible well.""How did you know it was there?" he asked.Mercedes was silent for a few minutes. It seemed ungenerous not to trust him, when he had just risked his life for her; but the secret was not hers."I am grieved," she said, at not being able to tell you the whole story; but I cannot. There is a secret which is not mine to reveal.""I do not wish to know," he replied. "If I have done what you wished: Mercedes, I am content."She began to wonder why he did not rise."Are you still faint?" she asked him."No," he replied; and he rose and leaned against the old beech-tree. "It is a very successful conclusion, Mercedes," he said. "I was afraid of one thing—that I should not find what you wanted.""It seems too good to be true," returned Mercedes. "When Constance first told me of her having a conviction that the will was in existence, and at Broome, I laughed; but the belief gradually grew upon me, until it became settled and fixed as her own. All my life," Mercedes added, "I shall be deeply grateful to you, Mr. Loftus. What should I have done without you?"She was wondering why he slid not offer to detach the rope from the tree, when the stable-clock struck twelve.He took a step forward; but, as he did so, he fell heavily upon the grass, with a low cry of distress that went to her heart. In a moment she was by his side, distressed and alarmed."I am afraid you are hurt!" she cried. "What can I do for you?"He made no answer; and bending still lower, she looked into his face. She saw that it was ghastly pale, that his eyes were closed. Evidently he was in a deep swoon.She must procure some brandy to revive him; with gentle hands she laid his head on the grass, and then, hiding her precious document in the folds of her dress, she reentered the library. Owing to the darkness and her fear of making any noise, she was some little time in finding her way to the dining-room, where she knew that there was brandy. With difficulty she managed to obtain a glass and fill it, and then she hurried back to her faithful friend. On reaching him, she found him recovering."I am so sorry," he said. "What trouble I am giving you!""Do tell me," she cried, imploringly, "what is wrong? I am so grieved for you!""It is nothing much," he replied. "I am a miserable coward to swoon like a faint-hearted girl; but the fact is, I have had an ugly accident, though it is nothing to be alarmed at—I have injured my arm. There was a rugged projection of some kind in the well, and I struck my shoulder so violently against it that it is causing me much pain. I must hurry home and have it attended to."Mercedes wrung her hands in genuine distress."Nay, do not do that," he cried; "it is nothing serious. Men think but little of such trifles. Do not mind it in the least. Why, the pain—believe me, Mercedes—the pain is sweet when I bear it for you! I will tell you what we must do with these ropes. If you will help me—I can use one hand—we will unfasten them, and our best plan will be to throw both the ladder and rope down the well together. I will make matters right tomorrow with the farmer who lent them."This was speedily done, and they parted, Mercedes with cheering words of loving gratitude on her tongue, but deep distress for the curate in her heart.CHAPTER XXXVII.IT was past one o'clock before Mercedes, thoroughly exhausted in body and mind with the efforts she had made, found herself within doors again. There was not a sound to be heard in the silent house. She refastened the shutters, relocked the library door, and went up the broad staircase, feeling confident that not a single member of the household had either seen or heard anything of her undertaking.On examining the will that had been the cause of so much misery, she found that it was not much injured. It was mouldy and mildewed, and the end that had been embedded in the soil was discolored; but the parchment did not seem to have been seriously damaged.On opening it she discovered that the damp and the mildew had to a slight extent penetrated the parchment. She wiped it carefully."If I leave it open," she said, "it will be dry by the morning."As her eyes ran down the document she saw that all was right; there was a long paragraph referring to Constance and Hilldrop, and the signatures were all in order. There was Sir Cyril's with the signatures of Sir John Hartopp and the clerk William Hewson."If I had remained at Hilldrop, I should never have found it," she thought. "How can I be sufficiently thankful that I came to Broome?"What should she do with the precious document?"I must shield Austin's mother in any circumstance, and, if possible, keep—at least for the present—all knowledge of this discovery from him. If I take the will to Mr. Anderson I must answer his questions, although he could not force me to tell him the whole truth. Still it would be impossible to conceal all. And if I take it to Constance, she will come to Broome, anxious to know where it has been found and who concealed it."Mercedes could not see her way out of the difficulty. Lady Laurayne had been guilty of an infamous crime, and there could be no doubt that she deserved punishment; but she was Austin's mother, and Mercedes knew perfectly well that, if he ever discovered the truth as to his mother's guilt, he would never be happy again.Then the idea flashed upon her that the simplest and the best plan would be to give it back to Lady Laurayne. Let her undo the wrong site had done; let her repair the evil. She it was who wrought the mischief; let her make atonement, and turn mourning into joy. It would be a disagreeable task; but it must be undertaken, and no time must be lost.She would see Lady Laurayne on the morrow, and place the will in her hands.Morning soon arrived, with its train of terrible perplexities. Miss Suarez rose early, and although the result of her search made her rejoice for Constance's sake, the weight on her mind was almost more than she could bear.She wrapped up the will and locked it in a box; yet her thoughts were ever with it. It haunted her, and, while she remained in her room, she could not rest continually taking it out and looking at it.It was a relief to go downstairs away from it, out of the room where it lay—a relief, yet absolute torture. She could not banish it from her thoughts. Sir Austin was from home, Lady Laurayne in her room, and Mercedes wondered how she should pass the time until an opportunity occurred for announcing the discovery to her ladyship.As the day wore on, she found a pretest for sending to the curate; but the messenger returned with the news that Mr. Loftus was very ill, and could not be seen. Mercedes then sent to ask Lady Laurayne if she might speak to her but the answer was that her ladyship was ill, with such a severe nervous headache that she could not bear the slightest sound.It was a long and wearisome day for Mercedes. Sir Austin was not expected home until the evening. Her ladyship kept her room all the day, and no visitors came to break the dullness. More than twenty times the girl ran upstairs to look at the box in which she had locked the will, and thus satisfy herself that the precious document was safe.At length she heard the sound of wheels announcing Sir Austin's return; and then Catherine Langham came to say that her ladyship was much better, and would be down to dinner."I have lost my chance," thought Mercedes; "I cannot say anything to her now. And how shall I sleep with that horrible document in my room again tonight?"The mother and son met cordially. Sir Austin was delighted to be at home again, and Mercedes tried hard to forget her anxieties and assume her brightest mood; yet she could not help watching Lady Laurayne, the beautiful, graceful woman who, by stooping to an act of infamy, had covered herself with secret shame and disgrace. As she sat by her son's side, how, thought Mercedes, could she be so gracious, smiling, suave, self-satisfied?"How little she dreams of what is in store for her!" reflected Mercedes. "What would she say if she knew that the will she believes safely out of sight forever was in a box in my room?"It appeared wonderful to her that a woman whose soul was shadowed with so base a crime should appear so content, so completely at her ease."You look very thoughtful, Mercedes," remarked Sir Austin, when he bade her good-night. "I like to see your face all smiling and bright. What has induced this expression of gravity? Did you miss me?""You may be sure I did," she replied, shuddering as she recalled the long, dreary day she had gone through, and all that she knew of the mother of this brave, handsome lover of hers."I wish," he said, "that I need never leave you. If I followed my own inclinations, I should not be absent one moment from your side.""You would soon grow tired of me," she remarked, trying to laugh."No—I never should. How could I, when my heart's deepest longing is to be with you?""Do you not think it possible to have too much even of that which we love best?" she asked. "No, Mercedes. If I could live fifty years with you, at the end of time I should wish to live them all over again!"CHAPTER XXXVIII.SIR AUSTIN'S words, which were the last she heard before she went back to her room, haunted Mercedes. If, discovering the part she had played, he were angry with her, how could she bear his anger? What if he resented such conduct and ceased to love her? It was then that Mercedes fully realized how much and how dearly she loved him—that, if she lost his love, life would be as nothing to her—would be but a living death.How could she punish Lady Laurayne, or force her to do justice, without sacrificing the love of the handsome young baronet? She was appalled when she saw what difficulties lay before her.Mercedes stood for a little time dismayed; for she saw before her greater trouble than she had anticipated. She had unravelled one web only to weave another round herself."Time solves all problems," she said to herself at last. "Tomorrow, come what may, I will tell