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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: Under Fate's Wheel, an electronic edition
Author: Van Deventer, Emma Murdoch
Publisher: Ward, Lock & Co., Limited
Place published: London
Date: [18--?]
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Front cover of Lynch's Under Fate's
Wheel.Back cover of Lynch's Under Fate's
Wheel.UNDER FATE'S WHEEL"'Help! help! help!'" (Page 109.) Under Fate's Wheel, FrontispieceFrontispiece included in  Lynch's Under Fate's
Wheel.UNDER FATE'S WHEELA STORY OF MYSTERY, LOVE AND THE BICYCLEBY LAWRENCE L. LYNCH(E. MURDOCH VAN DEVENTER)Author of
"The Unseen Hand," "The Last Stroke," "Shadowed by Three," etc.,
etc.ILLUSTRATED BY ST. CLAIR SIMMONSLONDONWARD, LOCK, & CO., LIMITEDNEW YORK AND MELBOURNETable of contents for Lynch's Under Fate's Wheel.Table of contents for Lynch's Under Fate's Wheel.Table of contents for Lynch's Under Fate's Wheel.UNDER FATE'S WHEEL CHAPTER I
THE BEGINNING--WHY SHE RODE"YOU'LL have to ride slowly, Sergeant Craig--and, tell the bearers to look out for those--those dog-holes. Don't let the men go too fast or unevenly, and be sure you make Harch understand that he will be well paid--paid for all his trouble. You'll be able to make it before sundown--and--that's all, I think. Oh wait!" Captain Lewis reins his horse close beside the improvised litter, made of a blanket swung hammock-wise between four stout regulars, and looks down upon the pale, handsome face with the bandaged temples and pain-darkened eyes. "Are you game for the tramp across country, Hill?" he asks kindly. "Can we make you any more comfortable in any way?"The head upon the blanket pillow moves ever so little, and the lips essay a whisper. Captain

Lewis drops from his saddle and bends close above the hammock."Beale? " whispers the white lips."Beale! Lieutenant Beale? Do you want him--is that it, Hill?""Yes--he--is going--east--soon.""Yes, yes; I understand!" The Captain turns away, and beckons to the dashing lieutenant, who sits his horse with such sure and careless grace. They confer together for a moment, and then both come to the side of the injured man."Beale shall go with you, Hill, the captain says, and he will see you safely back and into the hospital. Goodbye once more, Hill." Turning to remount his horse, he catches the eye of Corporal Craig fixed upon him questioningly, and says, as if answering a spoken question, "No, Craig; you will remain in charge of the escort. Lieutenant Beale goes simply and solely as the companion of Hill.' He wheels his horse about in the dusty main road."Atten-tion--com -pany!" The men who have been gathered around the "hospital duty squad," and their charge, remount and fall easily into line almost before the word of command is given. Corporal Craig salutes his superior officer, and starts his little cavalcade on its way over the lesser trail leading south-east, and the main body of horsemen at the word of command sets off at a swinging trot eastward, over the main trail, toward their destination, the regimental port.For two hours the men who carry the injured man in the hammock so carefully, so tenderly, plod

on, pausing often to change the bearers, who walk and ride by turns; those who carry the burden pacing slowly, those who ride leading the four horses with the empty saddles, and Corporal Craig riding ahead, alert for the prairie dog-holes and the occasional openings, or "chimneys," so called, of the abandoned dug-outs, replaced now, some of them, by huts and sheds, these also abandoned for the most part, as the fever of the squatter has led him for ever westward; while Lieutenant Beale rides close by the hammock's side, watchful of every change in the pallid, pain-racked face of Sergeant Hill, his long time friend and comrade in adventure, and overhead there shines down the sun rays of a warm, June day. The level prairies of Wyoming stretch all about them, and the only sound not made by their own voices, or the movement of men and horses, is the hum of insect life, heard here and there as the tiny winged creatures hover above the waving grass and scattering blossoms of the plains.It is a slow, monotonous journey; but at last it ends, and the party comes to a halt before the "ranche," so called of "Jim" Harch, half way between the port town and the point at which the escort party had left Captain Lewis and his "command" of thirty men. It is anything but the ideal ranche of the tender-foot's vision--before a glimpse of the reality shatters the romantic shade--little more than a system of tumble-down sheds and "lean-tos," in fact, held together and bolstered up by diverse shifts and lazy expedients, and redeemed from utter barrenness by a group of sickly young

trees, struggling against drought and heat and the withering sand-storm for a precarious existence. Under these trees the escort halts, and the hammock is gently eased down, while Corporal Craig rides on to the corral to enter his plea for hospitality."Wot's up with ther feller?" queries Jim Harch, transferring a big mouthful of vile tobacco from his left cheek to his right, when he has heard the plea for shelter for the injured man and his caretakers. "'Aint got nothin' kinta gei-ous, has he?""Nothing more than the kick of a horse, a blow, and a shock. Hurts worst internally, I'm afraid. Corporal Hill's horse died about thirty miles to the west while on the march, and he took a half-broken and half-breed pony out of a pack of a dozen we were taking across for use at the port. It was a vicious brute, but Hill is a good horseman and not afraid of the devil himself. This morning, before we had been half an hour on the road, the brute took fright at a jack rabbit, and after a stout tussel, it flung Hill, who struck his head against a stone--fell among them, in fact--and is a badly hurt man. We've done our best for him, and now, if you'll send a man into town on a fresh horse, it'll be the quickest way to bring a doctor. He'd get there before the trap does, I reckon." And Craig added some words about suitable reward and the captain's gratitude."Oh, that's all right," drawled Harch, "unly--I was jest thinkin', whar'r' we goin' tu git the man--'less 'ts one of your fellows.""Our horses," interrupted the corporal, "are about ready for the stable and a rub down; a fresh

mount is what is needed, and some one to bring it back.""Jest so; any one o' my men folks 'ud go,--unly--they're clar off ther ranch jes' now." Harch is standing with his back against a sod stable, the door of which, hanging by one rusty hinge, is just at his left. As Harch utters the last word, a voice issuing from this place calls out shrilly--"Pop--I'll go!""J--ove!"The voice comes over the corporal's shoulder, and he turns swiftly to see Lieutenant Beale just behind him, touching his cap to his superior officer, then turns again, and sees the cause of this sudden exclamation standing in the low stable doorway.It is a girl, slender and less than the medium in height, with a dark gipsy face and eyes that flash and gleam--large eyes that look midnight black under their fringe of long, thick lashes."Jove!" again murmurs the lieutenant across his shoulder. "It's a little prairie siren!"Yes, that is what she looks standing there in her dark blue gown--"indigo blue" she would call it--and it is only a common print, but a scarlet girdle is tied about the lithe waist, and a silk handkerchief of the same hue is knotted about the round, full throat; while a blue and scarlet "tam" is perched rakishly upon the back of a small head, covered with a thick mass of short, jetty curls. A siren indeed, with her dark glowing skin, her small full mouth, ruby red, and showing even gleaming white teeth. The chin is a trifle too prominent perhaps, but rounded and with a dimple lurking in it. The nose is small and

piquant, the whole face sparkles with life, and the spirit of adventure, free, fearless, untrammelled, and uncontrolled. As she stands in the shabby doorway her eyes shoot straight past the plain-featured, honest-hearted corporal, and rest with bright and fearless inquiry upon the handsome face of Lieutenant Beale."Hello!" cries Harch, with an elaborate affectation of surprise. "I wonder if thar's any place whar you ain't when there's anything goin' on there! You go ridin' off all by yourself crost-country--not but what she kin ride ; an' she knows ther trail, too.""Is it difficult"--it is, Lieutenant Beale, who puts the question--"to follow the trail?""Wal, ye can't mess gettin' thar in co'rse o' time; ye kin see ther town after a couple or three mile o' ridin'. It's ther trails that run crisscross, an' sort o' puzzle a stranger. He's like to git out o' his way consid'able."Lieutenant Beale is as persuasive as he is handsome, and he has quite forgotten his long morning's ride and the fatigue felt so keenly only ten minutes earlier. He declares himself ready to be guided across the plains if Miss Harch will kindly be the guide; that too much time has been lost already, and that he only leaves his suffering friend for that friend's good. He will pay liberally for the use of a fleet horse, &c. The etiquette of the plains is as broad and liberal as themselves. Jim Harch sees no reason why his daughter should not ride to the post-town in company with the ranking officer of the party, and Victorine, called Vic for short, is as frankly eager for the ride as is the lieutenant--now.No more time is wasted. The young officer says a few parting words of cheer to the injured man, while his horse is "caught up" and saddled, and Vic saddles her own lively steed, and with no troubling thought of habit, gauntlets, or veil, rides away at the side of the dashing soldier, a bright figure in her blue and red. The black curls tossing beneath her bright-hued cap, her laugh ringing clear, as she lifts her horse with a rush and a swift bound over the gate her cavalier has just dismounted to open for her exit.When Corporal Craig catches his last glimpse of them they are racing their swift, half-broken ponies over the prairie side by side, their faces turned each-otherward."We must go for Doctor Mitchell," Vic says, as they ride into town, their ponies panting, themselves flushed and eager, each with a new and personal interest. But it is not the same; for Beale is thinking above all, of this gipsy beauty at his side, while she--is thinking of and planning for--the circus."They had passed its grimy tents upon the outskirts of the town as they entered it; and Vic was palpitating with interest, for to her it is a new thing, a wonder--the first circus the little western community has yet known, and Vic is to the prairie born.It is easy to find Doctor Mitchell, for the health of the town is unusually robust, and the good doctor finds plenty of leisure. He sets off now upon his shaggy but swift bronco, his case of instruments on the saddle before him; and when Vic has seen him gallop away down Maine Street, she turns to her companion."Now, " she says, with dancing eyes, "let's go to the circus."As Millard Beale looks into that glowing face, he would willingly forget his suffering comrade but for one thought, an idea which has come to him while he listened to her questions about "The Marvel of the Age," "The Great Aggregation of Talent," &c. As they ride through the town, slowly now, so that Vic may admire and criticise the gaudy posters portraying flying horses, leaping damsels in abbreviated skirts, chariots of gold driven by "eastern queens," and all the usual marvels so enchanting upon paper, so disappointing in the flesh, he argues his case and wins it.He would be only too happy to linger with her and to enjoy the wonders of the arena; but he cannot forget his friend and his duty to him. He ought to return at once, and he cannot, as Vic frankly proposes, return, leaving her behind, after her father's distinctly stated objection to her riding across the plain alone. "But"--and here he speaks with caution, watching closely the effect of his words--"there is the evening performance; might they not manage to return later and attend that?" and here he launches into a glowing eulogy of the circus by night, under the glow of the lamps and the glare of the calcium light. He has feared a little to make this bold stroke, but that is because he does not know Vic.She drops her reins to clap her hands in delight, and assents gleefully. Not only assents, but at once plans the way--plans it as unconcernedly as if she had known him years instead of hours. For in this

break-neck ride of an hour across the prairie, this child of nature and follower of her own sweet will has sprung into full comradeship with him, and considers him no more a stranger."Of course we can come!" she cries, her eyes dancing, her face aglow with smiling anticipation. "We can manage that all right. But--you must not say a word to Pop!""Do--do you mean that we must--run away?"
"Of course we must, stupid. Pop would raise the roof if he knew. I'll tell you how I'll manage."She makes it very clear to him, detailing her plans with gleeful disregard of aught save her own inclination, and with perfect faith in his willingness to carry them all out, as indeed he is by this time, even in the face of the possibility of a meeting with some officer of his troop.She could bribe one of the men, she told him, "with a drink of whisky," and she knows where to find this article. He will have the horse ready and in waiting; she can drop out of her window in the shadow of the trees close beside it, and return by the same way. The lieutenant, she knows, will be put, with his party, in the south "lean-to," which has an outside door of its own. They can ride away almost as soon as it is dark."Pop and the folks go to bed quick as dark's come, sometimes earlier," she concludes; "and if Pop hears our horses he'll just think it's the boys going out over the trail.""But--won't they--some of them, go to town themselves, possibly?"Vic laughs and shakes her head. "Not they ,"

she says with fine scorn; "they got into a fuss down there only a week ago, and if they show faces so soon they'll be locked up, sure, and have to pay fines. No fear of meeting them."And so it was settled. Dr. Mitchell looked grave over the injured head and bruised body of the sufferer, who had been transferred from the hammock to the best bed the ranch could afford; but when he announced that there would be no change for at least twenty-four hours, and that the sick man would sleep through the night, under the influence of a powerful opiate, Lieutenant Beale felt that he might safely leave his charge, to indulge himself in what he looked upon as a piquant and pleasant "lark," in the company of a pretty gipsy of the plains.All went smoothly, as Vic had planned it, and darkness had scarcely fallen ere the two were galloping again over the way they had so lately travelled."We must ride fast ," panted the girl; "I don't want to miss a single thing! Just think of those lovely wee ponies, and the dancing dogs, and oh! the lady going through the hoop! I believe I could learn that! I can ride a galloping pony standing now--bareback at that."The lieutenant laughed. "I'd give more to see you do that than to witness all the glories of the 'greatest show on earth,' which this is not by considerable.""It'll be the greatest on earth for me," she laughed back; " and I'll ride for you to-morrow. I don't think I shall care much about the woman

with the snakes," she went on, reverting to the one idea foremost in her mind; "but the man riding the four horses must be just splendid! And--oh! Lieutenant Beale, what did that picture of girl standing straight up on the rim of a big wheel mean? No one could do that, you know, really! The wheel couldn't balance, and she'd get a fall. But the picture was lovely."The young man turned an amazed face towards her, peering through the dark, and then he laughed."My dear child! Is it possible that you have never seen or read of the wheel ?""The wheel? What wheel?""The bicycle then--the machine on wheels, that goes faster than the horse.""Ah, bah! I have heard of people who put the cart before the horse, and so you are one of them. I shall like to see the wheels go ahead of--faster than the horse, sir!" and Vic laughs mockingly.It takes the lieutenant some time to explain to this untutored mind the mechanism of the bicycle, and when at last she seems to comprehend she can talk of nothing else."How perfectly splendid!" she cries. "It must be next to flying; and I shall see it soon!"And now the lights of the circus tent gleam afar, and they hasten their speed. But Vic has less enthusiasm for the earlier charms of the show.It is true that she and he pass in review the half-dozen cages of forlorn and ill-smelling animals, stop to gloat over the ponies, and to laugh at the monkeys, and that her small feet keep time to the music of the ill-attuned brass band; true that she

watches with awe the "grand entry," as the bespangled riders come trotting into the ring; but she scoffs at their horsemanship, and turns with relief to the leapers and tumblers as they begin their act.It is a very poor show, and the lieutenant yawns, and would be doubly bored were it not for the naive companion at his side. He has looked cautiously about upon entering, and is assured that there are none of the troop present, and he is getting some entertainment out of the people about him; especially is he amused at the comments of a lank and reedy plainsman sitting just below him, who seems lost in an effort to convince himself that he is a sophisticated circus-goer, on the strength of having "seen 'em back east years an' years ago'."Those 'cute, 'cute doggies!" explains Vie, as a quartette of water spaniels begin their "turn." "What kind are they, Lieutenant Beale?"Before the young man can reply the lank stranger turns squarely about, and looks up in the girl's face, gravely, sagely. "Them's long y'eared dawgs, chile," he drawls. "An I'll tell ye another thing; that nigger there 't ye spoke about jest now ain't no more nigger than I be! He's the ole clown blacked up; I kin see the white back in his y'ears ."But now comes the bicycle trick-rider, and Vic has eyes for nothing else, and "y'ears" for no one. It does not matter to her that the lean person in the abbreviated skirts is a young man, and the same who, in skirts of another hue, has appeared

as Mademoiselle Celestine De Navarro. It is the feat, not the performer of it, which attracts and holds her spellbound.It is not the display of marvellous balancing and swift and dexterous handling that have made the names of Richardson, Maltby, and others synonymous for athletic skill in the bicycle world since then. Far from it.The wheel is the big and little wheeled "ordinary of "away back," a relic even then, but suiting the operator, who rides it standing, kneeling, and upon his stomach, and "scorches" about and about the little arena, carrying a tree-like arrangement clasped to his breast, which bore, upon its stiff branches, the flags of all nations.Vic watches it all breathlessly, and when the big ordinary goes rolling out of the ring, its rider waving a big red hand with clumsy coquetry, she heaves a long sigh and settles back in her seat, and, for the next quarter of an hour, she seems to be thinking, and to take little interest in the other occupants of the ring.Then comes the pièce de rèsistance of the country sirens, the clown and his trick mule. But the manager has made an innovation, and a black pony, handsome and high-stepping, comes in, side by side with the mule. He has been trained to waltz, to walk erect, and to do various other stock tricks, and when the two animals have performed, singly and together, the ring master addresses the spectators.He has heard how the young ladies of the western prairie states can drive and ride, and even break and train, the most unmanageable horses;

and so, beside offering a prize to the boy who will ride the trick mule, he will give, to the young lady who will successfully ride the black pony Satan, twenty-five dollars in gold . Of course, he expects no takers for the last challenge, and great is his surprise--while that of Lieutenant Beale is even greater--when Vic, after a moment's deliberation, rises, and, without so much as a glance at her companion, steps down and into the arena.Plainly this is more than the master of ceremonies had looked for, and the two are seen to confer together earnestly. It is evident that the gentleman of the whip is trying to dissuade her, to shake her purpose. The pantomime is plain, though the words are unheard.Presently the people begin to get restless, to applaud, when the girl gestures and looks toward the black pony, and to hiss when the man demurs. But this cannot long continue. The band crashes out a new number, the black steed paws and snorts, the people are all hissing now, and cries of "Give her a chance!" "Let the girl try him!" "Fair play, old man," &c., are heard, and the ring master shrugs his shoulders, as if disclaiming all responsibility in the issue. And then, suddenly, the crowd settles down to breathless stillness.Vic has approached the pawing animal, looked him over with careful eye, patted his nose, and slipped her hand along his sleek neck until it touches the pommel of the saddle, and now she grasps it and the bridle, both at once; and now she has leaped to his back: she is off, and flying about the circus ring; her cap is gone in the first wild

her short curls are tossing as she sways with motion of the horse.Black Satan runs, jumps, wheels, bounds; but Vic sits a part of the flying thing beneath her, and, when she has brought her steed to something like subjection, she checks him directly in front of the ring master, and springs to the ground.Taking off the saddle with her own hands, she replaces blanket and quilt, and springs again to the animal's back, and once more they are away. And now there is a burst of cheers, for the girl is upon her feet; she has slipped off her low shoes as she rides, and now she stands erect, swaying, poising; now upon one foot, now on the other; now skipping lightly back and forth.It is splendid riding: reckless, graceful, daring. Practically it ends the circus, and Vic beckons to her cavalier, and they slip away out of the crowd and reach their horses in silence.For a long time the girl rides on silent, still; and the lieutenant knows that she is thinking. The moon peeps out as they ride, and he can see her white-set face, her intent, unseeing, forward gaze.Wondering much he yet humours her mood, and rides at her side in silence, after the first words of praise and admiration have been uttered. He, too, has found, in the doings of this night, food for much thinking.Suddenly she pulls up her horse and turns towards him, and the moonlight shows him that the sparkling, saucy, merry face can look strong and full of purpose."Do you know what I am going to do?" she

asks suddenly, and as he shakes his head she hurries on."I am going to go away with that troupe to-morrow! I am going to learn to ride that splendid wheel! To be a trick rider. I must get into town early to-morrow to see the manager, and I must keep it all as still as death. You must help me!""Child, you are crazy!""I am not! I was bound to ride on that queer, swift wheel somehow! I asked the man if he would take me along if I rode the black horse, and he said yes and glad to do it. That was why I rode."CHAPTER II
THE END OF THE BEGINNING--THE WHEEL"Vic," asks the lieutenant, as they near the ranch, "Where did you go to school?""Why?" the girl sharply."I ask because you seem to be above the others, in speech and manners.""I never went to school; my mother taught me-at home, and as long as she lived we had books. Pop says I got my fine speech from them. But I didn't; my mother was a lady.""Then--she's dead?""Yes, she's dead. If she were alive I'd never leave her. Pop won't mind after a day or two. My mother was an actress.""And--lived way out here?""No, she didn't live: she just stayed! She was an orphan back east somewhere, and she came west with half a dozen others to join the company at McCook's theatre. She didn't know the kind of a theatre it was, a saloon, gambling place, dance house, and show all in one. McCook sent their tickets on for them. He was a brute beast they say,

or worse, and when the girls got out here, and found what they had come to, he laughed at them. They owed him, and they had to stay.""Those were the Black Hill days, I fancy.""Yes--back in the seventies. Mother couldn't stand it long. It was a horrible life; she had had some great trouble before coming west, and when she would not obey the rules of that awful place McCook discharged her. She had no money, she still owed him, in fact. She was taken sick at her boarding-house, and was about to be put out when Pop heard of it. He was a wild young cowboy then and handsome. He had seen her at the theatre and spoken with her more than once. You know how they do at those places?""Yes," he looked at her keenly."Well--Pop was in the bar-room of the hotel where she was, and he went straight up to her room and asked her to marry him out and out. It was that or--worse, and--she married him. He was good to her, always, and he was a different man while she lived." She stopped abruptly, and for a little while both were silent. Then--"Do you know why I have told you this?" she asks shortly."No; tell me.""Because I want you to see that I know what I am about, and to help me get away. I shall die if I stay here; just as my mother did. I won't stay here.""Does your--your step-mother--"She checks him with a sharp, angry exclamation. "She is not my step-mother!"The lieutenant bites his lips, and rides on in silence

for a time. He is not greatly shocked by the girl's ideas and intentions, and he thinks that they may lead to "better things" than the life of a fifth-rate circus equestrienne. "She would make a sensation in the city," he assures himself, "given a year or two of training and stage polish." And then he begins to discuss with her the possibilities of her new project, and to draw for her word pictures of the theatre proper and the vaudeville stage."And--do you think I could make a success there?" she asks breathlessly, at last. "Say--with the--the bicycle?""I'm sure of it," he declares. "You're pretty enough, and light enough, and you've got the grit. As for the bike, why yes. If you can sit and stand on a horse, you can't fail to master enough tricks to make you a good drawing card. And--I'll try to help you.""But--you will be in camp.""Oh, no I won't. I'm mustered out in just two weeks, and I won't lose trace of you , my dear."And now they are at the ranche, and they turn out the horses, and silently separate."Good-night--or morning," he whispers. "Don't let them hear you getting in. As for me, I'll smoke a cigar outside, I think, and go in boldly afterwards." Vic finds it easy enough to enter her room unheard, so easy, indeed, that when she finds herself unable to sleep, and seeing still, as in a vision, the fascinating whirl of the bicycle, with the tarletan skirted figure poised above it, or gliding swiftly over the track, and she cannot shake off the thoughts that