Lady Laurayne my story."The morrow came—the critical day of her life she felt it to be—a sunny; when all nature seemed at her brightest."I will ask her to drive time over to Hilldrop," thought Mercedes, "to see how the workmen are getting on, and I will take her to the ruins and tell her my story. There we shall not be interrupted or overheard."At last she went to Lady Laurayne."Will you drive over to Hilldrop today?" she asked. "The weather is beautiful, and the grand old trees will look lovely.""I should like it very much," replied her ladyship. "I want to see how the workmen are getting on. Will you go with us, Austin?""I am grieved to say I cannot, mother. I have to meet the magistrates this morning at Ravelston. I may drive round and return with you.""No, that would interfere with your arrangements and only detain us. Never Mind, Austin. We will start in good time, Mercedes, so that we can return before the air becomes chilly," said Lady Laurayne.At length the dreaded hour drew nigh. On arriving at Hilldrop, Mercedes asked her ladyship to stroll with her to the ruins, for she had something to say to her."Let me find a seat for you," said Mercedes. "I want to talk to you, Lady Laurayne.""You are very mysterious this morning, Mercedes. What can you have to say to me that requires so much preparation?" and her ladyship looked up with sudden suspicion. "Is it about Sir Austin?" she asked."No," replied Mercedes, her face flushing. "What should I have to say about Sir Austin?""As you ask a straightforward question, Mercedes, and as I know that you like straightforward answers, I will tell you. I have fancied once or twice lately that my son is growing fond of you. Have you remarked it?"The dark eyes drooped so that Lady Laurayne could not see their expression."Do not encourage him, Mercedes," she continued. "You are very beautiful and fascinating, and ought to marry well; but I should not wish my son to marry you. I want him to improve his social position by marriage. You understand, Mercedes? Then, too, there is that continual unpleasantness about Constance."Here was the opportunity Mercedes had so eagerly longed for."That is the very subject I wanted to talk about," said Mercedes.Lady Laurayne's face relaxed."I am glad to hear that. She has come to her senses, I hope. Has she asked you to negotiate or make terms for her?""No, nothing of the kind. You are mistaken. She has strange news waiting for her.""Strange news!" repeated Lady Laurayne; and Mercedes saw that her words had struck home. "Strange news of what?""Of Sir Cyril's will," replied Mercedes; and her companion's face grew deathly pale."Sir Cyril left no will," said Lady Laurayne said, slowly; "I thought that absurd idea was exploded.""Sir Cyril did leave a will," declared Mercedes, emphatically; "and I know where it is.""You are mad!" cried Lady Laurayne—"perfectly mad!""No, I am perfectly sane, and I repeat what I said—Sir Cyril left a will. and I know where it is.""I shall not remain here to listen to such ravings!" cried Lady Laurayne, rising from her seat.You had better remain: and I should advise you to listen," said Mercedes, "or it will be the worse for you. Listen, and try to save yourself." Lady Laurayne saw tears in the young girl's eyes—saw how great was her emotion."I would rather," cried Mercedes, "that anyone but myself had this task to perform. I hate myself for my share in the matter, yet I must proceed.""What do you mean?" shrieked Lady Laurayne; and in her face there was an agony of fear "What do you mean?""I will tell you. I know the whole story of Sir Cyril's will—who stole it, who concealed it, where it was hidden, and who found it.""What do you say?" her ladyship gasped. "Who did what?""Who found it," replied Mercedes. "I know it all."The gray pallor of death came over the handsome face of her ladyship; the white lips, the strained look of the eyes, the nervous tension of the clasped hands betrayed the fear she felt."I do not believe one word of it," she said, boldly—"not one word. It is a pure invention, concocted to aid Constance. You are in league with her, and have conspired with her.""Even were it so, I could not invent a will," retorted Mercedes, calmly."There is no will," raved the unhappy woman; "you know that! Constance has invented some lie. You say you know who stole it. Who was it? Where was it hidden? Who found it?""I did," replied Mercedes, with the utmost coolness. "I found it; and I have it here." As she spoke she drew from the pocket of her dress the parchment, which she had carefully rolled into as small a compass as possible. This is Sir Cyril's will," she said, unfolding it.For a moment murder appeared in the distorted face, murder gleaming in the flashing eyes. Mercedes held up her hand warningly."That is useless," she said. "I am stronger and younger than you. Be reasonable, for violence will not help you.""You traitress!" hissed the baffled woman; "you traitress of double dye!""No; if there is a traitress, it is you," retorted Mercedes—"you, who flung Sir Cyril's will into the depths of the well. You are the traitress, not I."The lurid light of murder faded from Lady Laurayne's eyes."How do you pretend to know that? How can you prove that?" she asked."Easily enough, when proof is needed. I know the whole story well—how you found the will, and then, passing through the library out on to the greensward, dragged the old wooden cover from the well, and dropped the document into it."She knew she had hit upon the very truth when she saw the white, stricken, haggard face."How can you prove it?" demanded Lady Laurayne, whose self-possession had now returned to her."That will be my business when the time comes," was the answer."Mercedes," said Lady Laurayne, "will you tell me how that will was found?""Yes, if you will tell me how it was hidden," she replied.In those few words they, as it were, measured swords."Will you give me the will?" asked Lady Laurayne."I will make terms with you," replied Mercedes "and that not for your sake, but for your son's."CHAPTER XXXIX."LET me know the worst at once, Mercedes," said Lady Laurayne. "As&however you came by it&you appear to have Sir Cyril's will, I should like to know what you are going to do with it.""Hand it to Constance, I suppose, or to Mr. Anderson, or to Sir Austin."Lady Laurayne's face quivered at the mention of her son's name."And then," continued Mercedes, "justice will be done, and Constance will have her inheritance."Lady Laurayne bent forward eagerly."Mercedes," she almost whispered, "does anyone else know of this? Would anything induce you to keep silence about it?""No, nothing upon earth; my cousin shall have her own.""I suppose it must be," sighed her ladyship. "Tell me the worst.""There need not be any unpleasantness," said Mercedes, "if you are reasonable, Lady Laurayne.""Well, tell me what you thing of doing." Then her ladyship added, with a tinge of anger in her voice, "You did not bring me here merely to show me that will, did you?""I brought you here to tell you that it was found, and to ask you to repair the injustice you have been guilty of," replied Mercedes. "As Sir Austin's mother—and I know how dearly he loves you—I would for his sake gladly spare you all open shame and disgrace. Perhaps you are not aware how far you have committed yourself, or to what punishment you have rendered yourself liable?"Lady Laurayne seemed suddenly to grow alarmed."You mentioned my son's name," she said. "Do you not think he will protect me?""He cannot protect you if the fact that you hid the will becomes known," answered Mercedes. "Indeed, the thought of his sorrow and anguish, should he learn the truth, is what appals me. He is so proud, so noble, so sensitive, that I believe it would kill him, or would wreck his whole life. I grieve for Sir Austin from the bottom of my heart—he loves you so, he thinks you so peerless. I have heard him speak of you with tears in his eyes; and, should he know of this, it would break his heart."Lady Laurayne was silent. Mercedes had touched the right chord at last; for her ladyship loved her son better than anything else in the wide world, and was proud of his love for her."Mercedes," she said, after a long pause, "will you come to terms?""I will," she replied, "if they are such as any honest, honorable woman can accept. Let me suggest one course to you. Swear to me that you will do justice—you, who committed the wrong, should be the one to undo it—and I will give the will to you. I cannot say I quite trust you," continued Mercedes: "but it is the best way I can see out of the difficulty. I will place the will in your hands if you will send for Sir Austin, give it to him, and ask him to see that its provisions are carried out.""But he will ask whence it came," objected Lady Laurayne; "that is the difficulty.""You could tell him that it was placed in your hands this morning, and that you were asked to see justice done.""That would never satisfy him," returned Lady Laurayne; "he has been too bitterly annoyed about the whole business. He would want to know where I have been, whom I have seen, and all about it.""It must be so" said Mercedes, "for I can think of no other plan. And, as to his curiosity, I do not agree with you. If you tell him that the will was placed in your hands by the very person who found it, and that that person pledged you to secrecy as to how, when, and where it was found, I think he will be so pleased on receiving it as to care very little who the finder was. I will be with you, if you like, to help you in case of need.""The fact is you will not trust me with the will, Mercedes. However, I am not entirely bad—I am not entirely bereft of honor and honesty. Perhaps, if you knew all my story, you would not judge me so harshly.""I do not judge you," replied Mercedes.The proud face was softening, the false mouth quivering: Lady Laurayne's pride was breaking down under a sense of mortification and humiliation."Tell me, Mercedes," she entreated, "how you found the will, and what you know about it.""Be frank with me first," stipulated Mercedes. "You know me to be true, I know you to be false; you believe me, I doubt you. I will act fairly toward you if you will be frank with me. If you will tell me your story truthfully, if you will admit your guilt, I may be able to help you. I will keep your secret faithfully, loyally, until I die, should you wish it. I will not tell even Constance the truth. The secret shall be ours alone. But you must tell me the truth. The secret shall be ours alone. But you must tell me the whole truth, you must hide nothing from me, and you must do justice to Constance. Think the matter calmly over; but remember that, if you refuse, you run the risk of exposure and punishment. You need not decide in a