have taken such full and complete possession of her, and, by and by, thinking of the lieutenant smoking his cigar outside, she drops again from her window and steps around to the front.So many questions arise in her mind. Why should she not join him? Why should he not tell her more about this strange, fascinating, new world of which she has heard just the beginning?She gains the front, and the group of feeble trees with the backless wooden bench beneath; but he is not there, and she goes on and pauses opposite the open and uncurtained window where the injured soldier, his attendant, left behind by Corporal Craig, and the lieutenant are quartered all together.In the meantime Lieutenant Beale has hastened to the side of his suffering comrade; his conscience now, for the first time, beginning to whisper of neglect and forgetfulness of duty. The attendant meets him at the door with a finger on his lip, draws him further away, and whispers--"He's a dying man, Lieutenant! I've seen too many hurts. like his, an' I know the symptoms, I doubt if he lives till the morning. He's asked for you, sir, again and again, an' I made bold to tell him you had rode into town to report his case to the captain and get further orders.""Well--that was a kind lie, at all events, Brace.""Yes, sir. I don't mind telling of them kind, to save a dying man's feelings. He asked would I bring you to him at once, when you came, and leave you alone together. There's nothing to be done, now, and so I'll just swing into the old hammock while you go in. You'll call me if there's need?""Yes, yes--and thank you, Brace. Take this."He thrust into the man's hand the unlighted cigar he has been holding between his fingers, and, quite oblivious now of Vic and her hopes and fears, enters the room where the man he has known as Dick Hill--while quite aware that the name was not his real one--lies breathing hard, and, evidently, much worse than when doctor left the ranche pronouncing his case serious but not beyond hope, and affirming that there was nothing to fear for the present.These two have been comrades since the day of their first meeting in a mining camp six years before. They have sought fortune together and in many ways, and at last, in a mood of desperate abandon, had enlisted together in the regular army. They have served better than some, for both are brave with the bravery of the reckless, the dare-devil soldier, which is in no manner akin to the courage of the conscientious or morally strong.Beginning together in the ranks, the chances of the soldier has left the one a corporal and raised the other to the grade of first lieutenant. Yesterday they congratulated each other upon their speedy release from military hardships. A few more days and they would be mustered out together, but now--The sick man turns his face toward the door as his comrade enters."So glad you've come, old fellow," he says weakly. "I want--to talk--with you, and--the doctor says I may--that it won't--hurt, or hurry me out of the ranks."He has much to say about their past life, their

failures, and their doubtful successes; and Beale listens with patience, but with growing anxiety as well."Are you sure it won't hurt you to talk so much, Dick?" he asks at last. "The doctor thought you would sleep to-night, or, rather, this morning. Did--did you want to tell me anything--important?""Yes; and--I'll get it over now; Will, as for sleeping--I will have enough of that soon. I'm not deceived about myself, old man. I'll be mustered out before you are. I've heard my last drum taps, and it'll be 'lights out' for me soon.""Hush, Dick!--you've lost your grip. We'll see you through this; but you must not keep up this, you know."There is silence for a little time, and a figure, sitting upon the grass directly beneath the window, begins to creep noiselessly away, but stops again as the feeble voice resumes--"Well, I want you to get my little grip that you've looked after and kept safe for me so long; and--I want you to do me a last kindness; will you?""Sure, Dick--anything.""I've told you lots about my boyhood escapades and tricks, but--I've never told you who I am . I am going to tell you now--and--I want you to send my few traps home to my little sister--and to-tell them when--I am gone.""I will--if I must, Dick.""It will have to be. I've been thinking to-night of the home I left because I longed for adventure and hated restraint. It was a home--of plenty--but

--my mother died when I was six years--old, and when I was two years older my father married. I have a sweet half-sister whom I fairly doted on. I was her slave; but when my step-mother went abroad and took her I began to fret, and at fifteen I ran away.""Let me give you the cordial now, Dick, and--talk slowly."He takes the cordial without demur, and goes on. "For a few years I wrote, now and then, to Daisy, as I had nicknamed my sister, and I kept a journal at her request--jotting down what I was willing to let sweet eyes read. But--gradually, as I grew more reckless, I wrote less often. Then my people went from the old home to the city; and, after a time, I--lost them. It's four years--now--since I've heard from home, and it's more, since they've seen my face. The day before--we went on this last march, I wrote--a long letter--telling them of my--wanderings, and--I addressed it--in care--of a lawyer in New York, who--I was sure--would be able to reach--them.""Rest a little, Dick.""Not--yet. I must have it--out--now. My sister's letters--my journal--I never sent it--and the, my letters are--in the little--grip."He paused, his breath seemed failing."I don't--mind--your reading them--all, Will--old man. We've been--friends--good friends--eh?""Yes, Dick, good friends, always.""Always--until now; and so--you have a-right--to know--more--about me. I want you--to

know, and to see my--sister. Tell her the best--you can--about me. Give her--the papers--everything, with all my love. I've never cared--for any other--woman." He paused again, then, "Will you do all this--Will?""Yes, yes! I promise it. But, Dick," and he bends above the fellow, "tell me--the name! ""The--name--of course--it's on--the papers--and--it's--"The listener outside lifts herself to the very window's level, in her effort to catch the name whispered with the dying man's last effort at speech. But it is uttered too feebly, and then the room is silent, save for the breathing of the fast dying man.When Doctor Mitchell rides up on his roan bronco next morning, he finds a still and sheeted form, where, so lately, a sufferer had lain. And, standing, and looking down upon the calm dead, he turns suddenly."Any relation to you , Lieutenant?" he asks, in his abrupt way."None. A close friend, however.""Only that? I had not observed it when he lay, conscious and pain-racked, but--as he lies there now--there is really a close resemblance. Same height and weight; hair and eyes same colour, straight noses, both. If you had worn your beards the same way you might have passed for brothers--ever observed the likeness?"The Lieutenant starts at the first word, and now stands looking closely, earnestly, at the still, dead face."The listener outside lifts herself." Under Fate's Wheel,
Page 32Illustration included in Lynch's Under
Fate's Wheel."Never, except as to height," he replied; "we have worn each other's clothes before now."The Rington Brother Great Circus spends two more days in the post-town; and, early on the morning of the third, is loaded upon the fast freight, en route for Sydney, one hundred miles eastward. And when Jim Harch goes to the door of his daughter's room, some hours later, to reprove her for her "dam'ed laziness," he finds only a scrap of paper, with these words upon it--"Goodbye, Pop, I've 'gone to join the circus.' Don't follow me up. If you do I'll have to tell people about Dutch Kate . Be good to Roxie, I've taken Dare.--VIC."Roxie is the aged mule whose last days she has been protecting and solacing with succulent grasses, and Dare is her well-trained pony. Jim Harch pauses to swear before he has read the last lines, but when he does read them, his jaw drops, and he mutters hoarsely, and with vindictive force, "The little devil! "Then he tears up the note, and presently goes round to the kitchen and announces, with well-assumed indifference, "Vic-trine has skipped! Goe with that d--d circus, and took Dare along with 'er!"Ten days later Lieutenant Beale lays aside his sword and shoulder-straps and goes eastward.CHAPTER III
THE STORY BEGINS"LOOK, Hope! There they are, on the 'bicycle built for two;' see how they sit! There's grace for you! Now, say they're not a handsome pair, if you can."Hope Chetwynde lifts her lorgnette and looks deliberately in the wrong direction, with the most amiable air of being interested in the riders of the "bicycle built for two.""Hope!" her brother begins, in strong remonstrance, but she breaks in upon his speech. "Fee, I'm amazed! Is it possible that you can admire that gaudily gorgeous couple on that zebra-striped wheel? Why, the girl is positively fat!"Felix Chetwynde shrugs his broad shoulders impatiently, as his gaze follows hers. Then he laughs."That's the little Irishman who keeps the 'Fighting Chickens' over by the racing stables, and the woman's his--" he stops short, even before the small woman sitting beside his sister can utter her indignant and astonished--"Fe-lix! How can you know such people? Your list of acquaintances

must be as varied as it is long. I wonder if Miss Hilton--"But it is Hope who now breaks in upon her aunt's tirade. The continuous tilt kept up by these two--or rather by Cassandra Chetwynde; for it is she who is the aggressive one--is one of the few things from which Hope Chetwynde shrinks; for she loves them both, and would fain reconcile them for all time. She has been making pretence of looking about for the right tandem since she is declared in the wrong, and now she cries out as if delighted with her tardy success."Oh, I see! the white tandem is it not, Fee? U-m-m! They do ride well! and--the girl is lovely!""So is the man," sniffs Miss Cassandra. "Sweetly pretty--a true dainty creature.""Auntie, that's too bad!" from Hope."Really, Aunt Cass," says Felix, "you've been misled by appearances this time; Loyd Hilton is not made upon the 'brawn and bone' pattern exactly, it's true; but he's above the medium height, his slim figure is as full of strength as it is of grace, and he's certainly a model for an artist of the 'life' class, perfectly proportioned, in fact; and if his feet and hands are small, the first can sprint his mile with the best athlete in the ring, and the last have a grip and a skill with the gloves, fists, clubs, and oars that has floored more than one so-called strong boy; and if his features are damnably regular, they're as strong, taken each for itself, as they are fine. He's a trained athlete and an all-round good fellow; and the more you see of Loyd Hilton, the less likely you'll be to call him, or think him, small or effeminate."The two ladies receive this sally, in defence of a friend, in characteristic fashion--the one with a sniff and a toss of the head; the other with a skeptical little smile and pantomimic applause. And again Hope comes to the rescue at sight of the curl upon his aunt's lip."You'll excuse us, Fee, if we can't quite take your Adonis at your lofty valuation; we haven't the same incentive, you know. But behold I the duo has become a trio, and there now is a really handsome man. Who is he, mon frere?""What, that blonde English-looking fellow? And you call him handsomer than Loyd? Well, he's a 'fine figure of a man.'"
"Miss Hilton thinks so," murmurs Hope, in mischievous aside."It's mutual admiration, then; for it's an open secret that Terry Glynne is in love with Lorna Hilton."There is a little frown between his brows, but it passes, in an instant almost, while Hope exclaims--"Is that Terence Glynne? the man who saved both you and Mr. Hilton from death at the heels of a runaway horse, and who afterwards became the largest of the three graces?""Three--geeses!" snaps Aunt Cass.Hope laughs gaily--she is quite her amiable self once more--as she explains--
"It was a college title, auntie. Mr. Glynne was a new man, and a stranger to the two reckless students who drove out with a half-broken animal, and were saved from going over an embankment by Mr. Glynne's strong arms. He does look strong," she

added, with a side glance at her brother. "Here they come," and once more she calmly lifts her lorgnette, as among the many flying wheels gathered upon the Manhattan Beach Cycle Track, to take their daily spin at the fashionable hour, and to witness, a little later, some crack and fancy riding, three figures glide past--those of a fair girl and of two young men, both well to look at, but as unlike as possible.This double bicycle is not the usual well-known tandem with its seats "for and aft," which has so sorely plagued the sentimental youth and maid, giving him merely a tantalizing view of the back of the fair one's neck; while she cannot look around without rick to the equilibrium of both, but it is so arranged that the pair sit close together, side by side, and, sitting thus, one notices, first, the unusual beaut of the two riders, and then their wonderful resemblance, dark-haired, dark-eyed, with perfect features lighted up by animation and swift intelligence, and so saved from being "faultlessly null," glowing with health and the joy of the sweet air and swift motion, they glide past, their wheel all white and silver trimmed, and their mastery of it aiding to earn for it, and them, frequent applause and exclamations of praise and admiration, the fair and sturdy young man beside them coming in for a goodly share. For Terry Glynne, with his long limbs and broad shoulders, his sunny hair curling close to his head, his big, frank blue eyes, so full of the inherent bonhommie of the man, and his forceful face, with its strong chin, and the tender mouth half concealed by a silky, blonde moustache, is a popular fellow.

As the trio sweep by, bows are exchanged between the three riders and Felix Chetwynde, and the latter asks, as the trio wheel on down the course--"Well, Hope, can you cavil at Miss Hilton's riding--or her costume?""No," the girl replies; and now her tone is kindness itself. "She is a lovely girl, and her costume is as simple and chic as possible. Those richly-tinted, velvety eyed brunes always look their best in the soft, creamy wools.""And--you think better of the wheel? Confess it, Sis.""For Miss Hilton--and for all the other ladies, who choose to arch their backs, and hump their shoulders, I think it is very well. But--""But--child," breaks in her aunt. "You need not arch your back! Miss Hilton sits erect.""Miss Hilton seems to have the good sense not to scorch. What a term--but I've watched the average rider until I am convinced of one thing. You can't sit a bicycle as you would a horse, and you do not ride a wheel, you propel it. It is simply another kind of locomotion; novel to us, now, just as flying would be novel. But when the novelty ceases, these enthusiastic cyclists will waken to the discovery that they have been working hard, while sitting their wheels, and while pedalling, guiding, and inducing curvature of the spine, most of them--they have just balanced a pair of wheels, and fancied themselves riding then! A fig for your 'safety cycles,' your pneumatic tyres, that are always being punctured at the wrong time and far from home, and your saddles, always turning out to be the wrong kind; and give

me my brown Selim, with his speed and grace, spirit and affection. A living steed for me--if you please!"
"A lecture on the evils of the bicycle, as I live. Well, Sis, you always did break out in unexpected ways." He consults his watch and glances about him. "By Jove, it's time for the races almost. Do you think you can endure them, Hope'ey?"
"I shall shut my eyes if I can't," she replies perversely, "I did not come to the races, Fee; I came to look after Aunt Cass who has a hankering after strange gods."I've not," laughs Aunt Cass, "nor after anything else of the masculine persuasion! I always did like to see people make fools of themselves, however."Chetwynde laughs carelessly. "In that case I'll give you the pleasure of watching me 'induce curvature of the spine,'" he says. "You'll excuse me for a short time, won't you? I want to see the starters before they mount."The ladies willingly excuse him; they are most comfortably placed upon the grand stand, and, once he has left them, his place is readily and eagerly filled; for Hope Chetwynde is both an heiress and a beauty, besides being amiable, clever, and, above all else, possessing the gift of charm. A gift more rare and valuable oft than beauty or wit.As her brother makes his way through the crowd to the spot where his wheel had been left in charge, Hope Chetwynde looks after him, and a smile of amusement crosses her face, changing swiftly to a look of pride. And he is good to look at. Tall and erect, with eyes that seem now blue, now grey, and

that can look many things; dangerous eyes, susceptible young women have found them; and the straight nose and handsome mouth, well seen beneath the thick, short moustache, completes a face about which there could not be two opinions--but for the chin, that is prominent, and somewhat heavy; strong, his friends call it, and his sister thinks it; while Aunt Cass calls it "stubborn," and a few others, cruel.And now there comes a crash of music, and around the sharp upper curve of the course sweeps a cavalcade on wheels,--the New Era Cycle Club, aristocratic, and non-professional, but made up, nevertheless, of skilled riders. Once and again they sweep around the course, the men slanting their backs, as if perpetually going upstairs, or arching their shoulders, according as they value most the grace, or the speed, of their riding.It is a swell club, the New Era; and its presence here, as a club, is due to the fact that two of its members have challenged two professionals, and the event is of vital interest and import to the New Eras. On they come, the men in their white sweaters banded with blue, the ladies in their blue skirts and jackets, belted, gloved, and capped in white; for there are no bloomers in the New Era Club. They glide on at a pace not incompatible with graceful ridings; the ladies, for the most part, sitting erect; and when they have passed, Aunt Cass, fat, fair, and--well, forty is not too young--turns to Hope, and says, in a tone which, for a wonder, is carefully guarded--"I am sure those ladies look well, very well! If

I thought--" She breaks off abruptly, checked by a look in the girl's face."Auntie!" Hope says, "are you going over to the enemy?'"If you mean the Hiltons, no; but I'm not so sure that a wheel--I wonder if they make them lower?""I'm sure I don't know. You might get a child's wheel.""Don't try being sarcastic, Hope Chetwynde! I'm going to consult Doctor Berry, and if he says that a wheel would work off superfluous flesh, I'd try one. I've heard that it will.""I'm sure that it would; especially if you lead your wheel up that long hill at the back of our new cottage, and cycle down it, very often, when the thermometer stands ninety in the shade.""Ugh!" This is the maiden lady's only response, and she turns again to watch the course. The band is filling the summer air with harmonious sounds, and the race is about to begin.There but four entries for this, and the names of the two club men who will race the professionals have been withheld, although there are shrewd guesses as to their identity; and Hope starts, and her aunt exclaims aloud, when Felix Chetwynde and Loyd Hilton ride down the course, both wearing now the uniform of the club, whose honor they uphold."If that isn't just like your brother!" grumbles Aunt Cass, as they wheel by; "mum as a mute, and riding against professionals too! He'll be defeated of course.""Fee is a trained athlete, Aunt Cass;" replies Hope, loftily. "But I fancy that slight Mr. Hilton will hardly come in at the finish; he looks anything but muscular. I hate delicacy--in men!""I don't call him delicate; I call him simply refined, fine grained, if you please. The ox is bigger, and heavier, and coarser than the racehorse, but he is not, on that account, a thing of greater speed and endurance. Look at the two now. Felix is actually excited. Young Hilton looks quite at his ease. He isn't throwing away, uselessly, his needful energy."Hope turns away in silence; she knows when to withdraw from a profitless argument over her brother, and this she judges to be the time.And now the race is on. It is not a display of fancy riding, just a straight road race; and the four riders are in their places, each with his starter ready, and his eyes fixed awaiting the signal.And now they are off, and Fee Chetwynde has the inside track. Very evenly matched they seem, but as they pass the stand Loyd Hilton, who is on the outer side, and is thus at some slight disadvantage, seems lagging a little, just a very little, behind."He will lose!" declares Hope, with conviction, but quite cheerfully; "he can't hold his own against those muscular fellows!"It is only a five-mile race, and during the first lap Hilton lags a wheel's length all the way. The second is much the same; only that Fee Chetwynde gains perceptibly, and the club members set up a cheer."Fee is working too hard," says Aunt Cass

presently. "He is putting forth his full strength too soon!" Hope only shrugs her shoulder, and bends further forward to watch the combatants.
And now comes the third lap, and almost at the end, Hilton falls behind as if exhausted. Then, suddenly, the straight back, already slightly inclined, sinks lower; as they near the final curve, his wheel shoots across, and behind the others; and as they come close together at the turns, each careful to hold all his advantage, Hilton's wheel twists, and body and wheel, for just one instant, are at an acute angle, as if the rider were falling, and then he has gained the inner track, and he holds his ground. Two more laps, they cross the line for the last time, and Loyd Hilton is ahead with the professionals at his heels, and Felix Chetwynde hopelessly in the rear.
And then there arises from the throats of the club, loud shouts and cries of rejoicing, not to be suppressed by the thought that one of their number is hopelessly and entirely defeated.
A little later the praises are intermingled with lamentations, but just at the first Loyd Hilton's victory has obscured Chetwynde's defeat, and yet Chetwynde has ridden gallantly; even the beaten professionals admit this; as for Hilton they marvel at the easy, masterful, seemingly effortless manner of his victory.
Chetwynde is annoyed at his failure, there is no sign of it upon his face when he approaches his sister and her chaperone, bringing with him Terence Glynne whom he presents in due form, and he is the first to speak of its failure."Terry here," he laughed, "is trying to put the fault upon my wheel. He has always declared Hilton's wheel the smoothest and strongest runner.""I do assuredly!" declares Terry Glynne, "and I would like to see it proved by an exchange of wheels."But Felix shakes his head. "We can't all run," he says, "and I may prove stronger at some other game." There is a queer smile about his mouth as he utters the words, and the look in his eyes is veiled by their thick lashes."Are you going to present the champion to us, Felix?" asks Aunt Cass, in a tone which is plainly an accusation of neglected duty."He declines to come," replied Felix, smiling a little, and glancing askance at Hope. "In the character of a conqueror, that is--Loyd's a modest fellow." Again he looks at his sister, but she has entered into an animated conversation with Terry Glynne, and seems oblivious to his speech.And now the two defeated professionals, who form a part of a troupe of artists of the wheel, give an exhibition of fancy riding, consisting of graceful evolutions, backward pedalling, posturing, &c., &c. During this, Felix nods to his aunt, the others do not observe him, and wanders away, to come back presently, and take a seat just vacated beside Aunt Cass."It appears we are to have an extra performance," he informs her, taking off his hat and fanning himself lazily. "The star of the troupe, a lad of tender years, and tough morals doubtless, is to show us some trick-riding.""And pray," snaps Aunt Cass, "what have we been just witnessing?""Fancy riding, my dear aunt. There is a distinction--among the professional gentry.""A distinction without a difference I suppose?""That you will soon see. I believe the young fellow is about to display his 'skill, dexterity, and daring,' according to the big bills over at the club house, is called--let us see--" He jerks from his pocket a crumpled"dodger," announcing the events of the afternoon, and consults it with evident desire to instruct. "His name is--Juan--ah!" He starts, and the paper quivers in his fingers--"is Juan--al--Alvarege; Spanish, he calls himself, or Cuban; ought to be at home avenging the wrongs of his country."Aunt Cass disdains to smile at his pleasantry. It is curious, how persistently he seeks to propitiate her, and how she, just as persistently snubs his amiable efforts.And now the crowd in and about the stand settles into attitudes of eager expectancy; all the seats fill; riders prop their wheels here and there, as they can, and a place is cleared just in front of the grand stand. The band blares, there is a murmur and a clapping of hands, and into the vacant space rides Señior Juan Alvarege.The murmur becomes a shout as the graceful youth rides past, salutes, and circles before them, for he is mounted, not upon the fine silver-decked wheel captured by him, so the posters say, at the great Washington Tournament, not long since, but upon a high, old-fashioned "ordinary," which

looked most extraordinary there, among the modern safeties, in all their glittering newness.But, if the steed is awkward to the eye, the rider is not. Dressed, not in the regulation bicycle flannels, but in tights and trunks, he is a jaunty figure, gleaming with mock jewels, and showing his shapely but boyishly slender arms, a tasselled skull cap far back upon his short black curls. He is picturesquely handsome."How handsome! How graceful! Why he's a mere boy!" exclaim the ladies, while the men criticise his muscle and question his endurance;but not for long."How womanishly he is dressed?" says Hope, after a long survey of the handsome lad. " And--he's quite too good looking for one of the masculine persuasion.""Nonsense!" replies her brother fretfully, "the world's full of handsome boys."Hope turns to look at him, surprised at the petulance in his tone; and she sees him looking at the young rider with a strange mingling of doubt, anxiety, and something, which is almost fear, in his gaze. And then, suddenly, the big wheel begins to do strange things, while its rider sits serene, stands, kneels, plays the guitar, sways to and fro, and manages the ugly wheel as an expert arab would control and ride his Barbary steed. Now he rides, standing erect, upon the pedals, now poises upon the air, seemingly, balancing himself with equal care, upon hub or rim, and ends by taking the awkward machine literally to pieces, and holding aloft handle-bar, saddle, frame, pedals, and small

wheel, and standing erect upon the big, naked "ordinary" wheel, which is a bicycle no longer.And now he springs down from his perch, tosses away his playthings and stands bowing and smiling while the silver-trimmed safety is brought to him. Then there is more graceful and difficult wheeling, new evolutions that amaze, delight, and thrill; and at last something new is brought to him and there is a momentary pause.It is at this moment that Felix Chetwynde rises, to give his seat to a lady who has approached through the crowd to address Aunt Cass; and he takes his stand behind his sister's chair, bending down to speak in her ear and resting an elbow familiarly upon the chair back. Hope sits at the extreme end of the row, at the right, and her brother's position is now a most conspicuous one, standing, as he does, the very edge of the platform and above the crowd, with her white lace parasol twirling over his shoulders."What is that?" asks Hope."A giraffe. It's an ugly feat and a dangerous one.""Why it--it isn't a bicycle--that tall thing?""That's what it is. Hark!"Juan has stepped from his wheel to the trestle-like framework of the giraffe, held beside him by his assistant, and he mounts it cat like, seats himself in the saddle, and is wheeling across the exhibition space, sitting fifteen feet in air. Then, rising upon the lofty pedals he stands erect and smiling while a silken flag is tossed to him; and, shaking its folds to the breeze he waves it above his head. It is

a simple act. He has done things far more difficult, but the sight of the stars and stripes adds the last exhilarating touch to the holiday spirit, and a loud hurrah bursts from hundreds of throats in salute to the flag and its bearer, who waves it again and again with renewed vigour, and then, as the shouts die away, a single voice, clear, rich, ringing, is heard alone in a belated "brava."It is the voice of Felix Chetwynde, who stands erect, one hand upon Hope's shoulder, the other waving aloft the snowy parasol; and as it sounds across the course, vibrant and alone, the bearer of the flag starts, turns suddenly, stares for an instant--the face startled, aroused, and strange--totters, clutches wildly at the air, and flag, giraffe, and rider all come crashing down; and, as they fall, a shriek rings out, seeming to come from the very spot where the youth now lies, white and senseless, with the usual crowd gathered about him."If you don't care too much to see the last race, Fee," says Hope Chetwynde, when the still senseless trick rider has been borne away, and the gaping, curious crowd has scattered, "I would like to go home. I have seen enough, and more than enough; as that boy fell, his eyes seemed fixed upon us; did you notice it? And they seemed to burn into my face! Of course," she adds loftily, "if you can't tear yourself away--""But I can," declares Felix, with unusual readiness; "I've had enough myself. Come, let us go out by the path across the turf." He is actually pale, as he catches up Hope's sunshade and proffers his arm to Aunt Cass, who looks at him questioningly, and says, with a sniff--"I guess you needn't burden yourself with me! You look as if you had taken a tumble yourself. I never supposed you had such a soft and sympathetic soul. One of your own sex, too!"Hope, as she rises, looks up into his face. "I declare, Fee," she says, "you are pale! Would you like to ask after the young man before we leave the ground?"But he shakes his head. "There'll be quite too many inquirers," he says; "I'll inquire--later."As they pass out two reporters standing close by are comparing notes."It's a critical case," says one, as he flutters the leaves of his note-book, "and it's a singular one to me. I've seen young Alvarege do that feat over and over again, and why he should lose his balance at the very start is a thing that I can't understand.""I can, then!" declares the other. "Possibly you did not see his face at the moment. He was shocked into loosing his balance; something, or some one, in the audience, caused that sudden collapse--that's clear enough--to me! But what I don't understand is this. They have shut out even the men who carried him, and won't let a masculine soul enter. He was taken in charge by an old woman, another came to her assistance, and they have sent already for a woman nurse. How does that strike you?""Humph!" grunts the other. "Don't put that as a question; I'm not an infant class!""What does he mean?" whispers Hope to her brother.But Felix has suddenly turned crabbed."Don't ask me to guess their conundrums!" he says fretfully, and his face is still pale and his manner nervous as he hurries them away."A plague upon such ill-fortune," he is saying mentally, as he hands the ladies to their carriage and seats himself beside them. "That the old, almost forgotten folly should rise up to confront me now! But I'll evade it yet. There was only a momentary glance, and--gad! I'll join the Hiltons and Terry in their little trip! It will bring me close to her, and the mountains are poor climbing for bicycle-fiends."CHAPTER IV
A RETROSPECT--ENTER AUNT CASSANDRA"TRULY charming trio. A triangular alliance, well met after many days. And did you fall upon each other's neck and weep?""We were not school girls, you know, Sis. Nor yet in France.""Felix! How dare you.""But, Sis, you interrupt a fellow so hopeless--ly.""It's the first time during this conversation, Fee, and you have talked of Messrs. the great, only, and illustrious Hilton and Glynne for at least half an hour."The young man sitting astride the piazza railing laughing carelessly, and threw the stump of an exhausted cigar far out into the rose thicket upon the lawn opposite him, letting his eyes rest for a moment upon the clustering and spicy late roses; and then looking beyond, across the broad and sloping stretch of greensward, to the curving white road circling downward around the hillside, and past it, to where--with just a broad band of green between its blue,

and the white gravel of the highway--the lake lay sleeping and with scarce a ripple."You've found a charming nook, maiden. Have you neighbours just as charming?""That you must find out for yourself. The big, showy mansion over the hill to the north of us is occupied by an opulent brewer's family, and Madam Opulence, so saith her handmaid to mine, thinks it my duty to call upon her at once, owing, a little, to my youth, and a little more to her age and position, therefore superior, both of them.""Holy saints! And the villa nestling over there ground that curve of blue water?""Is--for some reason, untenanted.""That place, why it looks--from--here--ideal!""It is. I have visited it. It is almost prettier than this, and it has one charm that this place has not.""And that?""It's--haunted.""Bosh!""Don't say that to the fishermen and their wives across the lake," the girl said, yawning prettily behind a concealing hand. "The people about here have faith in their ghost, I do assure you; and they manifest it by keeping as far away from Redlands as they can. The place is as lovely as it is charming."The young man looked across the half-moon of sunlit water opposite that which indented the wooded shore, using his curved right hand as if it were a glass."I believe it's the very thing!" he murmured.

"How far is it from this haven of rest, sister mine?""One mile by water, two by land; and for what is it the 'very thing,' Fee? Do you purpose setting up your lodge in this wilderness?"Felix Chetwynde turned his back to the lake, and swung a long limb over the piazza-rail as he faced his sister."I'm thinking of the Hiltons--of Mrs. Hilton, of Loyd, of course; and--most of all, of--""Lorna. Say, Fee. And you need not get red up to your eyes at the mere thought of a pretty girl, need you? It's not like you, old boy. Do you mean that the Hiltons want a house for the summer, or what is left of it?"Felix nodded. "They do," he said briskly; "and I shall write to Loyd to-day to tell him all about the villa. About Redlands! By the way, who gave it that name?""Its builder and owner, I am told." Hope's tone has grown all at once lazily, almost coldly, indifferent. "Don't omit the ghost, Fee?""I won't." He has separated himself from the piazza-rail and pillar now, and is moving toward the open door as he speaks. "The place will suit Lorna to the very last hill and dale, brook and hollow; and between the good fishing and the--other attractions--" glancing at his sister."Felix Chetwynde!" The girl has lifted herself suddenly herself from the cushioned hammock, and her head poises itself proudly."Well?" He turns, suppressing a smile."Don't you dare to mention my name--in any way!" and she goes swiftly within.Hope Chetwynde is the mistress of the pretty lakeside home--too big to be called a cottage, too low and rambling, rustic and gabled, to be fitly termed a villa; yet a villa it is called. She is also mistress of more than this.Ten years before one of those sudden and awful railway holocausts, which come upon our beautiful great country all too often, had deprived Hope Chetwynde and her elder half-brother of their parents, both instantly killed, and clinging together in a clasp of love and death. This calamity left the two--Hope, still in a home school, and Felix nearing the end of his preparatory course--seemingly quite alone in the world, but with a joint income which assured them a life of comfort, if not of luxury.And then had appeared the fairy (?) godmother.Cassandra Chetwynde was the half-sister of Hope's father, and up to the time of his death she had been to Hope only a name, which stood for two things, wealth and eccentricity. But a week after the sad double funeral, and while Hope and her brother still lingered forlornly in the bereaved and dreary home, now a home no more, Cassandra Chetwynde became an active principle in the lives of the two.
They were sitting forlornly opposite each other at the table where luncheon had been served, and still stood almost untasted--for the two had been discussing their future, and the subject had not proved a stimulant to the appetite--when the door opened almost without sound, and a diminutive person all in black and grey, and bearing herself, despite her smallness, with a dignity and self-possession which

the situation and the surprise from the least element of embarrassment, at least upon the part of the new-comer.
"Good morning, my dears," she said, advancing and reaching Hope's side before the child could recover herself and rise, and quite ignoring Felix for the moment. "Don't rise; I am going to ask for a cup of tea soon. I am Miss Chetwynde, your father's half-sister. I heard of his death by an accident through an old newspaper picked up by chance. I was in California, and I came on at once." She has placed a small gloved hand upon the girl's shoulder; and now, having studied her since the first moment of entrance from a pair of keen, clever, and fine grey eyes, the small lady bends and kiss the white forehead upturned beneath her gaze. "You are very like your mother, dear!" she says, and then she turns toward the youth.
"And this is--" She stops inquiringly.
"Felix," he says, and rises with a low bow.
"Felix!" She puts out a hand almost frigidly; and then, as it is withdrawn from his somewhat loose clasp, she catches at a chairback and almost reels.
"I must sit down," she says, and sinks into the nearest chair.
"Fe--, young man, have you finished your luncheon?"
"Yes, madam."
"Miss--if you please! Miss Chetwynde. Then, case, will you kindly order me some fresh tea? Nothing more, mind; and--leave your sister and myself to a quiet little chat. I see that I shall not get to know her until we are tête-à-tête.""With pleasure--Miss--Chetwynde."Felix bows again, shoots a quizzical glance at his sister, and goes out, leaving the visitor smiling behind his retreating back at his equivocal answer and prompt retreat. Then she sinks back into the place he has just vacated, pushing away the seat she had first occupied, and turning again toward Hope."Your brother is not dull by any means," she says, smiling a little; "and I see you are wondering why I sent him away, eh? Well, I'll tell you. It's because I want to make your acquaintance--first, and I see that with this good-looking older brother to the fore your rôle is secondo.""You are mistaken, Miss--Chetwynde; Felix is not overbearing, and--we are excellent chums! He's very good to me!""Glad to hear it, and glad that you have a proper spirit, Hope. I like a proper spirit in a girl. She's a poor chance in life without one. Now, let's understand each other at once; I hate rigmarole. How much do you know about me, Hope Chetwynde?"Hope is ten years old, and she has never been snubbed nor suppressed. She has a bright wit and a nimble tongue, and she is by nature frank and fearless.
"I know very little," she begins, meeting the eye of the new-comer openly, and with evident purpose to understand as well as to inform. "You are my papa's half-sister; and when his stepmother, your own mother, died you went to live with her only sister, who was childless and a widow.""Quite so," says Miss Chetwynde, pushing away the dishes from before her."I believe you and papa seldom met after his first marriage. You and your aunt went abroad, and lived many years in Italy and Southern France. You came home shortly before papa and my mamma were married, and you were present at their wedding.""Yes. It was all I could do.""All--I--pardon me, I do not understand.""Of course not. How should you, child? Who was to tell you how I came home to 'the States,' a lonely woman, craving sympathy and a home of my own. Two years before I had buried the man I loved, and two months before my aunt's death had left me a solitary woman. I came home with wealth, and with nothing else, hoping to make a home for your father and myself together. His first welcoming words--how they warmed my heart!--but his next speech made me an exile once more; for he told me, the moment the greetings were over, of his approaching marriage. That changed everything. I stayed for the wedding, and then I went back--alone.""But--Auntie!--papa always called you his dear sister and my aunt. That is not quite all; for you gave mamma the most lovely opals and pearls, and they both, mamma and papa, begged you to stay with them.""Poof! To be sure they did! What else could they do? An old maid in a dovecot; besides--you're a very sweet little girl now, my dear, but--I detested babies!""Oh, Auntie!" In spite of herself Hope laughed. "And yet you sent me my name, long, long before I was ready for it--and afterward, long afterward, I was told how, when you went away, you asked them to name their first-born son Felix, after--""After Felix Hope, my dead lover," Miss Chetwynde said, in a low, sad tone. "Yes, and I learned later that they did, and still later, that you had been named Hope, when I was far away." She mused a moment. "And is that all you can tell me?" she asked then."Very nearly. Papa used to speak of you often, and mamma taught me to pray for you as I did for papa and herself--""And--did you?" in a hushed tone."Of course, always!""Go on, my dear," said the other quite gently."I--I think that is all. Papa used to wish you would write us sometimes. He thought it would be so sad if anything happened to you, so far away.""And after all it happened to him--and I--I did not write, I hate writing letters; they're the most barren of apologies for real interchange of thought. But I did keep an eye upon your people, through my man of business, who knew your father very well--only--Mr. Frayne chanced to be in the mountains last week, and I--was in the country. Fate seems to owe me some hateful grudge, I sometimes think; and poor Chris was buried, and I never knew." She turns away her face for a moment, and when she speaks again her tone has changed, and is brisk and businesslike once more. "Do you know why I have swooped down upon you like this, child?"Hope shook her head. There was a little sob in her throat, and she could not speak at the moment."Then I'll tell you. You're young to talk business, but a child-woman knows her own mind and needs sooner than most think. Have you a guardian?""No. Papa--died--so soon.""I know. And have you made any plans, you and Felix?""No, not really; we were trying to decide--when you came.""Then hear mine. I have nothing to offer but my money, but I have come to make one last effort to set up a home. Will you come and live with me, child, until you are of age? Wait, let me finish. I will buy a pretty, cosy place near your school, and you may choose for guardian whom you will.""It will be you then, Auntie.""Tut, tut I you don't know me yet; wait and see. I will try and make a home for you until you are eighteen, then--if we both live and have not quarrelled, I mean to deed you exactly one half of my money, so that you may be just as independent as myself, and then--""Auntie--please--""Don't interrupt, child! I would do it now, if you were old enough. Understand me; if you and I are still under one roof a few years hence, it will be because we are mutually pleased so to live. And, in that case I shall not hesitate to give my wretched money where I willingly give my regard and friendship. Don't you see, child, that what I hope to receive from you will be worth more to me

than money? It will be what money cannot buy, child," again her voice takes that softer, sadder tone. "If you had lived one year of a lone woman's life, you would understand that I am asking quite as much as giving! Shall I let you think before you answer me?""No, Auntie, I know what I think, but--" she paused."But--well?""I am thinking of Felix. Dear Auntie, I am sure I can love you very much, but--I can't leave Felix, now.""Not for--a fortune?""We are not really poor, Auntie.""Pooh! I know what you have--both of you; suppose you give Felix your share of your father's money--eh?""I would do that gladly--but if he wants me--no, I cannot leave him.""And so I must go back alone?""Aunt Cassandra, why? You would love Felix when you knew him. Oh, I don't care for your money, but please stay with, us! I want you both! It will be so dear to have you to look up to, and to help me! Oh, I dread the loneliness of my new life so much, and I know there's a heart full of love and kindness in your bosom, I see it looking out of your eyes, even when they try to look stern. Be kind to us both, Auntie, do, do!""So." The lady leans across the table where the untasted tea has been deposited by the silent maid, and stands cooling and quite ignored. "So you choose Felix, and refuse half a million. Half a million! think, child."Hope rises slowly, but, before she can reply, the door opens silently, and Felix appears upon the threshold."Miss Chetwynde," he says, in his soft, mellow drawl, and with a look of appeal in his eyes, "let me speak to her! I came under that open window just now, and heard your last words; let me advise Hope, she is so young and unselfish. Hope, you must not refuse this generous gift; I must leave you soon, and you need a woman friend more than you need--""Felix!" Hope is standing very erect, and her head is held high as she utters his name in clear, ringing, girlish tones, and looks from one to the other, turning back, at last, to the woman opposite her, but holding out her hand towards her brother, "Auntie, it must be both or neither!""Thank Heaven!" Cassandra Chetwynde has dropped back upon her chair, and, having looked long at the face of the now agitated girl, and from her to the puzzled youth in the doorway, she breaks into a peal of laughter that transfigures her small, strong face, and is heard with amazement by the servant in the kitchen.
"Felix," the little spinster cries, when the gust of laughter has expended itself, "close that door and come here! Hope, you plucky, honest little maid, I wouldn't give you up now if you had as many big brothers to fling at my head as you have fingers on your two little hands I God bless you, my child-woman, did you think I would really turn my back upon the namesakes of Felix Hope. Sit down, both of you, and let us talk and settle our little plans."And talk they do, and to such good purpose, for two of them at least, that, ten years later we find Aunt Cassandra and Hope Chetwynde together still, and the spinster enjoying in her own quaint way her heart's desire, a home and something to love, and to return that love freely.CHAPTER V
FROM PAST TO PRESENTFOR two years now Hope had been the actual mistress of a cool half million, though legally, and by Hope's own irresistible decree, it stands in the name of Miss C. Chetwynde, and now, as always, there is perfect harmony between spinster and maiden, while the words mine and thine are seldom heard between them, and the confidence of each to each, as well as the freedom of each, is perfect.But Felix Chetwynde, just back from school at the time of the appearance of the fairy maiden aunt, had the blood of a rover in his veins.Much of his childhood had been passed away from his family, for at his mother's death he had been placed in the care of her only sister, and later--when father had romantically encountered the sweetheart of his boyhood, separated from him while both in their teens, and had married her after a brief courtship, Felix had continued for some time longer an inmate of his aunt's home; for his father had taken his old time sweetheart and new wife abroad for a year of travel.When at last Felix came back to his father's house, there was a baby sister in it; and the two became warmly attached, in spite of the eight years' difference in their ages. But Felix was a high-spirited lad, and his aunt's tutelage had been unwise, and he learned to think that he owed only coldest respect, and no manner of obedience to his father's second wife, and after a time, during which peace was not a constant guest in the household, he was sent to a school for boys, where the three M's, manners, morals, and mind were ranked quite as high as the venerable R's, readin', ritin', and 'rithmetic.From this school the lad had been recalled to a house of mourning, and he had just renewed his acquaintance with his affectionately remembered little sister, and she was learning to love him loyally, and to lean upon him, when Aunt Cassandra came into their lives, and stamped them with her own strong individuality.For a few months the three lived in tolerable harmony, but Aunt Cass was not used to boy's ways, and Felix was at the unpleasant age when a boy is neither man nor child, but just a boisterous, high-spirited, and sometimes, alas! a disagreeable and cruel, young animal.Like most maiden aunts Aunt Cass had "ideas" about the bringing up of a "man cub," and upon this rock the pair split, amid the wrath of the Mentor, the surly resistance and resentment of the "cub," and the tears and lamentations of the woman child.Something had to be done, and when Felix angrily demanded to be sent back to his school, Aunt Cass hailed the idea as a way of deliverance. "I dare say it's a genuine bear garden," she sniffed contemptuously, "but a bear garden is a very good place for young bears."She showed herself unexpectedly liberal in the matter of pocket money, in view of the peaceful prospect when he should be gone; and, as soon as possible he was on his way to what, after his brief experience with "a cranky old maid and a crying young one," he looked forward to as "a good time with the boys, with easy lessons, lots of fun, and no women to nag a feller.'Hope grieved for him, and missed him greatly. But, even at that tender age, the girl had a certain sensitive pride; she had made a stout stand for his sake, and to keep him with her; and now, since he was so ready to leave her, she would grieve no more, least not much. Besides, she had many consolations. Aunt Cass, from the first, had turned toward the tender and soft and motherly side of a somewhat complex nature, and the bond between them soon grew very sweet and strong.Then, after two years of his school life, there came ill news of Felix, news which caused Hope to grieve, and Aunt Cass to prophesy.Felix, now nearing his twentieth year, and almost at the end of his preparatory course, had run away with a comrade a year older than himself, and no trace of him could be found at the time.No trace of him was found until a year had passed, and then Hope received a letter, which was short and to the point."Dear sister," the missive ran, "this is to tell you that I am living, safe and well. I did not write after