hurry; weigh the matter carefully, and let me know your decision."Grasping the parchment firmly, prepared at any moment for a surprise on the part of her ladyship, Mercedes walked to the far end of the ruins, leaving the unhappy woman alone.At length Lady Laurayne approached her."I will accept your conditions, Mercedes," she said, in a tone of resignation. "I will tell you my story if you will promise never to reveal it, but to look upon my secret as a sacred trust.""I swear to do so," returned Mercedes, "and Lady Laurayne knew that not even fear of death itself would induce her to break her word."CHAPTER XL."IF I were asked," began Lady Laurayne, "what I thought the greatest curse under which anyone could live, I should say it was that of genteel poverty. I can imagine nothing more cruelly distressing than to have to make one hundred or one thousand pounds do the work of three, to keep up an empty appearance of luxury, to feel that life is a hollow pretence. Ah me, I know it all only too well! I would far rather be absolutely poor, with no appearances to keep up, with nothing to hope for. Well, Mercedes my father and mother were what is called fashionable people. They lived in a fashionable circle; but they had a very small income, and they lived as though they had a very large one."They were compelled to do it, they said. To give up any of their accustomed pleasures would to proclaim the fact that they could not afford and that would mean social ruin. So we ate cold mutton from silver plate; old dresses were fashioned into new ones; one servant was kept to do the work of two. It was all sham, pretence, and struggle. My father was careless, and did not trouble; my mother, who had to manage everything, wore herself to a shadow. If my parents had only been content to live in the country, to give up their expensive seasons in town, they could have lived in comparative affluence; but they never dreamed of such self-denial."I was their only child, and when I gave promise of beauty, my mother was somewhat consoled. How she talked to me about money. Love, comfort, and everything else in the wide world were very well in their way, but money was the only thing, she asserted, of real use. Money ruled the world; money did everything. The one injunction impressed upon me from my earliest years was this—'Never marry a poor man;' and I made up my mind never to do so. When I saw my mother worrying over bills, sending false messages to creditors, having recourse to a thousand little meannesses which in her heart she abhorred, I swore that I would never do as she had done—that, if I married, I would marry a rich man."I grew up very beautiful, was greatly admired when I made my début, and I married the richest man who made me an offer, Sir Alfred Tollemache. He was kind and good to me; I liked him; while, as for money, I had more than I knew what to do with. But before I had time to help my mother she died, worn out by her struggles against poverty. My father did not long survive her, and, when all the hungry creditors were paid, there was not one shilling left for me. I did not want it then, for Sir Alfred had an enormous fortune when I married him. I need not tell you how it happened, but in the early years of our married life he lost nearly the whole of it.The loss of his wealth preyed upon him, and one evening he came home, having taken a chill, looking white and wan—to die. As he left twin-daughters but no son, his estate went to his next of kin, and I found myself possessor of only a small annuity to bring up my girls. Manage as best I might, I knew there was no resource for me but to marry again. At Ashton Hall I met Sir Cyril Laurayne, and he fell in love with me. From the first Constance disliked me. I remember well the expression on her face when she gazed into mine; it was one of utter distrust. I did all I could to win her love; but, although she was always polite to me, from the first moment of our meeting there seemed to be an unsurmountable  barrier between us. I lived very happily with Sir Cyril. Again I knew the pleasure of having plenty of money—indeed of everything that my heart desired. I was blessed with a son, too, so that my future seemed safe."We were talking one day about the future, when I asked Sir Cyril to explain to me the exact position of affairs. He had settled something on me at the time of our marriage, and he told me what he thought would fall to my share at his death; but it was not half enough to satisfy me. Then again Hilldrop was a fruitful source of vexation to me; I liked the place when I first saw it—I love it now. I could not bear to think that the grand old estate, with its substantial revenues, would go to Constance, while I, with two daughters to marry, should be once more trying to make a small income do the work of a large one. If Hilldrop could only be mine, I felt I should have nothing further on earth to wish for."Frankly speaking, I did not like Constance; she was very beautiful, and my two girls were, to say the least, plain, never showing to advantage when she was by. There was also an unpleasant fact with regard to their fortunes which I could not forget—she had a splendid inheritance while they would have nothing. Yet, although I disliked her, she could never reproach me with a single act of unkindness."Several times I led my husband to talk to me about Hilldrop. I remarked to him what a pity it was that he could not give Constance its equivalent in money, and make it a dower-house for the ladies of the family. He always agreed with me. It was the one thing wanting to make Broome perfect, he owned; but it could never be."To whom does Hilldrop really belong now?" I asked him."To Constance," the replied. "On the death of her mother it became mine; but it was always intended that Hilldrop should go to Constance, and to make it secure I have made a will to that effect.""I understood clearly enough that if he had died without a will Hilldrop would not have been hers, but Austin's."I always believed that will to he in the charge of Mr. Anderson, the lawyer, until the time of Sir Cyril's illness, and then I discovered my mistake."After I had heard of the will I tried not to think about Hilldrop. It could never be mine now. Yet my thoughts always turned toward it. I pictured myself living there with lay two daughters, and Austin master of Broome, until my heart burned with envy. I felt, at times, that I would give anything, do anything, to make Hilldrop mine.No farther mention was made of Hilldrop until Sir Cyril told me one day that, by a fortunate speculation, he had made a largo sum of money, and that he thought he should destroy his will and make another. He never spoke of the matter again, and, shortly afterward, he was suddenly taken ill."Constance was from home at the time. No sooner was he struck down than he asked that she might be sent for; but I kept my own counsel, and did not comply with his request, although I knew that he was on his death-bed; for, from the first, the doctors gave me no hope. I felt, that I, as his wife had a prior claps upon him to Constance."I nursed him lovingly, carefully, if only for selfish motives; for, if he died, Broome would no longer be mine! at the very most, I could but occupy it until Austin came of age. I had therefore every reason to wish that Sir Cyril might live, for

as his wife, I was a power in the county, whereas, his widow, I should be a comparative nobody. However, although I did all in my power for him, from the first there was no hope. At times Sir Cyril was quite himself and talked to me sensibly and rationally; then, for many hours, he would be delirious, and mistake me for his first wife Philippa. It is hard, I think, to be a second wife."I had been a faithful, loving wife to Sir Cyril; but in this. his last illness, his mind had gone back to his first love. 'Philippa' and 'Constance' were the names almost always on his lips, never 'Althea.' He talked, too, about his boy, and I sent for him; but almost invariably it was Constance for whom he called."I was at a loss to tell why, but I felt certain that one person was constantly watching me with the greatest suspicion throughout that illness, and that was Sarah King, Constance's nurse. I was convinced it was in Constance's interest. I am not entirely bad, Mercedes. Do you think I am?" Lady Laurayne broke off."I do not presume to judge," responded Mercedes."Well, I am not wholly bad. I had a deep seated affection for Sir Cyril, and that perpetual cry of his for Philippa and Constance made my heart sore and heavy. Once, as I bent over him, I heard him say, 'Philippa, my only love, do not leave me.' Criminal I may be—a false,, deceitful woman; but never did woman's eyes fill with hotter tears than did mine at that moment."Sarah King came to me one day and said, 'The master seems to be always crying out for Miss Constance, my lady; why do you not send for her?' When I replied that the doctors had forbidden all excitement and that I was afraid to send for her on that account, she told me in a defiant, arrogant manner that it would be far more harmful to keep his daughter from him than to let him see her; so I promised to send."I do not know what vain or guilty hopes had filled my heart; I can scarcely say what I had thought or hoped; but it had seemed to me that if Constance should return, all hope for me would be gone."That same night I sat up with Sir Cyril. For a long time he murmured in a strange, rambling manner in his sleep; but suddenly his voice resumed its natural tone. He stroked my hand gently as it rested on the bed-rail."Philippa, my darling," he said, "the color of your hair is changed. Then he added, slowly: But it is not Philippa; it is Constance. Ah, Constance, I have been longing for you! I want to speak to you.""Sir Cyril roused himself more completely during the next few minutes than he had done since his illness began, and a faint hope crept into my heart that he might yet recover. I did not know how common such revivals of strength are just before death."'I have had such a curious dream, Althea,' he said. 'I dreamed that Philippa was sitting by my side, having come to tell me that some danger threatened Constance, and that I must take care of her, "Where is your will?" she asked. Now what could have made me dream that, Althea? Philippa looked so stern that I feel quit alarmed.'"'It was but a dream, my dear, I replied, trying to soothe him. 'Philippia is no longer on earth; Constance will be with you soon; your will is safe, and I am here.'"As I kissed him, I found that his brow and hands were cold and clammy."'Althea,' he said, 'that foolish dream has frightened me! I should like to see my will, to know that all is right. Will you bring it to me?"Ah, why did my heart thrill guilty with keen delight? Because I was at last to hold in my hands. the will that gave Hilldrop to Constance."'With pleasure, I replied. 'Tell me where it is.'"He told me that it was in an iron safe in the strong room. As he held up the key, his eyes were fixed steadfastly on mine."'Make haste back, Althea,' he urged."I went on my errand, found the will, and brought it to him. His face brightened when he saw it."'That is right!' he exclaimed, feebly. 'What could Philipa have meant, Althea?'"'You forget,' I said, gently, 'that she has not really been by your side; it was only a dream.'"'Read it to me.' he said, eagerly—'the clause respecting Constance. Read them slowly, that may clearly understand them.'I read them. The thin, pale face cleared as the words fell upon his ears. "'That is right, I feel sure,' he said. 'What do you think, Althea?'"'I am sure all is right,' I replied; 'you may be quite happy about it.'"Still he seemed haunted by the memory of his dream."'I cannot forget Philippa,' he said. 'Can there be danger for Constance, my beautiful, loving Constance? Surely not. You are satisfied,' he cried, 'that the will is all right?'"'I am, indeed,' I replied. 'Now rest content that all is well.'"' 1 feel 1 should not rest in my grave,' he declared, 'if Philippa's child were defrauded of her rights. I had a strange fancy the other night, Althea.''What was it?' I asked, to humor him. 'What was it, dear?'"'A dreadful fancy that I was dead,' he replied, 'and yet that I was walking down the passage to the strong-room to get my will. Let me look at it just once again, Althea. I should, I repeat, never rest even in death if any harm came to Philippa's child.'"Now, Mercedes, you know the reason why I could not rest at Broome. There was not a moment, night or day, in which I did not expect Sir Cyril to confront me. When you told me that you had heard some one touch the handle of my door and walk from my room, my guilty conscience smote me. In my hysterical, overwrought state, I thought it must be Sir Cyril. If at any moment he had appeared before me and asked, 'Where is my will?' I should not have been surprised. He said so earnestly that he felt he should not rest in his grave unless all went well with Constance that every hour I have spent at Broome since that night has been an hour of terror to me.""I do not wonder at it," said Mercedes, deeply interested in the story."I saw a strange expression come over my husband's face," Lady Laurayne resumed, "but I had no idea that it was the shadow of death.""'Althea,' he said, 'you will be very kind to Philippa's child?' I believe. Mercedes, that he had quite forgotten she was grown up, and dreamed of her still as the little, fair-hired child whom I had cared for. 'Promise me,' he said."I—may Heaven forgive me!—I promised him faithfully; and he placed the will in my hands."'This is a sacred trust. Althea,' he said. 'When I am dead send for Anderson and give the will to him; he knows all about it, for he drew it up. Tell him that I know he will scrupulously carry out my every wish, and beg him to help Austin with his advice. You will not fail?'"'No, I will not fail. Cyril,' I answered; and he placed the will in my hands."As I held it I wished that I could reduce it to ashes. Suddenly his strength failed."'I aim so tired,' he said; I must sleep.'"He slumbered peacefully; but it was not yet the sleep of death. I sat motionless by his side, grasping in my hands the will but for which Hilldrop would be mine, for Austin, I knew, would give it to me. But for that will, Hilldrop would be my home, and never again would the shadow

of care come near me. Sir Cyril slept on soundly, so soundly indeed that I wondered if he would ever wake again. Hiding the roll of parchment in my dress, I went to rouse Sarah King, for I began to fear the end was near. The moment she saw his face she exclaimed to me:"'Sir Cyril is dying, my lady! He will not live to see Miss Constance!'"Naturally I was agitated, and trembled violently."'Go, my lady,' she said, 'and call Mrs. Medhurst and some of the women-servants. I should not like you to be here alone.'"'Is—is it the critical moment now?' I asked. "'No, not just yet; he may live half an hour; but he is dying, my lady.'"'Are you sure?' I asked. 'Will he not speak again?'"'I should think not. How you tremble, my lady! Take a little brandy, or you will be ill.'"'Thanks,' I replied; 'I will be back directly;' and I quitted the room."I was alone, with the will hidden in my dress; and as my husband lay dying the Evil One was busy in my heart. 'Destroy it,' whispered the temper; 'No one can see or hear! Destroy it, and Hilldrop will be yours! Destroy it! your husband is dying, and will never speak again.'"Mercedes," said her ladyship, suddenly looking up into the girl's beautiful face, pale with sympathy and horror—"Mercedes, do you not think all wicked people are mad—some slightly, some desperately? Is not crime madness? I was mad when I stood in the great hall at Broome with the will in my possession. I remember I could not repress a low, hissing laugh that made me shudder. 'Destroy it!' urged the tempter again. 'Why should that slip of a girl have Hilldrop, when you would be so happy there? Your husband will not ask for the will again.'"'I will destroy it!' I said to myself."But how? The parchment was so tough that I could not tear it. I looked round for something, no matter what, with which to destroy it. There was nothing at hand. There were no means of burning it. Where could I put it? Time was short, time was precious. Where could I hide it until a time came that I could effectually snake away with it in the flames? As I rapidly revolved the many possible hiding-places in my mind, the Idea of the well flashed upon me. It was the very place! I had no sooner conceived the idea than I acted upon it. I went into the library, passed through one of the long windows, and crossed the turf to the well. The strength of twenty women seemed mine when I tried to raise the cover, I seemed endowed with superhuman strength."I lifted the cover and calmly dropped the parchment into the depths of the well. I listened for a few seconds, but heard not the faintest sound, and toy heart glowed with exultation as I thought that never again would man's eyes rest upon the will. Yet I felt almost accursed even in that moment. I hastened back; refastened the window, and went to the housekeeper's room. Ah me, I might well look white and ghastly, I might well tremble and feel giddy! The woman was alarmed for me."'You should not have come up here, my lady,' she said, concernedly."Then I made my way back to Sir Cyril's room, where, seeing how ill I was, Sarah King showed me kindness such as I had never before received at her hands."There was no change in my husband s condition. They begged me to leave the room, but I would not. They whispered to each other that it would be too much for me; but I would not leave him. What if he should wake up suddenly from that deathly sleep and ask for the will? The thought seemed to deprive me of all power, and I clung to the bed-rail for support. Then I fell upon my knees and buried my face in my hands. They thought I was weeping for him who was dying, and they were right; but my whole soul was faint with suspense. I knelt there in the dread silence for more than half an hour."What should I do if he awoke and asked to see the will again? What should I do if he asked me before those women where I had placed it? In my agony I counted the moments; with every heart-beat the blood surged to my brain; and in my fear I could hardly restrain myself from crying aloud."At last there was a stir in the room. The women moved noiselessly to the bedside. Sir Cyril was speaking. Oh, that I could have heart, what he said! But the noise like the rush of many waters filled my ears, a roar more terrible than that of the raging sea deadened all other sounds to me. Every moment that passed was to me a moment of supreme danger.Suddenly I heard a faint, cry. As I raised my head, I saw my husband's face brighten with a smile of ineffable happiness. 