I ran away from the old 'cad'my, because I did not want to be hunted up. Now I shall be twenty-one so soon that it won't pay Aunt Cass to set the wires at work looking me out."Fact is, Hope'ey, I found out I was not cut out for a scholar, and I was advised by a very wise and good old man to 'go West,' so if you and Aunt Cass do not approve, just place the blame where it belongs, upon the shoulders of the late lamented H. Greely. He won't mind, now, and, personally, I'm greatly obliged to him."You see, I like the West, and although it has not enriched me, yet it has given me no end of fun, and--experience. I got a bit only the day before yesterday."You must know the Bike has struck the town, not numerously, but with fervour. I don't own one of the wheeled animals myself, but I have--or had, friend who owns, or owned a bike. Being my friend, it is strange that he should offer, nay, press the use of the cursed machine upon me, but he did, and I, like a fool, accepted it."Do you ride a bike, Sis? I don't suppose you do for they've not struck the swell crowd yet, and if you haven't, don't. I've ridden bucking broncoes, kicking mules, trotters, and--rails, and the bike can make you ridiculous in more languages, sore in more places, and dismount you quicker than any animal that lives."To be made ridiculous in the eyes of a western crowd of hustlers means things you little dream of, and calls for heroism outranking that of Casabianca, and this is sure to happen when you ride for the first time, for you're sure to dismount hastily, and with-

out forethought. It is sad, sister, even when alone, with only boundless nature for a witness, but when you are observed by a crowd of western observers, wild and woolly, then indeed must one suffer and be silent, if he can. It's a diabolical experience, and I ought to know, for I am lying to-day, a mere thing upon which to deposit plasters, bandages, and ointments, and to pour lotions, liniments, and--ridicule. I'm a bundle of black and purple, my eyes are not becoming. I'm a thing of bumps, scratches, contusions, and sprains, with a long scar caused by a jagged and too familiar stone, halfway across my manly chest. I shall always have this last, the doctors tell me, six inches long, and of a pleasing crimson hue. If it were the souvenir of an Indian dressed in war paint and a hatchet, I could be proud of it; but as the relic of a first and last bicycle ride! how horrible! But it is my last; for never, never, no NEVER, let the wheel become the only means of locomotion, and the kingly steed nil. No matter, I have bestridden the two-wheeled, evilly disposed demon for the first and last time! And the only thing decent it has accomplished is this--the act of writing to you, my sweet little girl sister. I have meant to do it often, and now, being for the first time laid by, the heels, I find a moment to take up my pen."Here followed expressions of remembrance and regard, apologies, messages, descriptions of the country, and the final assurance that as soon as he is able to travel he shall set out, "with his pard," for he new mining country.Hope read this letter with tears and smiles alternating. Aunt Cass heard it with ill-suppressed impa-

tience and prophesied anew, while Hope folded the letter tenderly."He will come to grief out there I As sure as I'm a spinster the boy'll come to grief! Horace Greely indeed!" Hope silently thrust the letter in her bosom.A year later Hope received a second letter, written, evidently, with a shaky and nervous hand. It was very brief, and informed her simply that he was about to join the "regulars," and become "a guardian of the country, and a target for the red-skin," adding, at the end--"Don't worry about me, Hope. I'm not going alone; my friend and pard is with me, and we look after each other."Hope sighed upon reading this, and her face was full of anxiety."I'm afraid he is in trouble of some sort," she said, "or he would never have done this, or he may have been ill. His handwriting is very weak--and unsteady.""Been on a spree it's more likely!" grumbled frank Aunt Cass. "It's the way half of them enlist. Well, he will get a taste of discipline now, at all events." And she was right. It was after a prolonged spree that the two "pards" from "down east" had joined the army.A few more years have passed, and Hope and her aunt still live in amity. Miss Chetwynde, the elder, is the owner of a handsome house in town, and Hope is the mistress of the pretty country house by the Lakeside.Just six months before the day on which our dramatis persona first appeared to us, on the Manhattan Beach Cycle course, Felix Chetwynde, heralded by a modest letter or two, has made his appearance before his sister and his aunt, and, in spite of the past and of his aunt's former prejudice against him, be at once wins his way into favour.His story, briefly told--and he is very reticent concerning his adventures in the far west--pictures him first, as a cow-boy, next a miner, and last as a soldier. The story of the discharge of himself and friend from the army, and the subsequent death of that friend causes him to turn away from the life they have known and enjoyed together. His thoughts have been drawn back toward the east, and then he has found himself unfit for the life his sister, he knows, is leading. He has saved a little money, how he does not explain, and he turns his face eastward, resolved to "polish up a bit," and then to seek his sister.Journeying on eastward he has fallen in with two young men, students, who have been doing the west during their vacation; the three become very good friends, and, as one result of the encounter, Felix goes with them to their college, is entered for a year's special course, having proved himself well grounded and quite able to enter. Here he passes a year, spending his vacations in the society of his new friends, and, at the end of the year's course, he presents himself before his aunt and sister neither wild, surly, nor western, but a young man properly shaved, polished, suave, handsome, a most desirable member of society, as Aunt Cass admits--to herself

--and a real boon to a manless household: so she welcomes him kindly, and Hope rejoices over him; and at the end of six months all three are mutually content, or seem to be, a charming and harmonious household. Miss C. Chetwynde looks--yes, and feels--younger than when she came, alone and in doubt, to seek for the last time companionship and a home; younger and happier, she has found an interest in life; something to love--in Hope and now in Felix--something to combat, to study, and sometimes to be jealous of, even while she admits--but only to herself--that he is vastly improved, in some things, and  changed, except in looks, changed utterly.Hope? The girl of twelve is a maiden of twenty summers now. As a child she was plain, intelligent, and winning; as a maiden she is beautiful Hope Chetwynde; intelligent still, winning still; fair, stately, gracious, and strong.And Felix. To Hope he is still the same Felix, the indulgent big brother, and comrade, bigger now, handsomer, travelled, accomplished, brilliant, in truth; with a strong bent toward literature, and a taste for music. A man to charm a woman, to win friends, and to have his way.It is usually a charming way, however, refined, correct, and pleasant to walk in. Usually, too, it is Hope's way, quite as much as his. Not that they are always of the same mind; Hope is never an echo, even of those she loves; but, in most things, she is amiably willing to be convinced.As to their tastes, their pursuits, and their friends, the two agree usually without need of argument, but as they lounge upon the broad piazza to-day, they

do not agree, for once; and to Felix the fact seems strange, even unaccountable; for why should she not be glad, even to rejoicing, at the thought of having the Hiltons, Lorna and Loyd, with their stately step-mama, as neighbours across the bay at Redlands? Why indeed?"If you had ever known them, Sis," he says insistently. "Your prejudice would seem more reasonable. Lorna Hilton is a lovely girl, and--""Oh, I am sure of that!" Hope breaks in, smiling roguishly. "Your taste is very refined and correct, monsieur, when a lady's in the case.""And Loyd is the best of fellows.""Granted;" with grave indifference.""Mrs. Hilton and Aunt Cassie would hit it off perfectly. I know--""No doubt?" with a provoking rising inflection."I thought you would welcome Lorna--if only to break the monotony of my society, and--""Felix, a bright, jolly, sensible girl would be a genuine boon to me, here and now; but Miss Lorna Hilton is only half of a personality, and I prefer--""Half?" these young people interrupt one another, by mutual consent. "Oh, you mean that they are twins?""As if that were not enough! Have you forgotten the Gorton twins? And how they laughed and cried by mutual consent; and always wanted the same things?"Felix laughs. "And so you fear an intimacy with twin who may transfer her share in you to her other self, until you find yourself en rapport with both, instead of one, eh?""It is you who should fear that. If these two are soul twins one might have cause to fear. It's a nice question to consider, whether, given a difference of opinion upon a vital question, one's sweetheart would decide for the heart's love or the soul's double, or could she decide if she would?"Was it a chance speech, or a prophecy ? The words fell lightly from Hope Chetwynde's lips, but in after days they came back to her with terrible distinctness and freighted with a sad new meaning.Felix Chetwynde starts at the strange suggestion, and is silent a moment; then he says, with his handsome face turned toward the lake--"You are whimsical, Hope, and yet you feign to scoff at haunted houses and the belief in spirits in visible form. You need to know a merry spirit like Lorna's, and a closer study into the metaphysics of twinship may open your eyes to new things. Unless you distinctly command me to forbear shall most certainly write and tell Loyd and Lorna about Redlands.""There is no such word as forbid between you and me, Fee. Let's drop the subject, please."And the subject is dropped. Nevertheless, that night, when the full moon shines white upon the walls of Redlands and the spirit of midnight brooded over the silent lake and woodland, and Hope Chetwynde sleeps, Felix writes a long letter to Lorna Hilton, and in sealing it and sending it sealed also his own fate all unknowing. Just as you, dear reader, and a thousand others, by the commission of some seemingly trivial act, may be doing to-day, to-morrow-at this very moment, perhaps.CHAPTER VI
A DAY OF FATEIT begins with a letter from Hope Chetwynde to Felix:"IRWIN, ON THE HUDSON,"September 2, 18-."MY DEAR FEE,--Let us put business before pleasure, and so have an end of it."Yours anent financial matters is before me. It is quite right that you should wish to take possession of your own, and I have wondered why you did not speak of it while awaiting your pleasure in the matter. All of papa's affairs remain still in the hands of his old lawyer and friend, Mr. Carter; your money with the rest."It was like you in your old boyish days, like your independence rather, never once, amid all your roving, to have called upon any of us for what was your own. As a result, however, you have now quite a nice accumulation of interest at hand, together with the principal. Besides this you will remember that Aunt Cass suggested my giving you my own share."I have long since learned to accept, with love

and thankful joy, the bounty which it is her greatest happiness to bestow; and, being the sharer of her wealth, I gladly leave to you all that was mine through our dear father, and I will come home at once in order to place it in your hands, wishing, for your sake, that it were much more."As to auntie you know her eccentricities, and I love her for all of them, and her belief that a man should be the maker of his own destiny, in spite of which I think that you will not be forgotten in that time far in the future I hope and trust, when she will no longer need nor care for 'vile pelf.'"And now about the Hiltons. I am glad if their nearness adds to your happiness, and, since it is clear that you mean to give me a sister, I will make your mind at ease by assuring you that I quite believe in the fair lady of your choice, and shall be ready to welcome her--yes, and to be her twin soul. Fee, how dare you come in between these twin souls? I'm sure it's dangerous, so I'll give them both a sister's welcome."And now what shall I say? Are you a wizard, or are you playing upon my credulity? Aunt Cass on wheels! Aunt Cass wearing an abbreviated skirt and curving her erect spine over one of those two-wheeled monstrosities that fly in the face of the centre of gravity and make womankind forswear her allegiance to the line of grace. Fee, why can't a man, or woman, scorch and still keep his, or her, ears above his or her shoulders."You have made me quite eager to see the water and lofty pathway through the woods and fields beyond Redlands. But alas, even this, it appears,

has been turned from its natural uses and made a bicycle byway. No, Fee, I will never, never ride one of the ugly machines."And now goodbye, fond lover. For your sake, and for yours only, I
return at once, and leave the happy shores of the Hudson. So, until we
meet, adieu to you, mon frère."HOPE."This letter is received in the morning, and Felix Chetwynde, reading it, smiles, frowns, and sighs, and, at last, folding it away, begins a carefully careless outing toilet."It might have been worse," he says, as he adjusts his soft cycling cap, "and--it might have been better, and now for some fun."He closes his door, taking care to lock it, and, dropping the key in his pocket, runs lightly down the broad stairs.Standing in the doorway of the broad entrance hall is Aunt Cass, her plump little figure encased in a cycling suit of dark blue. There is a look of discontent upon her face, and an air of uncertainty about her every movement as she fidgets now out upon the wide piazza, where a handsomely-mounted ladies' wheel stands, now within to pace the length of the long hall restlessly, impatiently."It looks silly; just as I feel!" quoth she, giving the unoffending wheel a poke with a well-shod toe. "I wish Hope would come home! I--I begin to think I've got softening of the brain. I wish that boy would come, if he's coming! Oh"--as Felix appears--"here you are--at last!""Aunt Cassie, good morning! I am on time--

to the minute." He took her hand, which she seemed to yield reluctantly, and looked down, scanning her costume with a swift glance, and then, as he slowly released her hand while letting his eyes rest upon her face, somehow the effect was that of releasing one hold only to grasp another and stronger one."Ready for the lesson, Auntie?" His voice was gay, his face smiling, but the eyes wore still their same intent, fixed look, and they never swerved from her face.Again that frowning uncertain look crossed herd face, and she made a slight backward movement, as if in half-hearted rebellion against some vaguely-felt constraint, and then Felix, slipping his slim strong brown hand beneath her arm, led her, with a playful assumption of leading forth a dédbutante, down the piazza steps, and, as they went, the woman's face slowly relaxed, a smile replaced the frown, and she watched him bring forward her wheel with evident pleasure, and presently mounted and guided by her mentor, wheeled slowly down the smooth drive.At last Aunt Cass has forgotten all scruples, all prejudice; she is now an enthusiast on wheels, that is, when she is not testing the elasticity of terra firma.This happened, however, only often enough to show her how valuable is the aid, how sage the instruction, of her mentor. For the most part they go on side by side; and, his eyes resting upon hers, his hand and voice directing, she sits her wheel with singular confidence, and, in this mood, is quite safe from too frequent falls.The carriage road curves gently from the gate at the north corner of the grounds, to that of the southern; and the house stands well back, midway between the two entrances.There is singularly little said, during the lesson, when one considers the eminently social natures of these two; but as they approach the house, having traversed the drive half a dozen times in swift succession, Felix Chetwynde turns his gaze from his pupil to the white road skirting the lake, and lets it rest intently there. They have been pedalling along, side by side, at a fair speed, and close together, but now, suddenly, the lady's wheel lurches, she gasps in affright, and goes over. This time it is a veritable header, and Felix, with a muttered exclamation, bends to lift her up, the gleam in his eye betraying the sympathy upon his lips."Aunt Cass, that was my fault! I left you too much to yourself! Let us sit here a moment."He places the wheels against the piazza railing, and sits down beside her upon the lowest step, where she has allowed him to place her. "What is it?" he questions, for she is looking at him sharply."I--was thinking--" her voice is slow, as if memory was aroused at the cost of strong physical effort. "Of--your--first--ride on a wheel.""Of mine?" he questions."Yes. Of your tumble. You vowed then that you'd never ride a 'bike' again. That letter made Hope laugh heartily." Her eyes are turned towards the north gate as she speaks; but his are upon her face anxious, questioning."My letter? Oh--oh yes, yes. I had forgotten for the moment. I did swear off after that first tumble. A fellow is apt to, you know. What is it!" noting her intent gaze."The boy with the mail, and--a man--"Felix turns quickly. The boy who does the numerous errands of the household is just entering the grounds upon the stubby pony allotted to his use; and, some ways behind him, a solitary wheel-man is following."It's Glynne!" Felix ejaculates, his tone not altogether a pleased one."Terry Glynne. Now whatever--" He broke off to rise to his feet, take off his white flannel cap, and wave it to the approaching rider, who by now has overtaken the boy and his pony.As the new-comer approaches, Felix, cap in hand, stands awaiting him, glancing carelessly about the while.Then he stoops, and puts out a hand to Miss Cassandra."Auntie, there is a pony-carriage coming around the lake drive," he says, in a low tone; "they are Mrs. Hilton's ponies, I am sure--is she coming here?""I think--so. She spoke of coming over some morning soon, when we met last--at the Patton's picnic--Saturday." She moves slowly to the top of the steps, where she stands awaiting the approach of the boy; Felix meantime going forward to meet his friend with extended hand."Give me the mail, Bob!"The boy places in her hands the bundle of letters 

and papers, and she shakes her head over their meagreness. There is one letter for Felix, and none for herself; and she awaits his approach, and, when she has greeted Terence Glynne, places it in his hand, says a few polite words to the caller, and goes slowly indoors, with her hands full of newspapers and late magazines.Meanwhile the two young men mount the steps of the broad piazza, and seat themselves side by side, while Felix produces his cigar-case.As Terence Glynne lights his weed with the burning match proffered him by his host, the eyes of the two young men meet, and there is a question in each. Possibly it is the feeling that this question is too apparent in his frank, blue orbs, which prompts Glynne to assume the look of a mentor, and to shake his head sagely at the other, while he says--"Felix, old man, I fear you have not forgotten all of your old tricks;" and he laughs again, as if at some amusing remembrance. "Have you become an expert? Or has your 'control' left you? I should think a lady of certain age and fixed views of life would be a difficult subject.""Hush! Confound you!" Felix turns and looks across his shoulder toward the entrance; but the little figure in the bicycle costume has drawn suddenly back from the doorway, toward which she had turned back, upon hospitable thoughts intent, and, seeing no one, Felix adds, "You always talk nonsense, Terry! What in the name of goodness made you suppose I was trying that?""Merely your attitude, my boy, and the look upon your face; and--you know I have uncommon good eyes, don't you--and in hers.""You saw with your imagination, not your eyes," retorts Felix, somewhat impatiently; "and you surely didn't call this morning--the best of mornings for a spin--to discuss what you used to call my 'fad!' eh?" His face is smiling once more, and, he seems cordially at his ease."No." Glynne is instantly grave now, and the cigar is slowly withdrawn from between his lips. "It was a matter even more personal to you--and I me--than that," he said slowly. "Are we quite alone here?""Quite. Miss Chetwynde always sits in the morning-room at the other end of the hall, and my sister is absent. What's the worry, Terry?""The worry! Well, one might call it that; and who would endure a 'worry' when a straight question might set it at rest? Felix, we have been good friends, and we must remain so.""We must indeed! And why shall we not?""Because--some might say--we both want the same thing.""Ah!" Felix starts and pales visibly. "And--that thing?""I think you can guess, Felix. Even brothers have fought, before now, over the woman they both loved."For a moment Felix Chetwynde turns away his face; then he faces his friend again, and his hand is extended."We shall never do that, Terry! You mean, of course, Lorna Hilton?"Terence bows silently."Have you--addressed her?""How could I--knowing your feelings, or, at least, believing you cared for her-until I had seen you? All must be fair between us, Felix; and--I'm afraid the chances are all in your favour."Felix Chetwynde is silent for a moment, then, passing by the other's words without comment, he asks slowly--"What do you--want me to--do--Terry?""I want an end of suspense, or--have you ended it--for yourself?""I have not offered myself, if you mean that.""But--you will ?"Felix nods."Chetwynde," Terry bends forward and puts a hand upon the other's knee, "I'll be perfectly frank with you; it's your right. You know that Loyd and I are very good friends?""The best, I should say. If he had the casting vote--and I'm not sure but that he has--""No--he has not. We have spoken of this thing, not of intent, but by chance. He cannot in this matter read his sister's feelings, and she will not let him sound them. Loyd has been very frank with me. And he wants me to go to her boldly and without delay, and to speak for myself--""And--" Felix draws himself suddenly erect--"and you are going--you are on your way now?""No I you are wrong. I am at the end of my present journey, and I ask you to put an end to this state of things. Try your fate soon, so that I may know my own. If you succeed, I shall wish you,

and her, every happiness, even if it is with a heavy heart; then I can go away, and try to live down the blow. Now I can only wait in suspense and wretchedness. Help me, Felix, by ending it!"Felix Chetwynde rises and stands directly before his friend."Terry," he says, in his softest, mellowest tones, "this is just my position. I cannot do otherwise than make it plain to you, now. And, first, concerning myself, while I have been eager for the moment when I might try my fate, I have yet waited hoping to offer her, soon, a more definite and better financial prospect; for, while my fortune left me by my father is intact, and sufficient for modest wants, it does not equal hers now, though soon it may, and will, I trust. And, so, while I have let her see my own heart, as a man may, I have not questioned hers, although, to be entirely honest, I must add that I have thought for some time that she, knowing my mind, has willingly and most delicately let me see a little way into her own heart.""You mean--!" panted Glynne, "that she loves you?""Honestly, Terry, I do believe it, little as I may deserve her regard. And now, here is what I propose. Give me one week, it is not much, and I may know by then just what I shall have to offer. I can't bear to appear before her as a beggar; comparatively speaking, your fortune rids you of that dread, at least.""It will never weigh with Lorna Hilton's.""I know that! It weighs with me, as I have said.