'Philippa!' he cried; and the next moment he had left this world to join her. She was a better wife than I was, Mercedes, for I betrayed his trust."Lady Laurayne paused for a few minutes, and gazed upon the smiling landscape around."It was worth sinning for," she sighed; "but nothing would have repaid me for all I have suffered. I need not tell you all that passed. Not a word was said about the will until Mr. Anderson spoke of it. Then, when it was discovered that it was neither in the possession of the lawyer nor in the strong-room, a careful search was made—as you know, in vain. The scene in the library I shall never forget—it was a terrible trial to me.As time passed on I grew bolder. I felt that the will could never be found—nor could it be known that I had destroyed it; and without the will Constance could never have Hilldrop. So I was safe; but how I suffered! You will perhaps think me grossly superstitious, Mercedes, but from that time until now my constant dread has been that Sir Cyril would return to learn from me what I had done with the will. For some time after his death I dared not remain alone or with Constance. Austin would have undone all that I did, being anxious to make over Hilldrop by a deed of gift to his half-sister."However, having already stained my soul by so terrible a crime, I did not hesitate to strengthen my position by falsehood. As to sir Cyril's last wishes, I induced my son to believe that his father had purposely destroyed his will, because he had changed his mind concerning Hilldrop, and wished the estates to go together. Austin did not doubt the truth of what I told him; he has always implicitly believed me. Oh, Mercedes, for Heavens sake, spare him! Thanks to me, he believed he was merely carrying out his father's solemn wishes in keeping Hilldrop."I have suffered as deeply as I have sinned, but the day that Captain Dysart came and asked for Constance's address was the bitterest day of all. Sir Cyril had told me that she was engaged: but in the worry and agitation that followed his illness and death I forgot all about it, and I am doubtful whether I ever heard her fiancé's name."No wonder that I slept ill during the time Captain Dysart remained at Broome! And one night I dreamed—oh, Mercedes, such a horrible dream—!"A look of deep interest shone in the girl's eyes."The night before he left?" Mercedes asked, eagerly."Yes, that was the night. I was unusually restless, and could not sleep. At last I did fall asleep, and I thought I heard a loud knocking at my door. I opened it, and there stood Sir Cyril in his shroud."'I told you,' he said, with a half-angry, half-sorrowful look on his pallid face, 'That I should not rest in my grave. Come with me, and show

me the place where you have hidden my will.' And, Mercedes, in my dream I went to the well. He followed me, and when he bade me remove the cover and look down, I did so. How my dream ended I do not know, for, when I awoke, I was standing in my room, cold and quaking with terror. Now," concluded her ladyship, "tell me how you found out a secret that I thought would never be revealed until the judgment day."Mercedes told her the whole story—how she had followed her on that memorable night, and seen her looking down into the yawning depths of the well, and had guessed at once that the will was there."I can never tell you," Mercedes added, "how I recovered it; but I can assure you that your secret is safe. Your name has never been mentioned in connection with it. I can merely state that I did recover it, and it is here."Lady Laurayne listened to the girl's remarkable story—remarkable for the quickness and clearness of thought displayed; she grew paler and paler, and sunk down upon the grass."It was strange, after Sir Cyril's words, that all actually happened as it did. The dream in which he appeared to me was instrumental in leading you to the well, and finally in bridging the will to light. I know I am very superstitious; but how if Sir Cyril could not rest until justice was done to his child? I have read of such things.""So have I," agreed Mercedes; "but, in this case, the explanation of cause and effect is so complete that all fear is baseless. You have now simply to atone for the wrong done, and then, should the spirits of the departed know what passes on earth, Sir Cyril will rest in peace. As quickly as you can, therefore, repair the wrong done.""You will help me, Mercedes?" Lady Laurayne said, faintly."I will, with all my heart," the girl replied. "What I propose is this: Some time to-morrow—not to-day, because you are too much agitated—some time to-morrow send for Austin, and put the will into his hands, and tell him to see justice done at once. The very fact that you wish him to do justice, to give up Hilldrop—the very fact that it is you yourself who placed the will in his hands—will prevent suspicion from falling on you. You will be completely safe—guarded by your own action.""I will do it, Mercedes," she replied.All the pride and coldness and hardness had gone from Lady Laurayne now, and it was a new, woman whose head was bowed in humble and contrite sorrow before her young accuser."I wish I were a true woman, Mercedes," she sighed; "but I was never trained to be so. Expediency, I was taught, should always rule my actions, but truth only when it served my purpose, I believe," she added, with a bitter little laugh, "that it comes natural to me to be plausible, smiling, and false. Does anyone believe in me. I wonder?""Your son does," Mercedes replied. "To him you are a perfect woman. As for being true you know when you speak falselesly that it is wrong, and you feel that you have been false. Well, one with such instincts need not despair of herself. And now, Lady Laurayne, we must be going. You will neither falter nor flinch in what you have promised to do?""I will not," she answered. "And you, Mercedes, in your turn, will swear to me that to no living creature will you ever betray a word of what has passed between us?""I have promised," said Mercedes.As they drove home, Lady Laurayne had the will in her possession. They spoke but little; but to Mercedes' lips rose many a prayer for this woman who had owned herself false and a sinner."You will not fail?" asked Mercedes, on the following morning."I will not," replied her ladyship. "Come to me at noon. I shall be in the library, the best place in which I can make restitution."At noon Mercedes joined her there. To her it was the most exciting and critical moment of her life. She found Lady Laurayne seated, with the will lying on the table before her."You trusted me with it, and I have not betrayed your trust," she said."I did not think you would," returned Mercedes.Lady Laurayne rang the bell and sent for her son, who soon came in, his handsome face brightening as he saw Mercedes."You want me, mother darling?" he said going up to her and kissing her. "What is it?""My dearest Austin, I have something of a very unexpected and surprising nature to tell you," she began—"something which agitates me."He kissed her again as he noticed the suppressed excitement under which she labored. "What is agitating you, dearest mother?" he said. "Am I not here to take care of you?""But this is something so wonderful, Austin, so astounding, I hardly know how to tell it to you, my dear. After all these years, after all this sorrow, suspense, and misery respecting Constance, the will is found!""Found!" he cried. "My dear mother, you must be dreaming.""Here it is," she said, holding up the soiled document."Your father's voice speaks in it. Take it, and do justice, Austin—at once."He looked like a man suddenly bereft of his senses. He took the parchment in his hands; but they trembled violently as he unfolded it."Great Heaven!" he cried, you are right! It is the will! Here is my poor father's signature, and here are those of the witnesses. How glad—how thankful I am! I would rather this had happened than that a trillion of money had been left to me. Thank Heaven! Ah, here it is—'Constance Laurayne.' It will be one of the brightest days in my life when Constance takes her own again. But, my dear mother, how, in Heaven's name, did you meet with the will?"That was the critical moment, and Mercedes drew nearer to Lady Laurayne; but she was calm—everything depended on her self-possession. "My dear Austin," she replied, there is a secret with regard to it which I can never reveal. The will was placed in my hands yesterday, under a promise of inviolable secrecy and a pledge that I would give it to you and ask you to see justice done.""That will I!" he exclaimed.Mercedes was right; he was too excited, surprised, and delighted over the finding of it to trouble himself further with regard to how it had been found.CHAPTER XLI."I am going to London this morning," said Sir Austin to Lady Laurayne. "I cannot let a day pass without informing Constance about the will. What a sensation the news will make. What a stir there will be its the country! If it had been found only a week after my poor father's funeral, what a difference it would have made to all of us!""I think it would be much wiser not to make any stir about it, Sir Austin," remarked Mercedes. "Be advised, and say nothing about it, except to your most intimate friends, and those whom it most concerns.""Perhaps it would be wiser," he agreed; "but it will mot be nearly so pleasant. I feel as though I should like to go and flourish the will in everybody's face, and give a grand party to the whole county.""You seem to forget me," put in Lady Laurayne."The happiness and pleasure may be, and will be, great for Constance; but you appear to forget that I shall have to leave a home I love quite as much as she loves it.""My darling mother," he cried, "you need not regret it! You shall have a home as fair, and one that you will like quite as well, as Hilldrop. Live here with me for a time.""No," she replied with a shudder, "I could not live here. I never liked Broome.""If Constance marries, she will not go to Hilldrop at once," sir Austin began; but Lady Laurayne interrupted him."I shall never go back to Hilldrop, Austin. My best plan will be to occupy the London house, if you can let me have it, until you have provided a home for me. Let it be near you, Austin, will you?" and