Give me the week, Terry, and a clean field, and if, at the end of that time, I am not her accepted suitor, I will go away and leave you to woo and win.""And in the meantime?""In the meantime, you must refrain from call or visit. It might be well to go away for a few days, as thus she would not wonder at your absence, nor fancy herself forgotten or neglected.""It will be a long week," Terence Glynne sighs, as he turns his gaze towards Redlands. "But I would be unreasonable were I to ask more, and now I must go. If I am to depart it shall be at once, to-night, or in the morning at the latest. And--I must see Loyd to-day. It is an engagement."And so they parted--forever.As Terence Glynne rides away from the villa, Felix, standing upon the upper piazza step, beckons the boy Bob, who is killing time, working hard he would have called it, upon the lawn--and then turns back to gaze after the swiftly receding figure of his friend."So, Terry Glynne," he mutters, as he gazes, "this thing has come to an issue between us! Well--the fight's on, I've offered him fair play, and--I don't think he will follow me--hallo!" turning at a sound close beside him. "Bob, why don't you speak when you approach a man? Were you listening?""Who--me! Lawks, Mr. Felix, who would I be listenin' to?""Oh well-never mind. I want you to go over to Harlow's and see if my wheel is repaired. I must have it at one o'clock sharp, tell him.""Yes, sir."And now, as the boy moves across the lawn, Felix, for the first time, recalls the letter he so hastily thrust in his pocket at the coming of Terence Glynne.He had thrust it away without a glance at the superscription, but now one look at the plain business-like envelope causes him to start, as if at an electric shock; and, after a moment of indecision, to tear it open with ruthless haste.It is in a woman's hand, or a child's possibly, unformed and characterless, but the few lines it contains are sufficiently to the point to set this strong young man trembling; and while, the cold sweat slowly oozes out from his pallid temples, and he stands palsied and uncertain, like a man in a maze, from which every possible path of egress is also a path of danger."God!" he mutters, clutching the letter tightly in his hand, and beginning to walk up and down across the piazza. "That this should come now! But I will not be balked! I will not be beaten like this!" He throws out his hand with an angry gesture, and the crumpled letter falls from it to the porch floor and is blown, a moment later, from thence into the matted rose bush which climbs about the trellis on either side the broad piazza steps. A moment later he seems to rouse himself and turns with suddenly awakened energy, looking about him in search of the dropped letter. But he is still far from calm, for he catches up the envelope which has fallen at the opening of the letter, and thrusting this into his breast pocket hurries away across the lawn. Half way to the stables he pauses

and lights a cigar, and meeting the gardener near stops to chat, with an attempt to seem at ease; and, while the old man, once set going, descants upon his roses, ad lib. Felix, with a fine air of interest in the subject, combined with actual abstraction, slowly draws the envelope from his pocket and, while his eyes follow the gestures of the old rose grower, holds it to the fire at the end of his cigar and puffs it into a blaze which soon dies out in a fall of ashes, and, at this very moment a plump, nervous hand is drawing a crumpled letter from the grasp of the climbing brier rose-bush, at the expense of two or three thorny stabs and scratches on the soft, white fingers.CHAPTER VII
WHERE THE WEB BEGINS TO BREAKWHEN Aunt Cass enters the hall with the packet of newspapers in her hand, it is with a lagging step and an air of hesitancy quite unlike her usual direct movements. On her left as she entered is the library, and on the right the drawing room, and in neither is it her custom to linger at this hour, or at any hour before dinner. The morning-room at the rear of the house, and the shaded terraces and airy arbours beyond it, are much more to her liking, especially in the absence of Hope.But this morning her feet seem to pause, almost of their own volition, at the door of the library, and then she turned back slowly, and is almost at the outer door, without knowing why; she has some vague thought of saying a word more to the new-comer, but, just as she is about to appear upon the threshold, she catches the words spoken by Terence Glynne."Felix, old man, I fear you have not forgotten your old tricks. Have you become an expert, &c.?"She stands still now, the newspapers slipping from

her hands to the floor, until she hears the answer, and then, gathering up the fallen "news." with the half-conscious movement of the tidy housekeeper she hurries into the library, drops upon the divan near the window, and thinks.The quiescent mood in which she has followed the instructions of her mentor a little while before has now entirely passed, and the uneasy feeling, which drew her back to the piazza has now full possession; only, now she does not desire to go back to rejoin Felix--and his friend; and she has quite forgotten the pony phaeton coming so leisurely around the lake from Redlands.Over and over again she is muttering: "'His old tricks'--'an expert'--'his control'--'a lady of fixed views'--'a difficult subject.'"For some moments she sits pondering, and now somehow the feeling of dull acquiescence in whatever might be, seems to have been another, and not her own, and the growing aggressiveness which is her normal condition, begins to show itself in a change of attitude, a lifting of the head, and a restless tapping of her boot toes one against the other, a habit old and confirmed, and one which has furnished Hope with much amusement.And now, having arrived at an almost normal state of mind, she begins, as a matter of course, to tear off the wrappers from magazine and newspaper, and to "browse" here and there at "contents" and headlines.But somehow they do not hold her interest, and she finds her eyes taking in a jumble of literary notes, such as a "The Sick Man of the Orient," "The

Silver Question," "New Sleeves and Crinoline," and "Winter in Honolulu," and her ears at the same time are catching fragments of a conversation. And what woman will not, unthinkingly, if but for a moment, adopt the rôleä of listener at the sound of the words, "Love," "woman," and "jealousy."These words, and such as these, cause Aunt Cass to let the newspapers slip from her lap to the soft rug at her feet, and to sit a listener still; and so sitting, she hears the tale of two lovers, their compact, and their parting.And now, as Terence Glynne goes down the drive, she thinks once more of the approaching phaeton; and goes softly to the window to look out.The phaeton is not in sight, but Felix Chetwynde is, and once more he becomes the object of her chiefest interest, for he is reading a letter, and the look of his half-averted face is not good to see.She watches him as he finishes the letter, observes his pantomime of wrath and disappointment, his march up and down the piazza, his mutterings of which she can catch only here and there a word, and she notes, with gleaming eye, the fall of the crumpled note and its fluttering course, until it lodges in the brier rose beside the steps, and now she softly drops the lace over the French window behind which she stands and waits. For, now that she is her alert self once more, even the abbreviated blue skirts, and the alpine hat, can no longer trouble her spirit.She waits until Felix has given his order about the bicycle and strolled away with his well-assumed air of leisure and indifference, and then she goes boldly

out upon the piazza and stands at the top of the steps.And why not, Mrs. Hilton's ponies have just entered the gate and come, slowly trotting, fat and sleek, around the curve. As they come on Aunt Cassandra finds ample time to pluck a spray or two of the scented brier rose, and to stoop down and loosen a long intruding branch, which seems to cling about her feet; and finally to tuck the fragrant sweet brier, and something else, into her trim, blue bodice. The one is visible, the other quite out of sight.Mrs. Gertrude Hilton is of the women of whom it is said, "They wear well," and the word is used, in her case, in its fullest and best meaning, to know her a little is to admire passively. To know her better, to love her more, and those who share her daily life, and know it in all its details--if a woman's real life is ever really and fully known--these love her best of all.The Hiltons have been less than three months at Redlands, and yet between herself and Cassandra Chetwynde a real friendship has sprung up, at which the younger members of the two families have wondered not a little, for no two women were ever created more unlike in person, in manner, and, for the most part, in tastes. Yet of sincerity, of tolerance, and of a certain broad worldly-wise charity, the two are equal possessors, and on this ground a friendship may safely and well begin.Upon occasion Cassandra Chetwynde could be discreet, even circuitous, in her dealings with the world, but she could also be direct at will, and where she trusted she willed to be direct."You are going to stop for luncheon," begins Miss Cassandra, while Mrs. Hilton is not yet out of her low carriage. "Don't say you're not or I shall begin to doubt the goodness of providence--who has sent you, I am sure!"Mrs. Hilton smiles as she comes slowly up the steps, and takes her friend's hand with that gentle dignity which never forsakes her. Never was there a sweeter combination of unassuming ladyhood, and gracious queenliness of manner, than is blended in this slender woman, who is neither short nor tall, and whose face is refined, pleasing, winning, rather than strictly beautiful."Such a fine mingling of simplicity and dignity," Miss Cassandra has been heard to say, "makes me, gnash my teeth with envy, it is so far beyond me.""If my refusal to lunch with you will make you a dangerous sceptic," the lady says with her cordial hand-clasp and fine smile. "I shall surely stay; especially as I am very sure of engaging myself meantime." And then she draws back and surveys the short skirts and bicycle boots with undisguised astonishment."My dear Miss Chetwynde! Is it possible? What power, what genii, good or ill, has won you over at last, making you into a veritable bicycle--""Fool!" interjects the other sharply. "Don't try to be polite! Come in, you have hit the nail as usual. I have been wrought upon, bewitched, and conjured, what you will, and I can't breathe freely until I tell somebody all about it!""Somebody?""Oh, I don't mean anybody! I mean you! just

yourself. I couldn't talk to any one else about this. Come back to the morning-room, Mrs. Hilton, I want a peep into your dear mind."Face to face in the cool and pleasant morning-room, and assured against intrusion, Mrs. Hilton's dark and gentle face is turned toward the uneasy spinster, who even now clutches a newspaper, as if unawares."Mrs. Hilton, do you believe in hypnotism?""In a measure--yes."Miss Chetwynde spreads the crumpled newspaper out upon her knee and folds it as if for reading. Then she holds it out to the lady opposite. "Read that!" she says grimly."That"--is a disquisition on hypnotism, written by a believer in the cult, and it describes, in detail, the degrees of susceptibility to the stronger will or the strong will asserted against another strong will, unconscious or quiescent.Mrs. Hilton reads the passages indicated by the finger of the hostess, and says, as she puts the paper down--"There is nothing very startling in all this, Miss Chetwynde. There is no doubt, in my mind, of the power of some natures over others.""Strong natures over weak ones--yes.""Not always. A strong nature, if it is quite unconscious of the effort made to bias or control it, may be swayed by a nature no stronger, even less strong, perhaps.""What! against its will?""No not against its will. But while the will is in abeyance. For instance, if I possessed the hypnotic

power, while having a will no stronger than yours, or less strong, perhaps, might influence you, so long as you had no knowledge of the fact, but when once you are aware of my purpose, and your will is opposed to mine, I should fail utterly.""You have studied this question, have you not?""A little.""And," Miss Chetwynde was fast falling back into her wonted brisk direct manner, "have you ever seen a hypnotist?""One or two professional ones; yes. As for amateurs, if one may call them so, they are becoming as plentiful as tramps. Why, I think you must have one in your own household."Miss Chetwynde starts, and a flush rises to her face. "Do you mean Felix?"Mrs. Hilton's eyes have grown suddenly grave, and she looks closely at her companion's face. "Pray don't misapprehend me, Miss Chetwynde," she says earnestly. "I only mean that I have heard Loyd speak of Mr. Chetwynde as having, during their year together at school, become a strong convert to hypnotism, and as having experimented, in it with very good success.""Well?" Miss Chetwynde throws herself back in her low swinging chair, and allows her pent-up ire to flash from her eyes and sound in her voice. "He has not abandoned his experiments. He has been practising his art upon me! This," she struck at the folds of the blue cycling costume, "is one of his results," and, before her listener can vent her surprise in words, the now fully aroused spinster launches into her story."I may as well say it, for I dare say I have not always concealed the fact that from the very first I did not quite like Felix Chetwynde. As a boy when I first came to know the children, it was only a negative sort of dislike. I did not like boys of that age; and he was a boy. I wanted Hope to myself; and, while I tried to treat him kindly, I confess I was glad when he elected to go back to school. When he ran away, two or three years later, I was not greatly surprised, and my feelings toward him were not made the more tender when I saw poor Hope's grief. But when he came back to us, after seeing life as a miner, a cow-boy, a government soldier, and Indian tamer, I was actually surprised to find my very soul rising up in antipathy against the young scamp! He had given himself a year's polish, after roughing it, and he came back a good-looking, well-enough-mannered fellow. I used to berate myself at times, and accuse myself of jealousy, because Hope was so pleased, so delighted at his return. I have tried at times to be amiable, but it's been killing work. He couldn't speak or smile, sit down or get up without ruffling all my feathers the wrong way. And yet he has hypnotised me!""Are you sure of that?" Mrs. Hilton can scarcely suppress her smiles."Sure! Listen, Hope despises the bicycle.""I know," tolerantly."And I have not been far behind her in my dislike of the queer, uncanny thing. But when I saw the evolutions at the Manhattan Beach meet, I somehow felt as if there might be some exhilaration

in the act of flying through space so lightly. I was fool enough to express this change of opinion openly one day, and that might have been the end of it all if Hope had not gone to the mountains.""I have wondered that you did not accompany her.""Me! Do I look, even in this rig, like a mountain climber? No thank you! The Lakeside is good enough for me. But--well it can't be denied, Mrs. Hilton, left alone here with Felix, he has lost no time in trying his skill upon me, and--he has very nearly succeeded--" she stops short."Do you mean--" Mrs. Hilton begins in tone of surprise, and then she too cuts short her speech. "I beg your pardon," she says; "I was very near being inquisitive.""You couldn't be that if you tried! I know what you were going to say. You wonder if he had any object other than to test his strength upon me. Well, he had."She looks down at her short skirts. "And it was not just to convert me, willy nilly, to the bicycle. He had a personal reason, and--I think I have found it out this very day; and now," springing to her feet, "I must get out of this ridiculous rig and be ready for luncheon, and when I come back I'll tell you, if you like, how it feels to be hypnotised. Meantime--""Meantime I have not seen the morning papers," and Mrs. Hilton takes up one of the open sheets, and nods to her retiring friend. "Take your time, I shall be quite well amused."When Miss Chetwynde reaches her chamber she

shuts the door with a sharp click of the lock, turns the key, and hastily takes from her bodice the crumpled letter, so slyly rescued from the clutch of the brier-rose bush.For a moment she looks at it as it lies in her hand, and then smooths it out upon the table at her side. This done she glances at the first words, and at the signature, and then resolutely folds it and locks it away in her desk, after which she removes the jaunty bicycle costume and hurries back to her guest.During luncheon, and for some time after it is removed, the two ladies converse upon hypnotism and its possibilities, but the name of Felix is not mentioned again until Mrs. Hilton says, with just a gleam of amusement in her clear eyes."If it will not seem impertinent, Miss Chetwynde, I would like to ask a question.""I will risk an 'impertinence' from you.""It is this, then. You have become a cyclist, you believe, while under the influence of another mind. Once you abhorred the sport. How is it with you now! Candidly, Miss Cassandra, that costume of yours is quite fetching. Shall you abandon it and the sport now?""No. Not unless I find that, with the 'influence' removed, the skill goes too. I'll ride now without Felix Chetwynde's aid if I fall a hundred times before I succeed. I shall not feel that I am freed from his horrid influence until I do ride, and ride well.""He can never influence you, now that you must know his purpose; surely you believe that?""Oh, yes, I know that. It was my ignorance of

any intent to coerce me, and my sudden interest, or what I thought was my interest, in the sport. If Hope had been here it could not have happened.""I believe that. Miss Hope Chetwynde is a girl of very clear insight and of splendid nerve and intelligence. She would have seen through it all I fully believe." Mrs. Hilton is silent a moment then she sighs and adds, "I wish she and my girl would become closer friends. Hope Chetwynde has just the sort of calm courage and sound sense joined to refined perceptions, that Lorna would be the better for contact with. I sometimes think that she and her brother are too much together. They are too much alike, and the sensitiveness of each reacts upon the other. They are too ideal, too full of dreams and fancies. At times the singular telepathic influence between the two become, to me, almost uncanny. They are mutual mind readers at times.""We must bring them together more. Hope's engagement for the past month was unfortunate in some respects. But we must remedy that; she returns, you know, to-day, probably at six."When Mrs. Hilton sets out for home Miss Chetwynde, having withdrawn for a moment from the terrace, where they have been loitering, reappears, arrayed in her bicycle frock."I'm going to escort you over the level part of the way," she says. "I must try my strength, and get control of my wheel before Felix comes back, and fancy that won't be before evening. He went your way, I think.""It's very likely. He made an engagement with

Lorna to ride as far as the Heights this afternoon. You will hardly see him yet."Miss Chetwynde made very good headway so far as balance was concerned, but her steering left much to be desired, and when she had endangered the legs of the ponies and her own equilibrium half a dozen times by her wild careering from "port to lee," she dismounted and came to the side of the carriage leading her steed."I need all the road," she says whimsically, "and I'm going to try the west track for a little way, so I'll leave you here."As she puts out her hand, Mrs. Hilton leans toward her, and, as the two palms meet, looks into her eyes earnestly and long."There is something I must ask you," she says slowly, "and I have hesitated until now. You have spoken very frankly to me of Felix Chetwynde; and now I ask you to put yourself, for a moment, in my place. Lorna is very dear to me, as dear as if I were really her mother, and her father has entrusted her to my care. If he were living--but we need not dwell on that. I must do my duty, as best I can, alone. I have seen that your nephew is strongly attracted toward Lorna, and--sometimes I have thought--have feared--that she returns this feeling. Tell me frankly, Miss Chetwynde, if you and your Hope stood in the place of Lorna and I, and if Felix were still the man, tell me if, knowing him as you do, you would be willing to give her to him."A moment there is silence between them, while the little spinster, still holding the hand of her

friend, looks up and down the road, as if seeking for the right answer in space. Then she lifts her left hand, and grasping the slender palm of the other between her two plumper, smaller ones, gives it a strong, long pressure, and releasing it slowly says, as she turns away and toward her wheel:--"No, Mrs. Hilton! I--WOULD--NOT!"CHAPTER VIII
"MAN PROPOSES--DEATH INTERPOSES""AND so you had actually forgotten our ride that we were to take this afternoon? That humbles me, Miss Lorna."Lorna Hilton laughs, her sweet, clear laugh, and her dark eyes are lifted to his face, questioning, doubtful, and with just a shade of troubled wistfulness in their depths."I had forgotten, I am afraid, though I seem to recall it quite distinctly now. We were going to--" she stops at a loss, and looking bewildered."We are going to Elm Heights," he smiles, "going by the west road, or the east--which?""Oh, the east; it is longer, but it is not so steep, and then--it's so pretty.""True; and we cross the bridge over the little torrent--which is a torrent only when the rains come down and fill it, and we return--how?""Why," she glances up, and then instantly away from him, "don't you know that there is no other way back from across the bridge, unless you go down the ravine for miles and miles, or up it, to the Walton Mills, five miles to the north-west? It's a

strange bit of wild nature, that long, long ravine, running out from the lake, on and on, and higher and higher; and that rustic old bridge! Loyd says it is very old, and that there is talk of replacing it with a modern iron structure. It will be such a pity!""A thousand pities! And so we must cross and recross by the old bridge, or miss Elm Heights and the view therefrom?"They are wheeling side by side, with the ease of skilled and fearless cyclers; the girl, fair and smiling, and so sure of herself, and the trust-worthiness and ready response of her wheel, that her face wears none of that intense look which becomes a permanent scowl with some, a look of dread expectancy with others, and, with most, a fixed mask, with eyes set straight ahead, and every feature too strained and stony to impress the onlooker with a sense of the "freedom of motion," the "exhilaration," and the "absence of all care"--save the one all-pervading care for one's equilibrium--the force and intensity of which thought is registered in the countenance of the average cyclist, and has been graphically christened as "the bicycle face."The face of Lorna Hilton is not such an one. It is a softly tinted brunette face, which meets the world with the confidence of the care-free, the tenderly led and gently guided; trustful, fearless, with the fearlessness of innocence, and glowing with the brightness of the day, the love of a life that has known no storm-clouds, and the pleasure of swift, secure motion.If there is the faintest shade, from time to time,

upon Lorna Hilton's beautiful face, it is a fleeting look of perplexity, of indecision or uncertainty, which comes into it at times even when it smiles, as it lifts itself to meet the gaze of Felix Chetwynde, and, as the talk grows more personal, and his gaze, never for long withdrawn from her face, becomes more intent and mutely "asking," her lovely face, while showing no shade of fear, passes through shades of wonder and reluctance, followed by slow acceptance, which, in its turn, becomes a sort of sweet, unquestioning affirmation of all he says.And so they go on, around the east path, with its easy slopes and grassy curves, where the fisherman's donkey path, for it began as such, has been worn by many human feet, and finally cleared and made smooth by the willing natives of the village "across the lake," until it has grown to be a sylvan path over which the swift, untiring rival of the noble horse may speed safely under tree shade and by blossoming ways.Through lofty leafy arches, across bars and lances of sunlight, over tinkling streams on fairy bridges, lately built for just such uses, under boughs that bend low and interlace, they go, pausing here and there. But not for long, for Felix is now the one who hastes, eager to reach the Heights; and so they go on and up until the Heights are in sight, and the rustic bridge is just before them.Narrow and high, airy and picturesque it stands before them, and a short distance away upon the level ground at the top of the gradual upward slope Felix springs from his wheel, his companion silently following his example."Behold the drawbridge," he cries, with a dramatic flourish of his slim, brown hand, "over which the fair lady of this domain must pass first. Her vassal will follow."There is a moment of light laughter and playful rebellion on the part of Lorna, then, with smiles on her lips, but the look of half-wondering compliance once more in her eyes, Lorna springs upon her wheel and speeds across, pausing and turning, upon the other side."Now, Sir Vassal!"Felix doffs his cap, salutes with the grace of a cavalier of old, mounts and crosses as the bird flies, as swiftly as silently, and is at her side again."Do you know, fair lady, that this bridge is unsafe? I felt it quiver and creak with my weight alone."Lorna looks startled for a moment, but presently they turn from the bridge to explore the Heights and gaze at the panorama spread out below. The distant meadows and streams to the westward; the wooded valleys stretching south, and the lake-shore gleaming on the east, its curving inner coast dotted here and there with villas, cottages, and cabins; and then suddenly a tinkling bell breaks the stillness, and Lorna looks about her and gives a little cry of alarm."Felix!" she exclaims, "those are Matt Morrow's mules, and two of them are vicious, unsafe when loosed! How has he dared to let them range here again! He was fined for it only last month, the fishermen say."Very gently, with reassuring words and magnetic

soothing touch, he leads her to a clump of sheltering brushwood, and, bidding her remain quiet, leaves her there."I will drive them down the eastern path," he says. "There is no other way. Morrow should be arrested."Hastily cutting two great branches from the nearest tree, he goes stealthily around the open space where the animals are browsing, and, coming behind them so that they are between him and the bridge, he utters a loud shout and rushes upon them with the two leafy branches held before and quite concealing him. The creatures, quiet enough at the moment, lift their heads, and, at the sound of the next shout, dash away, and straight toward the weakened bridge.There is a clatter of hoofs across the frail flooring, which rings hollow and creaks and groans, and then, as the forefeet of the hindmost animal strikes the rocky abutment upon the further side, there is a crashing of timbers, a rattling of stones, and the bridge, which furnished their only way of direct return, is lying in fragments at the bottom of the steep ravine, or hanging in broken lengths from either end; while the solitary central support stands up, skeleton-like and frail, in the middle.For a moment Felix Chetwynde surveys the ruins, and there is a smile on his face. Then, as Lorna comes out from her ambush and joins him at the edge of the narrow abyss, he turns, and the smile becomes softer, gentler, full of reassurance and good comradeship; and it is in this vein that they talk while he leads her up and down along the edge

of the ravine, looking down and discussing the possibility of some one coming soon to the bridge whom they may warn, and who will, in turn, bring about their rescue."We might go on, it is true," he says, as if he were seriously considering this course. "And if I dare think solely of you--" and here his eyes say what his lips withhold. "But there are, or there may be, others, and the light here is so dim, on both sides, with this picturesque overgrowth of ivy and elder and willows, one must be actually upon the edge before he can see his danger, and then--""It would be too late," she shudders; "and it would be horrible!""And you will trust yourself to my care for a little while?""Why, surely."The afternoon sun is high when the two seat themselves upon a fallen log and begin their task of waiting. At first it is of the bicycle that they talk, for both are lovers of the wheel, and Felix amuses Lorna with his whimsical account of Aunt Cassandra's sudden conversion, and of Hope's antipathy to it, and to all its works and ways. He sits beside her as he talks, and his eyes, dark and persuasive, are seldom removed from her face, and as he talks lightly and impersonally for a time she listens more and more intently, and the waiting is forgotten, and the afternoon is drawing to a close.But if the hour is forgotten by the fair girl, every moment is leaden to Felix Chetwynde as it passes, even while his lips smile, his eyes beam upon her face, and the light words trip so fluently from his

tongue. For the hour is big with the hazard he has staked upon it. It is his hour of fate, and from it he must wrest a future of wealth, honour, love, and safety, or here, and now, on the very threshold of his career, he must lay down his weapons and go out from this life of care, refinement, cleanliness of thought and living to that other life which he once knew and now loathes.And there is only one little word, short, simple, easy to speak, which spoken stands to him for honour, wealth, and happiness.That mystic, wonderful little word! It contains but three letters, and it has ever the same meaning--yet, in speaking it, woman, young and fair and innocent, sets the seal upon a life's happiness or ordains a life's defeat and doom, one or the other it is always, since the beginning.That Felix Chetwynde possessed a power which few women could gainsay was a fact of which he is fully assured; but to-day he is less self-confident than his wont, for two reasons. The stake is so large, and his heart is threatening to master his head, and he must retain his coolness or risk a failure. And yet how can he be cool when his love for this girl had grown stronger than himself?--for he does love her and her money only makes her the more necessary to him.The sun is sinking low and is almost ready to disappear--even from the sight of the two perched so high upon Elm Heights, to whom it is visible long after it has hidden itself from the valley below, when the word is spoken which awakes Lorna Hilton from the dreaming, indifferent reverie in

which time seems as nothing and the charm of her companion's voice to have blotted out all memory, all thought for the present or future.But a woman's heart is a difficult harp to play upon--one which trembles and thrills under certain touches, and sends forth startled minor chords of alarm and affright when the wrong hand essays the low, tender notes that respond, fully and sweetly, to but one touch.Felix Chetwynde's wooing, if such it may be called, has been of an unusual sort, and all his words have been, so far, framed to set fears and tremors at rest; and now the sun is setting. He has heard a rustling in the bushes which tells him that, not far away, a light waggonette has been left at his disposal, and the setting sun has warned him that a certain train will leave a railway station, not many miles distant, in less than a hour and a half.The time of gentle preparation has passed. He must summon all his courage, all his strength, all his will-power, now; and he must--he must repress all the tremors, the fears, and falterings of love, all thoughts of jealousy or possible rivalry.The fair girl beside him is sitting quiescent, half smiling, her eyes half veiled and sheening, her graceful head drooping. In her mind, just now, is no thought of the hour, no real thought of any sort; in fact, she is quiescent, passive, languid.As she sits thus he takes one unresisting hand in both his own, and holding her gaze with his makes the daring, desperate plunge.Gently at first, in soft, low tones, assured and

reassuring, he tells of his love and affirms hers for him, reminds her of sweet words--never spoken--of promises--never given; and she listens, and, save for a faint tremor and an instant of deprecation and affrighted withdrawal quickly soothed, she sits, and by her silence, her acceptance of his statements, his declarations, seems quite in the power of the charmer, quite won.But to every soul, groping however darkly, held in thrall by never so strong a power, there is given a talisman, a saving grace, which, coming at the moment of deadliest danger, unlocks all that is strongest, and, if heeded and obeyed, is potent to renew, to strengthen for the battle--to save.It is this saving word which has nerved martyrs to die gloriously, has upheld the banner of faith or freedom, and, at the moment of defeat, has changed the tide of battle and given the world its heroes.We have read how the bird, charmed to the very jaws of the serpent, has been strengthened to break the spell and soar to safety at the cry of its hungering young. And we know that lives go out in darkness and souls perish all about us because no one knows the open sesame, the voice, the word, the name which is all-potent each to its one soul.The open sesame came to Lorna Hilton when, rising from a fallen log, and allowing him to lead her away from the place and farther from the wrecked bridge, the chasm and the homeward road on the opposite side, and deeper into the wood, where the now restive horse is tethered--wisdom forsakes Felix Chetwynde.Perfect wisdom is given to no man--is wisely withheld, perhaps--and Felix Chetwynde, who has so cleverly, so artfully, played his rôle of serpent, is too full of the lesser human passions to be a perfect Mephisto. He loves the fair girl he is beguiling, and would fain have won her in a better way, if he had not been so hedged about, so menaced, so full of the fears of rivalry--of Terry Glynne.As he draws her hand beneath his arm to lead her away, secure now of his triumph and of her perfect obedience and acquiescence, suddenly the sense of his victory comes over him, like heady wine, and he stops, turns towards her, and catching both her hands draws her towards him."Lorna!" he cries, "my beautiful Lorna! Look at me; closer, closer. Lift your sweet face, and give to me one long, long kiss from those lovely lips that are all mine now! Give to me freely the kiss that Terence Glynne would sue for for half a lifetime and think it cheap if won!""Terence--Terence Glynne?"Slowly--slowly she draws back from him, the look of one suddenly waking from a hateful nightmare dawning in her face, until, wild with rage and fear and desperation, he sees this look growing from inquiry to resistance, and feels the hands become tense and strong beneath his grasp; and now, silently at first, but with fast-growing strength and returning intelligence, she strives to release herself from his frenzied grasp. The horror growing in her face, as, made recklessly daring, he pours out his love, his rage, his desperate determination that nothing now shall separate them."You are mine!" he cries hoarsely; "and mine you shall remain! The power is mine; the way is clear. There can be no going back now! Your way and mine lie together 'for always till death do us part.'"Fiercer, wilder, more wickedly desperate his words flow on. For the moment he is passion mad. He seizes her in his arms, lifts her from her feet, and dashes into the thick wood toward the right, where the stamping horse is concealed, where the underbrush is thickest, the ravine narrowest and deepest.As he leaps forward, close now to the edge of the ravine, Lorna wrenches free for a moment the face he is pressing close to his shoulder with one strong hand, and clear and ringing the cry goes sounding through the wood--"Help! help! help! Loyd--Terence!"Is there an answering cry, and a rustling of the bushes on the other side? or is it only the echo of her voice? the crackling of the dry twigs, 'neath the madman's flying feet?Who can tell? All has happened in a moment. Her captor's quick rush, her clear cry, and another sound, sharp and sudden; then the echoes of the cry and the sharp report are blended together, and Felix Chetwynde goes crashing down, with Lorna still held in his relaxing embrace; goes down, so close to the edge of the ravine that the now fully assured girl cries out again, recoils, catches at the nearest shrub, and, lying thus, half out half in the already unconscious arms of Felix Chetwynde, sees, or fancies she sees, a face looking down upon her from the trees--or the clouds--which? Before she

can decide she swoons utterly, and lies thus, perilously near to the edge still, while a pale-faced and dishevelled young man comes to the opposite side of the ravine, from the shelter of the vine-hung rustic arch of the fallen bridge, and sinks, trembling, to his knees as he gazes across, horror-stricken, at the suddenly fallen dead and the helpless and imperilled living.CHAPTER IX
ACROSS THE CHASMFOR a long moment there is profound stillness over the ravine, from which the last rays of the departing sun have now faded, leaving shadows of grey and black where the clearer lights had been, and over the figures lying so close to the edge of the narrow chasm--the one, half concealed by the soft foliage of the young shrubbery among which it has fallen; the other, nearest the dangerous verge, and clearly revealed to the still kneeling watcher on the other side; and all might be the features in the foreground of some gruesome and tragic paintina shadowy and cold."My God! If she moves!"The kneeling man, white and trembling, stretches out his hands toward the still figure so lately escaped from danger, and still so dangerously near a horrible death; and his straining eyes are full of a misery of uncertainty, "Did the shot kill her, too?"Hearing, thought, all senses save sight, are momentarily benumbed in that great agony, and he seems hardly to know that another has ap-

proached, and stands beside him, until the latest comer, stooping, takes from the loosely clasping fingers something still warm, and about which the smell of gunpowder still clings.As the kneeling man turns, startled and ready to spring, this one lifts the weapon high, then, pausing, lowers his arm, and looks closely at the thing he is about to hurl from him; then, darting a swift glance at the man, who is now struggling to his feet, and with a stern setting of the lips, he again lifts his arm; not so high this time, and with less force in the impetus he gives it, as, measuring the distance with care, he throws the weapon across the ravine, and sees it fall, just beyond the thicket of shrubbery which partly conceals the body of Felix Chetwynde. Then he takes the other and slighter man by the arm, gently but with strong clasp."Come," he says, with sharp command, "we must get across--somehow.""But how?" asks the other hoarsely."You know this ravine?""Yes.""Then show me its narrowest point; come."Both men speak hurriedly, and in hushed voices. Both are pale. One is trembling and strengthless; the other's nerves are tensely strung, his face is set, and only his eyes, blue and deep, betray the agony of soul held under with iron will and strength.A moment only Loyd Hilton hesitates, then he leads the other to the left or westward.To both it seems an interminable distance. In reality it is scarcely a dozen rods that they traverse

along the border of the ravine, and then Hilton stops."This is the narrowest place--at least the narrowest within a mile or more."Terence Glynne seems scarcely to have heard him. He is down upon the ground, peering over the edge, looking across and below, while Loyd leans over him, still tremulous."I can make it," says the other, rising quickly; "stand away, Loyd, and as soon as I am over do you go back"--he throws off his coat, draws his sweater up about his body, and tightens his belt--"back--there.""Terry! you must not; you'll never make it!""I must make it!" The stalwart shoulders heave, the teeth are clinched. "Stand back, Loyd!"He is a trained athlete, and his running jumps have seldom been beaten. But as he looks once more across the chasm, and down at the rough way over which he must run to make the jump, he knows that this will be a desperate leap indeed, and that the risk is great. The bank, if gained, may crumble, and to miss it means instant death below upon the jagged rocks.Terence Glynne thinks of these things, but they do not cause him to falter or to pause for so much as one instant. Rapidly he surveys his ground, swiftly he thrusts aside the loose-lying brush and dead branches from his path, and then--it is done in an instant, the swift run, the flashing leap, the body hurling itself through space, striking the opposite bank at its crumbling edge, and throwing itself forward headlong, grasping, as he falls, at the

body of a strong young tree, and clinging there, as the earth crumbles away where his feet have that moment struck with all the force of that mighty leap, but the tree holds, and then, in a moment, he is upon his feet again, and running along the ravine towards the spot where the girl he loves is lying, dying, or dead, perhaps.She has not stirred, and he snatches her away from the steep and unsafe ledge, and puts her tenderly down in a spot where a group of close, low-growing bushes intervene between themselves and the sight of that other figure, at which he has not so much as glanced.A moment he bends over her, then lifts his head and calls across to where Loyd is standing, hoping, fearing, dreading."She is not hurt, she has only fainted," and then suddenly both young men lift their heads and seem to listen."Look!" cries Glynne, who is still kneeling beside the prostrate girl; and Loyd Hilton runs a few steps along the ravine to his right, and climbs a tall tree near the edge, mounting high, and looking long, before he calls from his lofty perch."It is a carriage and single horse. The top is half down--there is a bicycle piled across the seat end-wise. There is no driver, and--the horse seem running away."Loyd comes down from his lofty perch, and looks wistfully across the narrow gulf between him and his friend."I must cross--somehow," he says, and then stands, watching and breathless, while Terence

Glynne goes to the body in the thicket and bends above it."He is dead," he says, almost instantly. "He never breathed after that shot." And now he comes close to the edge, and looks across at his friend."Loyd--old fellow--we must act quickly," he says. "If we could get your sister away from here before she recovers it might save her a shock, and--be best for other reasons. Perhaps she was unconscious when--it happened. Loyd, you must be strong and keep all your wits about you, we must find a way for me to cross--with her.""My God! we can't! and it's ten long miles around. Are you sure she is only in a swoon, Terry?""Quite sure. Her pulse is slow, but quite even. She's better like that a little longer than she would be to arouse now and see--that."He had knelt once more beside Lorna, and now he came again to the edge of the ravine."Come to the bridge," he says.The central support of the broken bridge is built, not up from below, but out from either side in the form of a rude cantilever; timbers being thrown out and upward from either side and joined in the centre, where they support several uprights, and these still stand, though the flooring which they supported lies far down in the ravine."Loyd," asks Glynne, after a momentary survey of the ruins, "is
there a fence, a board fence, near here, on either side?""Yes, there are fences farther west on either side," Loyd replies, and in an instant the command is given."Watch your sister, and call me if she moves," and Glynne runs lightly along the gully's edge in the direction indicated. Then Loyd hears a ripping of boards, violently wrenched from their fastenings, and soon Glynne reappears bearing upon his shoulder two stout fence lengths. No moment is lost in useless speech; but one of the boards is fixed upon end, righted, and allowed to fall. It spans the space between the south side of the ravine and the central support, and rests upon the latter; Glynne tests it with hand and foot."Terry," cries Loyd, "it won't bear your weight and--hers! Let me come over!""It won't bear you," retorts the other grimly. "Stand aside at the edge--I'm going to throw you this plank."He lifts the long, unwieldy burden, steps out upon the other frail board as far as is possible, with one foot still upon terra firma, and the muscles of his strong arms swell and strain as he poises the plank and hurls it with all his strength across the chasm, where one end is caught by Loyd and held in a strong grasp."Now--now, Loyd; can you lay it? Can you let
it drop and join the other close, exact? They
are even thickness you see; they will fit, and the support is wide
enough. It must be.""Terry, what are you about to do?""Quick! Don't waste time. Place the board, man, carefully, don't miss it!" As he speaks he goes the side of the prostrate girl. "Quick, Loyd!" cries again. "Her pulse is stronger; she will soon be conscious."If Loyd Hilton is not a giant in proportion he is, nevertheless, a trained athlete, and he soon has the second plank poised and placed; and now there is a bridge, frail, narrow, and insecure, across the ravine."The wheels." Glynne turns now towards the tree against which, as his quick eye has at once discovered, the two wheels are leaning. It is a rash thing, this he has ventured upon; but the situation is a horrible one, and honour, happiness, life itself, perhaps, is at stake--for one of them, at least.He glances at the two wheels, and then turns toward Loyd."Loyd, see! It's your wheel!""I know. He took mine. I have his--back here.""Yours must be got away. Ah!" He turns at the soft sighing sound close behind him. It is Lorna, sitting almost erect, and looking straight at him. "I knew--you would come," she says in a faint, far-away voice. "Take me away.""I will. Can you trust me?"She nods weakly and her eyes droop. "The--bridge is gone," she says, as he brings forward Loyd's wheel, eager now to remove her from, if possible, the sight of the body lying so still among the bushes at her back, but so near."I know; but we can go over if you will sit before me on the wheel--we must go at once, if you are strong enough. You have only to sit still, but you must do that, or endanger our lives.""Terry!"--it is Loyd's voice, tense and low--"I see now what you mean to do! My God, it's a terrible risk! We can go around; and--at the worst--""At the worst ruin; a name dishonoured, and her name! Loyd, she is as dear to me as to you; dearer I swear! Do you think I will not save her? Besides, she cannot go around. She is ill; and she, you, all of us, must be at home before this is known."He turns again to the half-reclining girl."We have made a path," he says tenderly. "Will you close your eyes and trust all to me. If you should start--""I will not start," she says, and reaches up her hands. "I will close my eyes. I am not afraid." He lifts her to her feet, steadies the wheel, and places her upon it."You are to lean back against me," he says firmly, "and not to press upon the handle-bars. It will be only for a moment. Close your eyes when I give the word. Are you quite ready?""Yes.""Now."To the day of his death Loyd Hilton will remember that awful dash across those two frail lengths of fencing, narrow, old, and unsteady. As they strike the boards Loyd's knees tremble, and he, too, shuts his eyes; but not so Terence Glynne. He holds in his hands the life, the honour of the woman he loves, and every nerve is tense and strong, resolute to preserve the life he loves. Of what use is his splendid strength and health, his strong nerves and will, his grand training, and exploits in the athletic field, if he cannot do this thing! He will do it, and--it is done.But when the chasm is crossed, and when Loyd takes his sister, his other self, into his arms, Terence Glynn, too, is a child for weakness.And now it is Loyd who is strong."I see what must be done now, Terry!" he says. "My sister's wheel must be got over, and--I will bring it. No," as the other is about to hold him back, "I can ride straight, and I am lighter than you. I'll change wheels."He can ride, and he does; and when Lorna Hilton's wheel is ridden safely across the frail bridge, and all three have the ravine between themselves and the dead form on the other side, the impromptu bridge is withdrawn and the planks dropped into the chasm.There is danger in delay; but they may not move on until Lorna is recovered from what has been very nearly a second faint, upon reaching safely the side of the ravine upon which lies home and safety. There is water here, bubbling and clear from a tiny running stream; and, when they have laved her temples and wrists, they leave her for a moment to confer together, under pretext of choosing the shortest road; and, standing face to face, Loyd says--"Terry--I'm not thinking for myself, but for Lorna--she must not be mixed up in this awful business. I--""She shall not! And--don't tell me anything, Loyd--except this; am I right in thinking that they set off together?""They must have done so, although I did not know it when I met you. When you told me of the unsafe bridge, I hastened to the house, and was told that Lorna had left more than two hours earlier.""Do you mean--did they not mention him?""They did not. They may have met at the summer-house by the lake. The wheels are kept there, and it is from there that we usually set out.""And the summer-house is invisible from the villa! Come, Loyd; we must set out at once if we have to carry your sister. You must learn, from her, whether he was seen, and--if she does not remember--everything, you are not to tell her. Our safety--her safety--hangs upon the chance that they two were not seen together."CHAPTER X
ADVENTURES EN ROUTELAKEVILLE lies at the southern extremity of the lake, and at the point where it forms the sharpest curve and its opposite shores are closest together. It is twelve miles from Lee, the pretty village lying just two miles up the lake shore from the Chetwyndes' villa, and three miles, as the crow flies, from Redlands; and Lakeville is just ten miles by rail from the villa; Redlands is off its course.Half a dozen railways may bring Hope Chetwynde down from her mountain eyrie, and two at least will land her at Lee, two miles from home.The fast train is due at Lee, from the north-east, at 3.30 p.m. Another is timed, for Lakewood, at precisely 4 o'clock, coming from due east.Now Miss Cassandra is particular in most things, and positive--when her mind has full sway--in all; and she has decided that Hope must arrive at 3.30, via the N.W. and E.J.C. Felix, on the other hand, has chosen to look for his sister's arrival by Lakeville; and Hope herself, who should know, has been silent upon this subject, while requesting that "the

pony carriage be in attendance." "Tell Felix that he must bring it," she has written to her aunt. "I want to have a little talk with him right away.""Very secret! and a nice way to warn me off," Hope's aunt has said, upon reading this aloud. "And I fancy I know what it's all about," Felix has grumbled, with anything but a delighted manner.Hope Chetwynde can forget most things in a good book, and she has set out on her journey with such an one, kindly provided by a friend, who assures her that it will prove to be food, drink, and "no end of good company" for her on her homeward way.This has proved so true that she is nearing Lakeville and the end of the small volume together, and it is only when she has read finis that she finds time to think of her arrival, and discovers, after some reflection, that she has not named the hour when she will arrive, nor the route by which she will come."It won't matter--much," she finally assures herself. "Fee will come to both trains, of course--the station is so near, it won't tax the ponies much."As they run into Lakeville station, she looks out in search of some familiar face, but is rewarded scantily. The newsboy and the porter are changed here, and the two last are natives of Lee; she nods to these, the only familiar faces, and buys an afternoon paper of the newsboy "for acquaintance' sake."Several people are taken on here, but they are strangers and most uninteresting; among the last

of these comes a lad who is somewhat shabby and dishevelled, but who has in tow a bicycle so handsome that it attracts the attention of a number of connoisseurs in wheels, and brings the conductor down upon its custodian."You can't take that wheel in here, boy!" he says roughly, "it's too big, and--""I'm only going a little way," the boy replies, "and I'll pay extra."But the conductor shakes his head. "You'll have to carry it to the smoker," he says gruffly."I can't. It--it makes me ill."The two are very near Hope's place, and she is quite alone in her section, for the coach being sparsely filled the porter has reserved the seat in front of her for her better comfort--and a silver half-dollar. She knows the conductor through having been his occasional passenger, and she now leans toward him."Conductor, if you please let the young man put his wheel in here. It will not inconvenience me--I leave so soon."There is sympathy in her face and voice, for she has noted that the lad is pale, and that his thin, grimy hands are trembling.But the effect of this kindness upon the tired looking lad is something of a surprise. With his face changing from pale to red and back to pale and red again, he shoots one wild glance at the fair face bent upon him, stoops over his bicycle and, with half a dozen rapid motions, has folded it, the wheels one upon the other, tipped up the saddle, pressed down the handle-bars, and,

muttering as he goes something of which they can only distinguish the words "room," "lady," and "smoker," he shoulders the collapsed machine and goes stumbling forward."By Jove!" exclaims one of two sporty looking young men in the seat just ahead of Hope. "But that was well done; I never saw a folding wheel before.""Well I have!" the other affirmed. "But they've always been owned by the sports. And, say--did you get on to that pace-maker attachment? I call that a d--d queer outfit for a chump of a boy.""Hired by some dude, I suppose," replies the other comfortably, and pulls his cap over his eyes.The road between Lakeville and Lee is charming to the unaccustomed eye, but it is familiar to Hope, now grown restless after the manner of travellers when almost at the journey's end, and so she opens the evening paper and idly scans its pages.Every other headline, she thinks, contains the word bicycle, or else it is Wheel, Scorch, Run, Meet, and so on. "A plague upon all bicycles!" she thinks, in a fit of vexation which she might--though she does not--trace to the unthankful lad of the folding wheel.And thus, in sheer idleness, she begins to scan a column of "Cycle Notes.""A meet at Lee on the 20th.""Mrs. J-- injured by a fall from her bike." "Miss Grimes rides a new wheel," &c. Then comes this item, over which she ponders a moment."That graceful and daring young cyclist and

trick rider Juan Alvarege, who has performed before so many admirers at Newport, Saratoga, Manhattan Beach, &c., has suddenly disappeared from his hotel in this city, taking one of his valuable gift wheels with him. Since his fall, while performing at Manhattan Beach, he has been subject to fits of waywardness or moodiness, and his friends are greatly concerned because of his continued absence.""That," thinks Hope, "must be the handsome boy who fell from the high trestle upon wheels right before my eyes at the Beach--ugh! Small blame to the poor fellow if he never performs the like again."And now the train begins to slow up, and the bell to ring for Lee, and she commences to bestir herself. As she folds the newspaper, and is about to drop it upon the seat before her another line catches her eye, or rather a familiar name meets it.It appears in a list of "Notes from Lee," and this is what she sees--"Miss Cassandra Chetwynde, of Beach Villa, is fast becoming an expert wheelwoman under the tutelage of her handsome nephew, Mr. Felix Chetwynde."Hope stares at this line and then tosses the paper from her."It can't be!" she assures herself indignantly. "Aunt Cass of all people. It's a joke, and a silly one--for it can't be a mistake--or else Aunt Cass has gone raving crazy; why I took Fee's tales as just his nonsense!"For some moments she sits pondering over this

last absurd item, and then rouses herself again as the train steams across the pretty stream at the edge of Lee and close to the station, and begins to gather up her luggage. The newspaper has fallen upon her knees, and she brushes it away, and is about to rise, when she observes a tiny folded paper lying upon her lap. She looks about her quickly, but no one is observing her, and she is sure that no one has passed close enough to let the note fall where it now lies. Once more she glances about her, and lifts her hand to brush it away unopened. But no, perhaps it contains her name, perhaps--they are almost at the station, and the girl takes up the bit of paper with sudden resolution and opens it.This is what she reads--"How will so fine and proud a lady feel to lose her lover through his own treachery? for he loves another and will win her if he can. Or through his death? He is lost to you, proud lady. He was unfaithful and a traitor--He is dead! even now."There is no address, no signature, no date, and the writing is that of a woman, beyond a doubt. Irregular, as if written in haste and with a nervous hand, but a woman's, doubtless.For just a moment Hope's fingers hover over it as if to tear and scatter the strange missive, which must have reached her through some mistake; and then another impulse causes her to open the little chatelaine hanging at her side, and to drop the note within.CHAPTER XI
FOUNDAS the train slows up before the station at Lee, Hope's glances are roving about the platform in search of her brother's tall figure, which is nowhere in sight. But she sees the pony-carriage across the street in charge of a small boy, and hurries out.At the top of the car steps leading down to the station platform she stops and stares, aghast, transfixed, at sight of her aunt. Her Aunt Cass standing calmly just below, arrayed in a short, blue bicycle frock, russet boots, and an Alpine hat; and it needs a sharp poke from an anxious old lady, just behind her, to rouse her and bring her back to a sense of the situation."Where is Fee?" she asks, when she has clasped the gauntleted hand of the waiting spinster, and they are moving toward the pony-carriage."I'm sure I don't know! I looked to him to fetch you, and it is just by chance that I came in, with my wheel, in time to come for you myself."She utters the word "wheel" with utmost nonchalance."With your wheel! Oh, Aunt Cass I"Aunt Cass gathers up the reins, and shakes long whip over the ears of the fat ponies. She has no notion of accounting for her deeds to this "chit of a girl.""Oh, I don't propose to be a fossil, if I am a spinster," she says airily. "Besides, I was getting too fat! Don't you think it's giving me a fine colour--the exercise?" and she turns her face toward the now amused girl, with the utmost coolness."It has given you a fine black and blue colour, just under that lock of hair you have drawn down so artfully, Miss Chetwynde; and as you are bound to have it out of me sooner or later, I'll tell you now, that the rig, bloomers and all, is very becoming, you'll shame half the girls. Come, Auntie, tell me--how did you come to do it?""Well--I had to do something. And I got sort of--fascinated by what seemed to me the difficulty of the thing.""I declare, I shall never dare leave you again, Aunt Cass, lest you take to ground and lofty tumbling in my absence.""I've already taken to that. It's the same thing, quite," and the little spinster smiles grimly at her own recollections."One might fancy," Hope goes on smilingly, "that Felix has not been doing his duty. Has he quite forsaken you for the Redlands?""Felix has been very attentive, very!" Here the ponies get a sharp stroke of the whip and dash off in haste. "And it's you he has forsaken for Redlands.