the handsome woman, whose sin had brought her so low, wept as her son had never seen her weep before.Mercedes knew only too well to what this irrepressible emotion was attributable. To Sir Austin his mother's tears were most painful. He kissed and soothed her until she grew comparatively calm, and listened to him with tolerable composure. Knowing how she had always loved Hilldrop, he could well understand what a bitter grief it would be to her to leave it. Her sorrow appeared only natural, and the open way in which she lamented her loss disarmed all suspicion.Mercedes alone knew why it was the guilty woman almost shrunk from her son's kindness, and dreaded any mention of "home." Mercedes alone was mistress of the secrets of that guilty, fainting soul, and she resolved to do all in her power to help her to bear the burden of them."I shall go straight to Constance," declared Sir Austin, "and place the will in her hands. Oh, mother, I should be one of the happiest men in the wide world if I could only see you smile again.""My dear boy, it is not so easy to give up a home like Hilldrop and an income of four thousand a year. It will be long before I can smile over the loss of it."As she uttered these words, the vicar was announced. The Reverend Vaughan Stamford apologized for his early visit, but he had called to ask a favor from Lady Laurayne for a sick parishioner. The worthy vicar looked worn and anxious."Have you heard;" he asked, "how very ill Mr. Loftus is?""No " replied Lady Laurayne.Mercedes shuddered with a sharp pang of pity and regret."What is the matter?" asked Sir Austin."Fever—a raging fever, the doctor says: and he is very doubtful about his recovery. I am most distressed at the sad affair. I cannot imagine what Ravelston would do without him.""We must hope for the best," said Lady Laurayne. "Can I be of any service? Can I send him anything—some hot-house grapes, perhaps?"And Mercedes thought of the day when the tender-hearted curate had asked her to take some grapes to the sick child, little Annie Southam. A passion of grief blanched her face as she realized what he was suffering for her sake.He had offered her his life: could it be that he had really thrown it away for her?"The doctor cannot quite understand the curate's case," continued the vicar. "He has found a terrible wound on his shoulder, but cannot learn from him whether he has had a fall or not. He sent to London yesterday for a trained nurse, and he told me this morning that he thought by no means favorably of the case.""I am very sorry to hear it," said Sir Austin, gravely.But Mercedes uttered not a word, and it was with the utmost difficulty that she restrained her tears."Mother" said Sir Austin, suddenly. "Dr. Stamford is one of our truest friends. With your permission, I will tell him of our discovery.""Certainly," said Lady Laurayne. "I was about to suggest your doing so.""I know Dr. Stamford will be as pleased as I am myself," the young baronet went on. "We have such good news, doctor—so good as to appear scarcely credible, and yet perfectly true. We have found the lost will!""The lost will!" repeated the vicar, in amazement; and it was not until Sir Austin showed him the parchment that he could believe what he had heard. "Restored to you! " he cried, incredulously. "Why, who was base and cruel enough to make away with it? Whoever did it deserves penal servitude for life!"There was a moment of silence that was terrifying to Mercedes, and then Lady Laurayne replied:"Who shall say that anybody made away with it? It was placed in my hands yesterday, with a full history of its discovery; but the person who gave it to me had decidedly neither hidden, mislaid, nor lost it." She spoke with pure dignity, and only the trembling of her hand betrayed the terrible distress she was experiencing. "I am satisfied," she continued; "and I am the greatest sufferer, for I shall lose a home I dearly love. My son, too, is satisfied.""Yes," said Sir Austin. carelessly. "The will, not the finder, is of the greatest moment to me. It must have been a pure accident or a case of gross carelessness. Had it been made away with, the culprit would never have troubled about it.""I can only thank Heaven it is found," said the vicar.Mercedes, detecting a peculiar intonation in his voice, looked up quickly. She saw his eyes fixed on the pale. beautiful face of Lady Laurayne.Never again, either in private or in public, as subject of conversation or as a matter of argument, did the Vicar of Ravelston mention Sir Cyril's will. Whatever his thoughts were, he kept them entirely to himself.Sir Austin spoke of his proposed journey to London, and offered, as he was going to the station, to drive the vicar home. The two men left the house together.Sir Austin talked in the happiest and most enthusiastic fashion about the will, expressing his belief that his mother was shielding an old but careless servant. The vicar sat and listened; but he offered no comment on the strange recovery.When they had driven away, Mercedes turned to Lady Laurayne."That was a trying ordeal for you." she said."It was almost more than I could bear, but I did not betray myself, did I, Mercedes?""Not in the least," she replied.But when the hapless lady rose to quit the room she fainted.CHAPTER XLII.THE train that carried Sir Austin to London seemed to him to crawl. His thoughts, however, were consoling. The two ardent desires of his heart would be accomplished, after all—he would win beautiful Mercedes, and make her his own, and Constance would have Hilldrop.At the station he took a hansom, and drove to the address which Mercedes had given him—"Mr. Newsham, No. 3 Queen's Gardens, South Kensington." He read the words aloud, and then he tenderly kissed the paper on which Mercedes' dear hand had rested.Was Miss Laurayne at home? he asked, on reaching his destination. The answer was "Yes," but she was engaged."Never mind," he said; "I must see her on very important business. I am her brother. Show me to her room, and never mind announc

ing me;" and a coin was dropped into the girl's hand.His heart beat fast as he went up the staircase. It was a pretty, well-furnished house, but a poor home after the luxury and magnificence of Hilldrop and Broome."This is the drawing-room, sir, which Miss Laurayne has," said the maid-servant, pointing to the nearest door. "And she is engaged, sir; had I not better announce you?""No, I will explain. She will not be vexed; you need not be afraid," Sir Austin assured the girl.As he entered the room, after knocking for permission, his eyes fell upon two figures—his tall, stately sister and Captain Dysart. They gazed at him in mute surprise."Constance, my sister," he cried, "have you no word of welcome for me?"She went up to him, and threw her arms round his neck."Austin," she said, gently, "you are always welcome."He kissed her in silence, for his heart throbbed with emotion."I have never blamed you," she added. "I know that both in thought and word you have always been true and loyal to me.""Why have you kept aloof from us so long?" he cried, reproachfully. "It has been cruel of you to withhold your address."As Constance released herself from his embrace, Captain Dysart approached him with outstretched hand."I am so glad you have come, Sir Austin," he began. "I have been exerting all my powers of eloquence to persuade Constance to marry me; but she will not. Help me, will you?""Listen to me," said Sir Austin. "I bring news that will surprise you both, the news which above all else you would most to hear.""You have news?" questioned Constance."The best possible news for both of you," said Sir Austin, smiling—"news which will make the course of true love run smoothly. Constance, you have been brave and self-reliant through a trouble which would have driven most people to the verge of despair; be brave now. I am half afraid to tell you, lest good news should do that which trouble has never done.""Is it—is it—about Hilldrop?" she asked."Yes," he replied. He was nervously afraid of the effect his intelligence would have upon her. "It is about Hilldrop, Constance—the home that will now soon be yours. For, my dear one, the will is found!"Every vestige of color died from her face. Her lips quivered, her eyes dilated, and for a few moments she could not utter a word; then she said slowly:"Will you repeat that, Austin?""The will is found—the very will that our father signed, and which everyone thought was destroyed.""Found?" she murmured, as she regarded him with a look of vague bewilderment. "Found, Austin?""Yes, my dear, found at last! I have brought it to you myself, for I would not trust it to any other hands: I would yield to no other the exquisite happiness of restoring to you your own, that which you ought never to have lost."She stood silent, the pallor of her face alone betraying the depth of her emotion; while Captain Dysart was too amazed to speak. He had never in his wildest flights dreamed of such a termination to his wooing."The supreme wish of my life is accomplished," continued the young baronet, "now that I place this will in your hands."As he uttered the words, he held out the parchment, and mechanically she took it from him."I cannot believe it," she said; "and yet I always thought it existed. Is this the veritable will, Austin—that which our father signed?""Yes. Look at it, and then you will no longer doubt," he replied, opening the sheet of parchment, and placing it on the table. "Look, Constance," he said. Then, turning to her lover, he added, "Captain Dysart, this interests you as much as Constance; follow these lines."And, bending over the parchment, they read how Sir Cyril Laurayne left to his beloved child Constance Laurayne "Hilldrop Priory, with all its revenues." When they had perused it, Sir Austin continued:"Now, Constance, to banish all doubt, look at the signature. You must remember our father's hand-writing."She bent her fair head over the stained, discolored page and kissed it.
"I recognize it," she said, with deep emotion. "My dearest father you have not forgotten me—I knew you had not!"A brief silence ensued, which Sir Austin broke, looking smilingly into his sister's face."What will you give me for that?" he asked, pointing to the will.She raised her face, her blue eyes dimmed by happy tears, and kissed him."I thank you," she said, "with all my heart—with all my heart, Austin.""And I thank you," broke in Captain Dysart, grasping his hand. "I do not care for the fortune; but now that you have restored Hilldrop to Constance, she will give me her own sweet self. There is no other barrier between us, is there, Constance?"She shook her head; for the moment she was too bewildered to reply. Presently she asked:"Where was it found, Austin? Who found it?""I do not know—I cannot tell you." he answered. "The discovery of the will is wrapped in mystery and my mother, I know, wishes it to remain so."At the mention of Lady Laurayne, Constance was well-nigh overwhelmed by a sudden rush of ideas. Till that moment her mind had been all but a blank; now she recalled her suspicious, her convictions, Mercedes' mission."Does Mercedes know?" she asked; for no letter had reached her from Broome since the will had been found."Yes; she knows it is found; indeed, she was present when my dear mother gave it to me. You would have loved my mother, Constance," he went on; enthusiastically, "as she placed it in my hands, saying, 'Go and do justice at once.' Mercedes knew nothing of the finding of the will; no one knows anything of that but my mother."Sir Austin believed implicitly what he was saying; he never connected the finding of the will with Mercedes, either then or afterward. Constance, however, could not fail to realize the true state of the case. To her it was perfectly clear that her cousin had been successful in her search; but feeling she was on delicate ground she determined to be silent.Evidently her brother was free from doubt; she would not instill any into his mind."It is the most extraordinary story I have ever heard," Captain Dysart declared. "Someone must have hidden the will maliciously. Who could it have been? And what could induce anyone to stoop to such infamy?""My own opinion is," said Sir Austin, "that by some strange accident, or the carelessness of a servant—perhaps one of those who had charge of my father's sick-room—the will was mislaid. Who can tell? However, after all these years it has been found, as it was lost, evidently by accident.""I should imagine the person who found it was afraid, and, not daring to bring it to us, intrusted it to another, exacting a pledge that it should be placed in may mother's hands and given by her to

me. My mother, when she handed it to me, begged that I would make no inquiries; and from that I gather that she wishes to shield someone.""It is not right," remarked Captain Dysart. "Whoever hid the will ought to be punished. If it was an accident, then of course there could be no question of punishment; but there ought to be an explanation. Think what Constance has suffered!""I will leave the matter in my sister's hands," said Sir Austin. "Justice shall be done to her. The moneys that have been, so to speak, misappropriated, shall be returned. I can only regret her the anxiety and suffering she has endured; I would that I could have prevented them.""I know it," returned Constance. "But I shall take no such moneys, Austin; I cannot touch them. What has happened has been due to a great mistake.""A monstrous mistake," cried Captain Dysart, "for which you have suffered, Constance!""It is all over now," she said, looking at him with bright happy eyes. "In our great happiness we can afford to be lenient with regard to an accident.""Yes," agreed Sir Austin, with unconscious eagerness; "that is a very different thing from shielding a crime. But it shall all be just as Constance wills. If she wishes it, I will obtain my mother's permission, and have a searching and thorough investigation made."His faith in his mother touched her. Her heart yearned with a profound pity for her noble mother; she felt as Mercedes had felt, that she would rather suffer anything than destroy his faith in his mother, and, with his faith, his love."If you say you leave the matter to me," she said, "I can tell you my decision at once. I should wish the whole affair to be forgotten, and no inquiry whatever to be made; I should be both grieved and distressed at the publicity. All is over now, and no great harm has been done, except that Lance and I have both learned bitter lessons which nothing else could have taught us. Lance, you agree with me, I am sure?"Captain Dysart wished in his heart that the offender had been a man, and that he had the power to punish him; but he did not say so. He could not oppose Constance's wishes."I agree with any decision of yours, Constance," he said, somewhat ruefully."I felt sure you would," she returned. "Then my decision, Austin, is—let the matter rest. If the act was a malicious one, I forgive it; if it was an accident, there is naught to forgive. I shall place the will in the hands of Mr. Anderson, and tell him that by my express wish no inquires are to be made."In due time she did so, and the lawyer could not but comply with her request; but in his mind, as in the mind of the vicar, a certain conviction sprung up that was never shaken.Constance waited for fuller particulars until she saw Mercedes.The happiness of all was complete when Sir Austin, impatient that everyone should know what had happened, fetched Madame Suarez; and they spent the remainder of the never-to-be-forgotten day together. On the following clay Sir Austin paid Sir Thomas Dysart a visit, and told him the good news.""I am quite at a loss," said the gruff, money-loving baronet. "All these losings and findings of wills puzzle me. Let me see the will, and then I will believe your story."Sir Austin produced the document, and laid it before him. When the old man read for himself that Constance was heiress of Hilldrop, he felt inclined to give her a paternal blessing."I always meant my son to marry money," said he; "for it is the truest friend a man has in the world."Sir Austin insisted that the whole party should return with him to Broome. His mother, he said, would be delighted to see the madame, while Constance and her lover would of course go. He would take no denial; there must, he said, be no further discord, but all must now be sunshine and happiness.So a day or two later the whole party started for Broome. Sir Thomas Dysart was invited, but he declined to go—at any rate, for the present.Mercedes and Lady Laurayne were awaiting the arrival of the guests. Sir Austin had written to his mother to tell her of the invitations he had given, and ask her to make the necessary preparations; and in due course he telegraphed the hour of arrival, so that carriages might be at Ravelston to meet his companions and himself.Mercedes was happier than she ever thought to be. The dreaded difficulties had vanished, and she was pleased to notice some slight change in Lady Laurayne, whose character already showed that she was profiting by the bitter lesson she had received.Her ladyship gently laid her hand on the girl's shoulder."Mercedes," she said, "I have made up my mind to tell Constance
all; I shall hide nothing from her. Not only will it ease my
conscience, but it will be the wisest step to take. I need scarcely
say it will be a hard task; but I feel I must do it. Besides, a time
might  come when she would, in spite of everything, begin to make inquires; and who can tell what might happen?""It would be wisest and best in every way," agreed Mercedes.CHAPTER XLIII.THE greetings were many and heartfelt when the party of visitors arrived at Broome."Quite an invasion, is it not, mother?" laughed Sir Austin.Lady Laurayne greeted Madame Suarez first, then fair Constance, and lastly Captain Dysart, who looked, as he felt, one of the happiest men in the world.No one was at all surprised to see Sir Austin kiss Mercedes. Madame smiled as she said to herself, "That then, is the end of the detective business!"With a smile Constance looked at her lover."I am heartily glad of it," she said. "Austin could not have found a more beautiful or clever wife."Congratulations and kindly greetings were awaiting Constance from all her old friends, who expressed their delight at her return. The vicar and the lawyer were soon announced, and offered the heartiest of welcomes.Lady Laurayne sat a little apart, looking paler than usual with deep shadows beneath her eyes. All felt sorry for what must be her natural regret and disappointment; but it seemed as natural that she should he silent and depressed as that Constance should be radiant and happy.That same evening her ladyship kept her word; she sent for Constance to her room, and told her the whole story of the will. After hearing it, Constance felt more warmly toward her than she had ever felt before. There was more pathos and dignity about Lady Laurayne, less falseness and artificiality."I am quite at your mercy, Constance," she said, humbly, in conclusion. "If you care to punish me, I shall not ask for pity; but I think you will forgive me, for I was your father's wife, and I loved him."Constance freely forgave her, and promised her that she would never, even to her husband or brother, reveal one word of what had been told her."I must mention it to Mercedes just once," she said, "and once only. I must thank her for all