Mrs. Hilton took luncheon with me, and told me that Felix and Miss Lorna were off for the afternoon on a bicycle tour.""Oh--indeed!" there is a little note of displeasure in Hope's voice. "Well, so long as he does not seek to annex more of Redlands than he can entertain, I am quite content.""Hope Chetwynde!"--Aunt Cass suddenly pulls up the ponies, and holds them down to a slow trot--"for a girl of your good sense, you can be the most ridiculous upon occasion! Why should you set yourself up for a prude because your brother Felix has made a few foolish speeches about Loyd Hilton and yourself? I don't think any too much of Fee Chetwynde's delicacy, goodness knows; but I don't think that the conversation which he repeated to you, as between himself and young Hilton, ever took place! The poor fellow had never so much as seen you at the time; and in my opinion, all Fee's foolish talk about Hilton's desire to 'exchange sisters,' and the absurd plans for the 'trade,' all took form in Fee's own brain when--""Well?--when--go on, Aunt.""When Fee had been taking too much wine--there!""And may not Mr. Hilton have taken 'too much wine?'""No! Mr. Hilton, I happen to know, never touches wine." With Miss Cassandra to be angry was to be emphatic."And--what does all this lead up to--Auntie?" Hope's voice is cold now."Simply to the thought that you might very well

be more agreeable, more hospitable, to the ladies at Redlands. You may snub the male contingent to your heart's content. Goodness knows, I'm no matchmaker."Dinner, at the villa, is late; for the ladies have waited for the return of Felix until they, or the cook, will wait no longer."It is unusual for Felix to remain so long at Redlands; and as for dining there, that is out of the question," Aunt Cass declares, "quite out of the question; for the Hiltons dine ceremoniously, and Felix is in his cycling costume.""Even if he must dine with his lady fair, after a long afternoon spent in her society," grumbles the spinster, "he could run home for a dress suit. It is only two miles, a ten-minutes' ride on his wheel."They have much to say to each other, these two, who are, in spite of their differences, such devoted friends; and while they wonder at his absence, they do not feel alarmed when at bedtime, which comes early at the villa, Felix is absent still."It's not very flattering to me!" Hope says, as she turns at the foot of the stairs to bid her aunt a last good-night. "And I can't say that I fancy passing the night without a protector in the house.""I've got a 'protector' in my part of the house!" snaps Aunt Cass. "Oh--your pistol, yes! I wonder if you would really use it at need?""You'll see, if the occasion comes. I only hope Felix won't try to pass himself off for a house-

breaker when he comes in, as he's sure to do, some time in the small hours."But the small hours pass, and Felix Chetwynde does not come.It is eleven o'clock when Hope goes up to her room, and she is still restless and wakeful. She is surprised, and a little hurt, at her brother's non-appearance, and when she has pondered over this, she is reminded in some way of the note in her chatelaine, and she reads it again slowly, and with a growing interest."I wonder for whom this was intended?" she murmurs, "and how it came in my lap all unseen by me! It's lucky for me that I have no lover, otherwise I might pass an uneasy night, in consequence of its ghastly warning."While Hope is still pondering over this mysterious note, two young men are seated in the summer-house by the lake at Redlands, close together, and conversing in low whispers. They have been thus for an hour at least, and they are now about to separate.As they rise and stand face to face in the dark both faces are pale and serious, and one is despondent as well. The other, that of the taller and larger young man, is resolute and stern as he takes the other's hand in the darkness. "I must go, Loyd," he says, with a sigh; "and, I repeat it, you must play your part! It is hard, I know, but it is not for yourself. All that I can do, by drawing the inquiry away from you, I shall do--and--""It's that that I can't bear, Terry!" Loyd says. "You are taking my deed upon yourself, or, at least, inviting suspicion toward yourself. It is horrible! It unmans me!""It must not. We are both working to save her a blow that she might never outlive. I thank heaven that her long faint has dulled her memory, and that she does not know all. She never shall know if I--if we can prevent it! Come, old fellow, your part is by far the hardest--I know that.""I think I could get through with the rest, if only--if he were not lying out there stark and cold. If only the body were housed--cared for, Terry!" catching his friend's arm in a convulsive grasp. "I had almost forgot that pistol--why--""Why did I throw it across where I did? Don't you know? It--it was his weapon, was it not?""Yes. How did you know?""I saw his wheel out there where you had left it, and I knew his whim--his fancy for strapping the little weapon upon his tool-case when he rode through the wood paths. He would not lose a shot at rabbit, or what not." He started. "There's another thing. Strange how one forgets these hateful details. When I went to look--you know--after I had gotten the wheels ready, I noticed a queer thing.""How--queer?""Close beside him, sticking almost upright in the bushes, was a cane.""A--cane!""Yes. Do you remember that heavy ornate cane which we saw in his room one day, and which he

declared so valuable? It was the same cane; I could almost swear to it.""Why, he rode one of my wheels. Why should he encumber himself with that?""Then he did not take it from your place?""No; how could he?""It's very strange! I saw him on his way to Redlands. I was sitting near the roadside, concealed from sight by the fringe of bushes about me--I'll tell you how I came there later on, if necessary--and he passed. Something went wrong with his tyre, and he stopped a little beyond me. He had no cane, I could swear."He turns as if to go, and Hilton sighs heavily. "Loyd," he says, putting a strong hand upon the other's shoulder, "put this thing off your mind. You must not show anxiety, remember, and, about him, be easy. The body shall be found in the morning, early.""Aunt Cass, I am getting uneasy, and I am going to ride over to Redlands and make some inquiries about Felix."The ladies have breakfasted on the morning after Hope's home-coming. After ascertaining that Felix is not yet in his room, and now, as they came out from the morning-room, Hope's face takes on the look of decision which her aunt has learned to know and not to combat."You are going to ride?""Yes. I'd rather go alone, Auntie, if you don't mind. I'm sufficiently acquainted to go so, and--it would look too inquisitorial for both to go.""We might merely call.""No. I'm not in the mood for a mere call. It's borne in upon me that something is wrong with Felix, and I mean to find out the truth. He's taken absolutely nothing, except his wheel. Besides, there are reasons--business reasons--why he should have been eager to meet me last night.""If anything serious has happened," Miss Chetwynde says, "one of us should certainly be at home. I will be that one, and I will order your horse while you go and dress."The spinster sees her niece ride away upon her handsome bay hunter, and then goes to her own room, where she stands for a moment, with a hand upon her desk, which still contains the letter taken from the brier rose bush."It may explain his absence," she muses, referring to the letter; "and perhaps I ought to read it." A moment her hand hovers above the locked desk, then it falls at her side."I'll wait," she murmurs. "There is such a thing as knowing too much!"Before many hours have passed Aunt Cassandra had reason to be glad of this decision.Terence Glynne has been for some weeks an occupant of one of the pretty "fishing cottages," so called, at Lee, which charming little village is, after all, but a suburb of the big Lakeside city. A young artist, with a taste for "marines," is his housemate, and the two, singly or together, have become familiar figures along the Lake shore and about the pleasant country roads.Always an early riser, Hope Chetwynde is out

unusually early this morning, and the dew still glistens upon the wayside grass when she runs her horse out from the main road to take the less travelled one leading south-east to Redlands.At the turn of the path her horse bounds aside at sight of two figures just beyond, and when Hope has him again in hand she recognises Terence Glynne and his artist friend.While she has obstinately held to her determination not to meet or know Loyd Hilton, she has allowed Felix to present this other friend, and the two have met on several occasions before her sudden flitting to the mountains.He approaches her now with many apologies, and she loses no time in telling him her anxiety and the cause of her early canter."There are such strong reasons why my brother should be at home, this morning at least," she says, in conclusion, "and I am riding to Redlands, where he went, as I am told, yesterday. Can you give me any news of him, Mr. Glynne?"Terence Glynne's face is very grave as he answers, "I saw your brother yesterday morning, Miss Chetwynde, and talked with him for a half-hour at his own door. I had been out on my wheel then, as now.""And--you left him there?""I left him there. I remember looking back as I rode out through
the gate and saw him reading a letter upon the piazza.""And--did he speak of his plans--for the day, perhaps?"Glynne looks away down the white road as he

answers, "Chetwynde was in outing dress, and I think he mentioned a ride, but where, or when, I do not recall." He turns back and meets her eyes."If you have any hint, any clue, that I can follow out, Miss Chetwynde, my friend and I will willingly aid you in your search.""I am going to Redlands," she says, gathering up her reins, "and, should I get no news there--which way were you going?""My friend Harley wants to sketch the old bridge at the Heights.""Then I will not detain you. If I get no news at Redlands I will ask for your aid, Mr. Glynne. I hoped, when I saw you, that you could at least guess where he might be." She bows and hastens on.Terence Glynne shakes his head silently as she gallops away, and goes back to the fence corer, where Fred Harley is busily repairing a punctured tyre."Harley," he says hoarsely, "Felix Chetwynde left home with his wheel yesterday, and has not returned, and I have proffered our assistance. She thinks he came this way, and something--a fit, a sprain, or other hurt--may have left him helpless. If you will take the cart path up I will follow the other I one. We can meet--where?""Why not at the bridge? If either one fails to be there the other can come on around the circuit.""Very well."As Harley completes his task and rises to mount his wheel he says to Glynne, who is turning toward the westward path--"I say, wouldn't he be discovered before now if he was hurt in these woods?""Not necessarily. It is not a regular carriage road, you must know. There are no houses nearer than Redlands, and the woods are never hunted now. These two paths have only lately been cleared for the use of wheels, mostly by Hilton and his friends. It's really quite an isolated wood road.""All right; we'll beat it the more carefully."As Harley turns away Glynne calls to him over his shoulder--"Oh, Fred! I heard yesterday that the old bridge at the ravine is unsafe. I wouldn't cross it.""All--right!" comes the reply from farther down the path, and the two have gone their separate, useless ways.Half an hour later Terence Glynne, sitting, with pale face and clenched teeth, beside the path half way up the slope, sees his friend wheeling recklessly toward him white faced and panting."He's found it," mutters the watcher. "God I how much more of this must I endure! It's horrible.""Glynne--my God!" cries Harley, when he is near enough to be heard. "There's a man--Chetwynde, no doubt--lying in a clump of brush on the south side of the ravine, and the bridge is down. It must be Chetwynde, though I can't see his face or tell if he's alive or dead; but he's dressed in a corduroy suit, and there's a wheel close by against a tree. Say," as he slips from his wheel beside his friend, "what's the trouble?"Glynne rises with a slight limp and shows a big rent in his tyre,"I took a header and my tool case is missing; I had forgotten. Never mind me, Harley; you must ride on at once to Redlands, if you don't meet Miss Chetwynde on the way, and tell them what you've seen. Leave me your tool kit; I'll come on as fast as I can. We must not delay a moment.""It's a queer first call," declares Harley, "and a beastly errand. But you're right. There's been too much delay already, I'm thinking. Hope you have not lamed yourself badly, Terry," and he speeds off."Lamed myself!" groans Terence Glynne, as his messenger rushes on. "I'll have a moral limp for life! I feel like a cheat, a cad, a scoundrel, and yet--I'd do it over again for her!"Mrs. Hilton is the ideal stepmother, and the twins are her companions and confidantes. When Lorna arrived at Redlands, with only her brother as escort--for Glynne had left them just beyond the eastward turn, and out of sight from the house or grounds--she was too weak to talk, and was glad to be allowed to go directly to her room and her bed. The shock had been a severe one, but Mrs. Hilton was a wise and tender nurse, and she soon had the girl asleep under the influence of a harmless sedative. When this was accomplished Loyd called her into his own den, and, sitting before her face to face, told her the truth, all of it, so far as he knew it."I could not keep this horrible thing from you, mother," he said. "I need your help, your advice, your sympathy. Glynne says that I must remain

silent, but it will be horribly hard, and if it were not for her I could not.""My dear boy," she replied, taking both his hands between her own, "Mr. Glynne was right, and you must bear this thing in silence. It would spoil your sister's whole life if it were known. But I hope and pray that she may forget at least the last and worst horror.""But, mother, I don't see how.""Loyd, do you know what power it was that held your sister for hours under the spell, and that came so near being fatal to her happiness, if not her life?""No, I do not understand.""It was hypnotism! Felix Chetwynde was a hypnotist, and he has lost his life through trying to use his power dishonourably. It is a terrible complication, my dear boy, but it might have been even worse--for her. The hypnotised seldom remember, and I hope Lorna will have forgotten the worst, if not the most."And in the morning this is what happens. Lorna recalls a scene, a declaration, and a swoon, and no more; and the fallen bridge, the long hours, all seem blotted from her memory.She awakes feverish, and ill too, and Mrs. Hilton is actually glad that she can deny her to visitors, and set a faithful maid on guard over her young lady's chamber.And Mrs. Hilton, too, is on guard, knowing well what must come.When Hope, in her dark green habit, enters her presence, Mrs. Hilton, heart-sore for the grief which

she knows is so near the fair and stately girl, and yet determined to stand between her own dear ones and any ill which her hand or tongue can avert, greets her with gentle cordiality, and listens to her story with evident solicitude and sympathy.She has not been able to shape her own course, not knowing how the attack will come, but as Hope speaks her resolve is suddenly taken. Half truths are weapons strong and dangerous, but Mrs. Hilton grasps at the chance to use them for what she believes to be the general good."I should not have ventured to call here," so Hope concludes her story, "if Aunt Cassandra had not told me that Felix had made an appointment with Miss Hilton. If he kept that appointment she must have seen him as late as yesterday afternoon, and she might-""Miss Chetwynde"--the lady's voice is soft, sympathetic, and calm--"sit down here beside me and let me tell you--what I can. Lorna is ill this morning--unable to leave her room in fact--and I fear you cannot see her. She came home yesterday very much distressed and agitated, and I feared one of her nervous attacks. They have been brought on before by too much cycling. Lorna is quite too enthusiastic as a wheelwoman. I feared too she had ridden too far. But--there was more than that.""More! What do you mean?""I am going to tell you. Do not look so apprehensive, my dear. Lorna has few, if any, secrets from me; and this is what she told me. You will forgive me if I pain you. It is best to be frank--if one can.""It is best always," Hope breaks in. "Do not fear to speak. I think--I can anticipate--a little.""Ah!" the other looks at her curiously. "You know then, perhaps, what your brother's feelings were toward my girl?"Hope nods silently."They went out, it seems, for a ride in the direction of Elm Heights, but paused here and there on the way, and during a pause, it seems, your brother began to talk of his feelings. I suppose he must have felt quite certain of success, for it seems that when Lorna understood him, and let him see that she could not feel for him as he wished, he lost his head a little, and said things that were wild, and that frightened Lorna so much that she felt she must leave him. In fact, not to dilate uselessly upon so unpleasant a subject, they separated, and Lorna turned homeward.""Alone?""Let me explain. Some time after they had set out Loyd came in and was told that Lorna was out with her wheel. He had meant to ask her to ride with him into Lee; but he set out alone. Not far from here he met several wheelmen, and stopped to speak with Mr. Glynne, who was on his way to call upon us, having decided to go away from Lee for a time. Of course Loyd regretted Lorna's absence and said so, adding that she had gone towards the Heights upon her wheel; whereupon Mr. Glynne told him that he had heard the bridge across the ravine pronounced unsafe for even a foot passenger, and that it was to be torn down at once. At first Loyd gave no thought to the unsafe bridge, know-

ing that his sister was with a gentleman, but later it occurred to him that they might attempt to cross the bridge, that your brother might not be aware of its condition, and he turned back.""With Mr. Glynne?""Mr. Glynne had given up his call upon meeting Loyd, and--they had separated. Loyd went on, alone, and before he reached the bridge he came upon Lorna--and brought her home.""And--Felix? Pardon me, Mrs. Hilton, I do not quite comprehend. Am I to believe that my brother left Miss Hilton--was not with her?""He was not--with her--when she came to Loyd,--when they met.""But--where did he go--how--"Mrs. Hilton's soft hand is placed upon the girl's nervous palm."Miss Chetwynde, I have yet to tell you the most painful part of my story, and you will then understand why I have told it you at all. It is a thing which I trust will not be allowed to go beyond us two, for your brother's sake and for Lorna's. The poor dazed child was not able to explain at all points; there were such strange blanks in her story that I was compelled to question her closely, and what she said and left unsaid has convinced me.""Of what!" Mrs. Hilton. "What are you leading up to so carefully?""Did you ever know, or guess, that your brother was, to some extent, a hypnotist?""A--hyp-notist!" The blood goes slowly from Hope Chetwynde's cheeks. "I did not--know.""It is the truth." Mrs. Hilton rises, and there is

just a hint of coldness in her voice. "Lorna knows nothing of the science, and therefore she attributes her hazy and broken remembrance of their interview to the fright and shock caused by his insistence and final rage. But I know, and when I had heard her story I should have guessed, even if your aunt had not confirmed the opinion, that Mr. Chetwynde was a hypnotist, and that he had very nearly won Lorna's consent to a hasty marriage through his powers as such. Your brother, when Lorna last remembers him, was an angry and disappointed man, and if he has not returned it may be that--that it is because of this. And now, will you keep this matter--for his sake, for Lorna's, for all our sakes--a secret, whatever happens? Your aunt will confirm what I have said--she knows."Hope Chetwynde rises and moves slowly toward the door. Strange thoughts are flitting through her mind. Light words, uttered in badinage and boasting, and soft tones. She turns, with extended hand, at the door, but speech comes with difficulty."I thank you," she says, between two breaths. "And--you may trust me to keep your--our secret. I think I will not--look--further."At the very door of exit they come face to face with Loyd Hilton, pale, grave, and preoccupied. He starts as his step-mother names each to each, and Hope flushes, and pales again, at the thought that here, at last--after many flights and evasions--at his own threshold, she has met and been presented to Loyd Hilton.In her momentary confusion she half extends her hand; but he does not seem to see it, and the

next moment they are descending the steps, toward the lower terrace where her horse awaits her."You have not yet adopted the popular craze, I believe," Mrs. Hilton says, by way of conversation, and to spare Loyd, whose face is set and strained, and Hope merely answers "No." As he lifts her to her saddle with an ease and spring which is a surprise to her, and which causes her to look down with wonder at the slight figure which marks so much muscular power.It is the first time that Hope has ever replied to a like query in the same brief way without adding, "I detest the bicycle."As she gathers up her reins to ride away something comes rushing down the lane from the high road and wheels into the drive. It is Fred Harley upon his racing-wheel, and he flings himself off, regardless of Hope's curvetting horse, or of the others standing by."Miss Chetwynde!" he pants, "I--I'm horribly afraid I have bad news for you!" They are looking frightenedly straight at each other, and do not see the glance exchanged by Loyd Hilton and his step-mother. "The--the old bridge across the ravine is down; and-and there is a body--a man, I mean, lying upon the further side, in the bushes. I--I could not see his face; but--but he is dressed in a brown corduroy suit, and there is a wheel--near him!"There is a cry from Hope, an inarticulate murmur from those behind her, and then Loyd Hilton steps forward, saying firmly, almost coldly--"There is no way of crossing that ravine, Miss