she did and risked for me; after that, the matter shall never pass my lips again."And Lady Laurayne thanked her with fast-falling tears.Before retiring, the cousins had a long interview, and Constance begged Mercedes to accept her warm and grateful thanks for having done for her what she could never have done for herself."I see that we shall be sisters, Mercedes," she said, laughingly; "more—I shall owe all my happiness and my prosperity to you."They were a happy party at Broome. If Lady Laurayne was not much with them and shunned gayety, it seemed only natural.Sir Austin was in the highest spirits, for he found that Ardrey Hall was to let; and, although it lacked the picturesque beauty of Hilldrop, it would, with a few alterations, make a very pleasant home for Lady Laurayne. There was but one drawback to the general happiness of the Broome party, and that was the dangerous illness of the Reverend Noel Loftus. He grew no better, and, though the London physician had been summoned several times, he could do nothing for him.As he became worse, Mercedes grew more and more unhappy about him. She knew what no one else knew that in all probability he had contracted the fever on the night of his search for the will, in the poisonous atmosphere of the old well.Sir Austin went every morning to Ravelston to inquire after the curate's condition, and he went down into the cellars at Broome and brought forth the finest of old port and the choicest of Burgundy; but neither wine, medicine, nor that which his simple heart valued most—kindness—brought any healing to the sick man.One morning they were all saddened by the news Sir Austin brought that the good curate's hours were numbered, and that it was feared he would not see the morrow's sunset.While the others were discussing the sad subject, Mercedes drew her lover aside and placed one little hand round his neck."Austin," she said, "I want you to do me the greatest kindness that it will ever be in your power to render me.""My dearest Mercedes, I will do anything for you." Sir Austin returned."You know," she went on, "how happy we are, you and I, in our love for each other.""Yes," he replied."Well, I must first tell you a secret, Austin," she whispered; "and I tell it you only because I cannot ask the favor I desire of you without giving you a reason. As you love me Austin, so someone else has loved me, but hopelessly. You will wonder who it was, my darling. It was none other than Mr. Loftus. Oh, Austin, he loved me so dearly! And, as I know that it is partly through his love for me that he is now so near his end"—her sweet face quivered with pain and her eyes were dim with tears—"I should like to see him before he dies. Will you take me to him, Austin?""Poor fellow! Did he love you so deeply? As to taking you to him, of course I will. When will you go?""Now," she replied. "You say his hours are numbered, and I know that he would like to say 'Good-by' to me. Oh, he loved me so dearly, Austin!"He did not try to check her fast-falling tears; he knew her loving heart was deeply touched.It was an impressive change from the happiness and gayety of Broome to the stillness of the house where the curate lay dying."You had better see Mr. Loftus alone, Mercedes," said Sir Austin. "He would not speak freely to you before me."She thanked him by a look, and went into the sick man's room. He lay with his eyes fixed at the door, watching for her, for they had told him she was coming; and, as she entered his face brightened with a look of ineffable happiness. He held out his thin, worn hand to her as she approached."My dear, my dear, you have tome at last!" he cried, feebly.She knelt down by his bedside, unable at first to speak, for her tears."I am deeply grieved," she sobbed, presently, "that you are so ill; I am truly heart-broken.""My dear," he said, "do not weep for me I am glad to die, for I am weary, and my bodily strength is gone. But I wanted to gaze on your sweet face once more," he went on—"just once more! I have prayed every day that you might come, and now my prayer is granted. Good-by beloved, good-by!"She held his wasted hand in hers and covered it with kisses, while her tears fell fast."Why do you not reproach me?" she said, in her torrent of grief. "It is I who, by setting you that horrible task, have sacrificed your life. Would that I could give mine to save yours now!""And I, sweet Mercedes, beloved Mercedes—I gave up mine for you cheerfully, gladly, as I would give it for you again. But you must not speak so harshly of yourself. It is not you, Mercedes, who are responsible for my present condition—you must not imagine that. I was ill long before that night. I have never been strong, and I have always felt that my life would be a short one.""You are saying that to comfort me," she sobbed. "Oh, if I could only repair the mischief I have done!""Does it pain you, beloved, to think you have brought me low?" he asked."Yes; the pain is keen as death," she replied."Then you need grieve no more," he whispered, "for I am happy thus to die. I spoke no idle words when I said that I would give my life for you; such death is sweet. Now give me comfort, Mercedes—tell me that those you love are the happier for what was done.""They are unspeakably happy," she replied, "and dear Constance has come back.""Thank heaven! And you are happy, Mercedes?""How can I be when you are dying?" she cried, bitterly."It is a thousand times better thus," he said calmly. "To live to see you bless another with the priceless boon of your wifely love would he keenest pain to me. Heaven does all things well. Oh, my only earthly love, farewell!"Bitter were the tears she shed, and, as she reverently kissed the
sufferer's brow, she murmured a solemn "Good-by."Two days later the bell of Ravelston church tolled for the good curate. Mercedes, hearing it burst into a torrent of weeping, and, overcome by the agony of her pent-up emotion, fell fainting to the ground.CHAPTER XLIV."IF I am asked to express my wishes in the matter," said Lady Laurayne, "they are that both the weddings be postponed until my daughters' return. A ceremony of such importance should he attended by all the members of the family."Two of the fairest and sweetest of women were to be made happy for life, and the discussion in the drawing-room at Broome had been very animated."Lady Trent and Blanche will both be home by the sixth of November," Lady Laurayne went on, "and an early day after that date would he suitable. And Blanche, I am sure, would like to be bridemaid."No one was particularly desirous that Blanche

should appear in the character of bridemaid; nor was there any great anxiety for the society of Lady Trent. Still, as Lady Laurayne wished it, and she was so desirous to please in every other particular, those most interested thought it was advisable to yield to her.Constance had been duly installed at Hilldrop, taking Mercedes and her aunt Elena with her. The rejoicing had been general, although many had sympathized with Lady Laurayne on the loss or such a home. Still it was Constance's by right, and all her old friends rejoiced to see her mistress of the home that had been her mother's.Very little was said about the will. Through an adroit little speech of Mercedes' an impression was conveyed that the family did not wish the matter to be discussed. That the will had been mislaid for some years, and had been accidentally discovered, was all the public ever knew.Constance's sketches and pictures, her easel, and her portfolios of drawings were brought from the pretty drawing-room in South Kensington to Hilldrop, where in a perfectly-lighted studio, contrasting very favorably with the surroundings to which she had been accustomed, she spent some of the happiest hours of her life.The weeks passed pleasantly enough now. Constance, with Madame Suarez and Mercedes, was busily engaged at Hilldrop with preparations for the marriage.Sir Austin had persuaded his mother to remain for a time at Broome, where Captain Dysart was a frequent visitor. Sir Thomas had been down, and he had spoken amiably of the beauty of the place, though he could not get over the mysterious affairs that had happened there."No such mistakes must be made in future," he said. "Love 1s love, but"—with solemn pomp—"business is business."He insisted on Mr. Anderson's being summoned to Hilldrop at once, in order that no further mistakes might be made. The deed settling Hilldrop, with its revenue, upon Constance and her heirs was carefully read over, word by word, by the scowling baronet.He could not understand people being so careless as to neglect such matters. To him the marriage-settlements were of far greater importance than aught else; those once finished, the event had no further interest for him.He advised Sir Austin to be equally careful, and, though Mercedes laughed and made great fun of the whole proceeding, Sir Austin acquiesced.Sir Thomas admired his fair, queenly daughter-in-law; but he liked Mercedes better. She was the only person in the world who had ever dared to laugh at or ridicule him for posing as the mighty autocrat, he imagined himself.She made light of the value of money, telling him with bright laughing eyes, that love was a thousand times better. She completely enthralled him by her brilliant beauty and charming manners, and Sir Thomas grew very fond of her. He made her a present on her wedding-day of a magnificent parure of diamonds.During the happy week preceding the double wedding, the only shadow that had fallen upon them was caused by the grief they all felt at the less of the curate—a grief which lay doubly heavy at the heart of Mercedes. She knew that the happiest of lives cannot be all brightness, that pleasure and pain go hand in hand; but she mourned deeply the generous, brave-hearted man who had given his life to serve her.The clay for the wedding was set tied at last, and it was decided that time wedding-breakfast should be given at Hilldrop. Constance was married from her own home, and Mercedes accompanied her. A double wedding had not taken place for years at Ravelston church, and the excitement was consequently great. A more striking contrast could not have been imagined than that offered by fair golden-haired Constance and Mercedes with her brilliant brunette beauty.There was a great gathering at Broome; Sir Dixon and Lady Trent, Blanche, still without a lover, and half the élite of the county were present. The day dawned clear and bright, and so goodly a procession of carriages as drove from Hilldrop to the old church at Ravelston had never been seen there before; nor is it probable that the old walls of Ravelston church will ever hold so distinguished an assemblage again. The Duke and Duchess of Hartwell, Sir Harry and Lady Coombe, Lord and Lady Riversly, the Marchmonts, the Petres—all the magnates of the county were there.Sir Austin took his wife to Spain for their wedding-tour, thinking it would give her the greatest pleasure again to see the land she so dearly loved, while Captain Dysart and Constance went to Rome. They were to return in the spring of the year, when the Duchess of Hartwell had promised to present both brides at court.While they were absent, Lady Laurayne was busily engaged in preparing Broome for Sir Austin and this wife and Hilldrop for Constance and her husband, who, by royal letters-patent, assumed the name of Laurayne-Dysart.Lastly, the dowager, who did not at first much appreciate the title, had to set in order the home provided for herself and Blanche, who, it was settled, was to divide her time between her mother and her sister. Fate might have been imagined to be avenging the tricks she had played Edith in days gone by.Hope dawned, however, a few years afterward, when a new Vicar of Ravelston was appointed; and, in part overcome by the amount of family influence brought to bear upon him, he took Blanche for better or for worse. In due time, thanks to his family connections in high places he became a bishop, when Blanche proved one of the most severely virtuous of bishops' wives.When Mrs. Laurayne-Dysart and Lady Laurayne were presented at court they received more admiration and homage than fall to the lot of most women.The two husbands devoted themselves to their respective
professions. Captain Dysart lived to become a general of note, while
Sir Austin flung himself with infinite zest into the arena of
polities, and made for himself a name of which his wife was justly
proud. He frankly admitted that his success was partly due to the
beauty and popularity of his charming wife, Mercedes, who, Sir Thomas
Dysart often declared, was one of the finest women in the world.