Chetwynde, if the bridge is gone; and, pardon me, the quickest way to reach the place is by train, from Lee to Lakeville. There is one in just half an hour. Shall I send, or go? I am entirely at your disposal.""Thanks." Hope's eyes are full of horror, but her mouth is set. "Go--one of you--go by all means--to Lee. As for me I must know at once!" She strikes her horse sharply with her whip, and is off and out in the lane before they can think. They watch her breathlessly, until she wheels her horse into the eastern path, and thus Harley exclaims--"She is going there to see for herself. Shall you take your wheel, Hilton?"As Loyd Hilton turns, in a dazed, strange manner, toward the speaker, Mrs. Hilton lays a restraining hand upon his arm. "Loyd, I think you had better remain nearer home. There is much to do at the villa, and, as the nearest neighbour, we should give our services there where there are only women. Mr.--Mr. Harley, will not you go on to Lakeville, and take some one with you? Doctor Jarvis is their family physician while here. He is the very man."Harley is more than willing, and he knows what should be done."I will get there in time to take the sheriff's deputy along. It is his business," he says. And he goes, with no further ceremony, and at the top of his speed. And now Mrs. Hilton turns to Loyd. "My dear Loyd," she says sadly, "you must remain here for the present. I will go to the Chetwyndes.""What-before---""Trust me;" she stops him with a gesture as she speaks. "I shall know what to do. Call the carriage for me please."As the pony carriage swings into the highway, not far from the Redlands by road, it comes upon Terence Glynne, walking slowly, and leading a disabled wheel. Mrs. Hilton stops her ponies."Mr. Glynne," she calls--"one moment. We have bad news from the Chetwyndes. Mr. Felix they fear has met with an injury. I am on my way to the villa, and I wish you would go to Loyd, who will explain more fully. We may need you both soon. Indeed, it may be wise and kind for you both to call, say in an hour from now."Glynne lifts his hat and turns toward Redlands. "If she only knew!" he mutters.But Mrs. Hilton does know his part in the tragedy of yesterday, though Loyd, in telling his story, has been careful to picture his friend as both brave and magnanimous.A little further on, and Hope Chetwynde races past the leisurely ponies."It is he!" she calls across her shoulder, and flies on, her eyes white and set, her eyes horror-stricken.CHAPTER XII
"YOUR BROTHER WAS MURDERED"FELIX CHETWYNDE is brought to the villa; not across the ravine, but carefully, tenderly by way of Lakeville and Lee, the longest but the gentlest route, and before the afternoon is well begun he lies in his own room silent, handsome, and for ever asleep. Upon his face a look which none can interpret, so stern, so set, so strong, it is so different from the careless, half-smiling, sometimes cynical, but never severe face of the living Felix Chetwynde.There is little doubt in the public mind concerning his fate. He lay in the attitude of one fallen suddenly, his face upturned, his arms thrown out, the embracing greenery all about him, half hiding the body, wholly concealing the face; and near him, as if it may have been thrown from the dying hand, a pistol, his own pistol, as is readily proved. While his wheel, bearing his initials upon a shield-shaped little silver plate upon the handlebar, is found leaning against a tree not far away. True, there is no reason, no definite reason, that is, for such an act, but then there are those who can

remember now--and such deeds act wonderfully as a stimulus to a certain class of memories--that Felix Chetwynde has been moody at times of late, while others hint at possible financial embarrassments and losses at play.A disappointment in love is also hinted at. As for the possibility of murder, in broad daylight, and in such a place, it is hardly reasonable! Besides, his watch, ring, and purse--all are upon the body when found. And then--"There must be a motive for murder," they say.Then, there is the possibility of accident. Felix is known to have been a reckless and hasty shot. May not his weapon have caught in the bushes?Of course there must be an inquest, and this is put off for a night and a day, in order to give the sheriff of the county, a man with opinions and methods of his own, time to "look over the ground." During these first two days Aunt Cassandra stands staunchly at the helm with silent, compressed lips, steady hand, and practical good sense.She has feared that Hope might break down utterly; but the girl had been, from the first, strangely still, calm, and self-contained. In fact, she has so manifestly preferred seclusion and her own thoughts or grief, that her aunt has given over all efforts at consolation, and has contented herself with standing between the girl and her two importunate consolers. "I confess that I cannot understand Hope," the spinster says to Mrs. Hilton, on the day after the discovery of the body. "It has been a terrible blow to her, but she takes it most strangely for one

of her years. I sometimes fear that the shock, the suddenness of the blow, has induced an abnormal state of nervous strain, and stopped the natural expression of her grief; she does not weep, she neither sobs nor sleeps, and she never mentions her brother's name.""Has she not talked with you--to express her thoughts, her opinions, that is?""No, not from the very first, and yet she thinks--I know it--she thinks and grows more silent constantly. Only this morning she said to me, when I tried to draw her into conversation, thinking it would be a relief to her, 'Auntie, I can't talk yet. My mind is in confusion. When things become clearer to me I will come to you for help."'"For--help?""Yes. That is what she said. What she meant I cannot guess."On the morning of the inquest Doctor Jarvis comes out from Lee early, and upon his wheel, to see Hope. His message is urgent, and he is taken by Hope's own maid to the pretty suite to which the girl seldom admits a visitor. She receives him in her sitting-room, she will not name it boudoir, and stands before him pale and cold, with dark circles beneath her eyes, and all in white: simple and severe, but with no hint of mourning. She gives him her hand in silence, and awaits his speech with her eyes questioning his face."Miss Chetwynde," he begins, "I do not know your wishes in regard to this coming inquest. I have not learned whether you wish to make it a thorough inquiry, or merely the form of one as required by law.""Doctor--I do not understand?"Doctor Jarvis is a young man, tall, pale, and with keen, shrewd eyes; he studies her face a moment, then asks a question."Do you intend to go into the question of your brother's death thoroughly, Miss Chetwynde? or are you convinced that it is--a suicide?""I am convinced of nothing! And when I can see my way I intend to know--if the truth can be known--how Felix Chetwynde died!" "Ah! now we understand each other thus far. Now, do you wish your inquiries to be made openly, publicly, or in a private manner?""Privately, by all means, as much as possible! Why should I make my brother's death a thing of gossip conjecture and malicious guess-work for this strange community?""That is what I wish to know for myself, and for Sheriff Cook. The inquest, thus, will be merely a form, and the sheriff and myself will make our discoveries known to you, personally, whenever you will hear us."She came close up to him, quickly, and with a firm movement--"Tell me what you mean?" she demanded sharply."I will speak for myself, of course, if you wish it, now. You will do well to hear the sheriff later. That is his message, his advice, through me to you.""Very well, go on." Hope sinks upon the nearest chair, and motions him to the one opposite. Her voice is constrained, her manner that of one held in leash by a strong will."When I examined your brother," he began, with-

out availing himself of the proffered seat, "I pronounced his death due to a pistol shot in the head, and said no more. The truth, which I have not made known, even to the sheriff, is this. Your brother was shot in the top of the head, and it could not have been possible for him to inflict such a wound in such a place.""Do you mean"--she breaks off helplessly; she is shaking like a reed."I mean this. Your brother was murdered! No chance shot ever yet struck in such a place; either he was stooping when shot, or he was fired upon by some one directly above him.""Then you think that he was--murdered? You believe it?""I do!""And the sheriff? does he think so too?""He does.""For the same reasons?""That--and others.""Tell me what they are; why need I wait?""As you like. Cook has found the marks of a struggle upon the very verge of the ravine. In the soft soil there, some twenty yards below the place where the body lay, are the prints of heels, as if someone had been well-nigh pushed over the edge; there are evidences of a fallen body just there, the dry leaves being crushed into the soft indented earth. Then there has been a horse and a vehicle of some sort tied in a thicket near the wood road, which is now almost disused. The case is not so simple as it looks upon the surface.""I have felt that from the first! And yet I could

wish for a yet stronger proof that Felix Chetwynde did not die the death of a coward, by his own hand and his own weapon.""I will give it to you unknown to the coroner, who believes it to be beyond reach; I probed for and found the bullet.""Well?""It does not fit the pistol that is said to have been your brother's.""Doctor!" Hope rises and comes close to him, a new look of resolve in her face. "I thank you; you can't know what you have done for me! Until now I have not dared to believe that my brother was not a suicide! Now let the inquest go on, and when it is over I will ask you to advise me where to look for the right person to take charge of the search for the truth and the murderer. Until my brother's name is fully vindicated I would rather the sensation hunters did not know that there is a doubt or an effort to clear up the mystery."Doctor Jarvis stands for a moment as if hesitating, then--"If you ask my advice," he said slowly, "I would recommend Sheriff Cook as the man to hunt this matter home. He is a man with a natural bent toward the solving of just such riddles. He would serve you faithfully, and I don't think you can find a better man.""Thank you," she said. "I believe you are right. Fortunately our summer visits to Lee before we took the villa had given us opportunity to know Mr. Cook a little. I like him. He is a strong and brave man.""He is all that, and more," agreed the doctor, and took his leave.CHAPTER XIII
A BLOOD RED ROSETHE coroner is an elderly physician, easy-going, and non-progressive; able to live without work, and thankful because of this. But yet to disappear altogether from the public gaze is not to his taste, and so the office of coroner is agreeable to him, and he fills it, as might be expected, easily, without fear or flurry.If he has an ambition it is to be on good terms with the upper side of things, and with this in mind he conducts the inquest upon the body of Felix Chetwynde.Convinced, himself, that the case is "just a plain suicide," he consults Hope at the last moment, and finding that it is her wish to have the examination as brief and free from sensational features and needless inquiry as possible he conducts it on those lines, and the result is self-evident.He conducts his inquiry with the agility of a hippopotamus, and cross-questions with the clear insight of an owl at noonday.Miss Cassandra is first called. She saw Felix for the last time shortly before noon. He wore his

outing or bicycle suit--yes, the same in which he was found dead--and he went down the lawn and toward the stables. She thought he spoke with Bob, the lad of all work, but was not sure. She never saw him again in life."Not at luncheon?""No, we seldom lunched together; my nephew was a late riser, usually, and he was seldom about the house at the luncheon hour." Nothing is said of the bicycle lesson up and down the terrace, and about the lawn. It is a sore topic to Miss Cassandra now. There were no outside observers, and the servants were discreet and loyal to the ladies of the villa.Hope could tell of her home-coming, her anxiety, her ride in the morning, and of little else."I met Mr. Glynne and his friend, Mr. Harley," she says, at this point; "and they at once proffered their aid. I rode to Redlands but could get no news of my brother, save that he had ridden through the grounds in the afternoon and on toward the Heights." She ends her testimony by describing young Harley's arrival at Redlands; his discovery, and her own wild ride to the Heights."I found the bridge gone," she says collectedly, "but my brother's body lay just across the ravine, not far beyond the ruin of the bridge. It was, partly concealed by the bushes, but I knew it was he at once. I recognised the dress and the wheel."Fred Harley tells of his discovery of the body, and there is much talk of its inaccessible position owing to the downfall of the bridge. How this occurred was a question to be investigated later.There must have been some shock, some heavy weight.Sitting aloof, Sheriff Cook nods to his own inner consciousness. "It shall be investigated, my dear sir," he thinks grimly, "I'll attend to that."Loyd Hilton is called. He was first told of Mr. Chetwynde's absence when meeting Miss Hope Chetwynde on the morning of the discovery, &c. He was standing beside her horse when Mr. Harley told his startling news. He last met Felix Chetwynde on the day before his death. They met at Lee and came home together, both of them stopping at the house of Seth Warner, who was a genius in the repairing of wheels. Both left their wheels there, and each went his way homeward on foot. No, he knew nothing of the fallen bridge, nor how it fell. He had met Terence Glynne on the afternoon of the day when Mr. Chetwynde must have met his death, and had been told by him--Glynne--that the bridge over the ravine was considered unsafe.Terence Glynne corroborated all this; told of his meeting with Miss Chetwynde, and what happened after."Harley and I separated," he said here, "he to go by one path towards the Heights, I by the other. I suppose I rode carelessly, for the paths have been gone over quite carefully for the use of cyclers, at any rate I took a header and tore a long slit in my tyre. I had no tool bag with me to mend it, and when I got up I limped considerably. I sat down then, about half-way up the path, and there Harley found me when he came down with the terrible news."So much for the inquest and its result, which was a verdict of a mixed character."The deceased came to his death by a pistol-shot fired, accidently or of purpose, by his own hand."And so this act of the drama was ended, and the villa--cleared of the curious and the professional hunter of horrors--stood silent and shuttered, with the body of the dead embalmed and awaiting the last rites, lying uncoffined and resting upon rug and trestles of sable in the long drawing-room, which is closed, darkened, and heavy with the odour of flowers which lie thick upon the coffin and the sables beneath."Hope," says Aunt Cassandra, as the two sit opposite each other before an almost untasted luncheon, "if you do not eat you will break down before the end of the afternoon. It will be horribly trying.""I know it, Auntie; but I shall not break down."Silence for a little, and then Aunt Cassandra speaks again, this time almost severely."Hope--can you reconcile yourself to this state of things? To let this verdict of possible suicide stand--unchallenged?"Hope puts down her teacup, and looks up, her eyes flashing."I shall challenge that verdict, Aunt Cass, when I can disprove it, not sooner! And I mean to disprove it, if money and skill can do it. But--there must be no mistake. If Felix Chetwynde has met with foul play, he shall be vindicated--revenged! There is a mystery behind all this, and I do not mean to risk having a worse discovery laid bare to 

the public eye. If Felix had an enemy, we are taking the surest way to find him out, when we openly accept the coroner's verdict and secretly hunt for the truth, whatever it may be. I have had some strange thoughts, Auntie; and, when all is over, I will open my mind to you, and--you must help me.""I will, Hope! And--I believe I can!"Half an hour before the final ceremony that shall convey Felix Chetwynde's body to earth begins, Hope, arrayed now, for the first time, in trailing black garments, comes down to the morning-room, and, standing at the vine-shaded bay window, looks out upon the lawn and rear terrace.The funeral service is to be as private as possible; but the movement of chairs, the opening of doors, the murmur of low voices can be faintly heard when she lingers, heavy-eyed and heavier-hearted, waiting and dreading the last ordeal.Presently her attention is caught by a boy who comes slowly along the lower terrace, trundling a shabby bicycle.At the end of the terrace, where it joins the next above, he lets the wheel rest against the embankment and comes on toward the house, slowly, and eyeing its windows with evident interest and anxiety. He has crossed the lawn, and is passing the vine-shrouded window which stands open, when the gardener, coming from the greenhouse with a handful of white gladioli blooms, stops him with a sharp word.What does he mean by prowling there? What does he want?"I came--I want so much to see--him--the dead gentleman. He--he used to be very--kind to me.""Well, young 'un, you've come too late; even if you was let in at all, and--""Kelly!"Hope Chetwynde has noiselessly opened the door upon the side veranda, and is standing just above them."Come here, my boy. Kelly, you may go."The lad does not stir, and Hope looks more closely at him, starting slightly as she recognises in him the strange lad of the railway train."Do you wish to see my brother--before the coffin is closed?" she asks gently."Your--brother!" The boy starts now and comes toward her as if impelled against himself. "Is he--your--BROTHER?""Certainly! Why do you seem surprised? I am Miss Chetwynde."The lad's head is drooping; she can only see the quivering chin as he answers, "I didn't know--that Fe--that he had a sister.""He has. At least a half-sister, and I am she. Come in, I will take you to him myself." Slowly, with hanging head, the boy follows her; in the hall they pass Aunt Cassandra, who looks keenly at the lad but passes on in silence. Opening the door of the room, in which the curtains have already been lifted letting in a mellow half light, Hope beckons the boy inside and toward the open casket, herself standing near the door with face half averted.The room is painfully still, and the lad stands so

long that she wonders and moves restlessly. Then, for his back is toward her, he glances quickly over his shoulder, draws closer to the casket, and, can she be mistaken? he bends low over it, one hand moves swiftly toward his heart, then over the coffin as if touching the dead hands. Then she sees the slight shoulders shaken, hears a low sob, and turns her own face away.The next moment he is standing beside her. "Thank you! I will go now," he says; and though she bids him stay and see the end, he shakes his head, going, in advance of her, by the way he came.At the door of the morning-room he pauses."Is--is the young lady--his sweetheart--here?"A little frown crosses Hope's face at what seems like idle curiosity, and she shakes her head."No," she says coldly, "she is not."How she regrets this answer before many days!"Hope!" She has been standing some moments at the open door, from which she has watched the exit of the strange lad, and she starts from her sad reverie at the sound of her aunt's voice. "What are you doing child? They are about to close the coffin--come." Her aunt's hand, within her arm, draws her gently toward the drawing-room again, and the undertaker, with his lugubrious face--solemnity, measured, like the depth of the crape, by the length of the purse--tiptoes solemnly out as they pass in.By the coffin's side the two stand, and the spinster looks and weeps. As for Hope, her whole face quivers and her fingers clutch each other; then she

notes that a lock of hair just above the temple is fallen from its place, and stoops to gently put it back, and, stooping thus, she glances askance at the elder lady, moves slightly, while seeming to adjust the ferns and drooping lilies just over the still breast, and thus, while this act suggests to her aunt a closer inspection of the flowers at the coffin's foot, Hope slips her hand beneath the lid, and brings into view something which was not there, she knows, when the lower half of the coffin lid was placed above the crossed hands and lifeless heart half an hour since.It is a blood-red rose, half blown, and partly crushed; and Hope, after one quick glance, thrusts it back, pushing it with gentle, trembling touch close to the folded hands and out of sight. Then she presses a soft kiss upon the cold brow, and taking her aunt's hand says in a whisper, "Come."At the door Aunt Cassandra says, with one of those strange telepathic touches which now and then startle us, and arouse our wonder and awe--"Hope, who was that strange boy?""I--he did not give his name. He asked to see--him.""Um! His face puzzled me. I had only a glimpse, but--it reminds me of--""Of--whom?""Ah--there it is! I don't know.""A soft kiss upon the cold brow." Under Fate's Wheel,
Page 160Illustration included in Lynch's Under
Fate's Wheel.CHAPTER XIV
SHERIFF COOK"IT'S murder. I haven't a doubt of it!" so spoke Sheriff Cook, twenty-four hours after Felix Chetwynde's body is laid in the family vault, whither it has been borne after the simple funeral rites at his country house.The sheriff has been summoned to a conference with Hope, and they sit alone, and face to face, for the proud girl will know the worst, and face it alone; even to her aunt she cannot bear to open her full heart, disclose her fears and doubts."I will not name my thoughts even to her," the girl has declared to herself. "No doubt of Felix Chetwynde shall cross my lips until doubt has become, for me, a certainty! But I must know! I must know!" And so she has summoned the sheriff, and his words have been direct and easy to understand."If you can direct this search for the truth concerning my brother's death," she has just said to him "privately, so that it need not be made the nine days' wonder of an idle village, and if you will do it, not with reference to what the law, the chief of police, or

the States attorney may think or desire, but simply as one who serves me, first and most, then I will ask you to go into this matter, and will aid you to the extent of my power. If my brother has been foully dealt with, I want his murderer found; but behind this deed there may be secrets--family skeletons, it may be, that should not be dragged to light for all the world to see. There must be no one between you and myself. What you learn, what you guess, what you think and believe, all must be made known to me first, and to no other without my consent. You understand me, do you not?"The officer smiled. "You have made it quite plain," he said."And--do you agree?""Entirely! You are quite within your rights.""Then let us begin. Even now you have theory.""Say a belief. I believe that Felix Chetwynde was shot, not by his own hand and with his own weapon, but by another's hand.""And--the discharged pistol?""Close search, if it were worth while, might discover that bullet lodged in some tree trunk. He was killed by a different weapon.""How different?""Some different calibre, and not a pistol perhaps. Why, Miss Chetwynde, if he had placed that pistol of his close to his head and pulled the trigger, or, if he could have held it at arms' length, the hair upon his head would have been singed by the powder, if not quite burned. It is a strange affair!""Explain.""To begin, how came your brother so close to that ravine, and on the further side, with the bridge down? If he left home in the afternoon, and he did, how came he there at sundown or soon after? The doctors say that he had been dead at least eighteen hours when the party from Lee reached him. Now, if this is true, he must have crossed that bridge. He could not have reached that point between early afternoon and evening in any other way.""And no one thought of that?""That is as maybe. Jarvis has told you of the footmarks lower down the ravine, and I have found traces of more than one person near the place where he lay. But the tracks are indistinct. Next, there is the carriage and horse, which was tethered in the wood not very far from the bridge. But--there is more and worse to come.""Tell it." Hope's face is stern."The bridge was intact at ten o'clock that morning.""Ah!""And the man who owns the mules drove them across it, very reluctantly, and one at a time, to graze upon the Heights.""But why one at a time?""He feared the bridge might go down with too much weight.""But--""Stop! let me finish. He had been hired to drive those animals across in just that way.""By whom?""By Mr. Chetwynde.""Oh, I feared--I feared! Have you told me all?""Not quite. The horse and single top buggy was hired from Sol Hirsch, who lives four miles from the Heights, on the Lakeville road. He was to take the rig to the Heights and leave it there, in the bushes at two o'clock p.m.""On that day?""On that day.""And by the same--""By Mr. Chetwynde again. The horse came home, shortly after sundown, without a driver, panting and covered with foam. You see--""I see that behind the murder there is mystery. It is what I feared!""Ah! you feared?""Yes." Hope rises and stands erect before him. "I can say no more now. But, tell me, what does this mean--to you. Can you explain it?--any of it?""Your brother prepared to meet--some one--at the Heights, perhaps.""Yes," breathlessly."And he, or the other, or both, were to have gone away in the carriage.""And--the bridge?""The mules, I neglected to say, were found not far from home quite early in the afternoon.""Well, I don't see--""If, for any reason," the sheriff goes on, ignoring her nervous interjection, "he wanted the bridge down, say, to cut off pursuit for a time, I can see how cleverly it might have been done. A number of 

heavy animals are driven across an unsafe bridge one at a time, and slowly. Now, may they not have been bunched together, as they say out West, and, when close to the bridge, frightened into rushing across it?""You are right! You must be right!""Such a rush would be sure to carry down the bridge. I happen to know its condition."Hope bends her head, and for some moments seems studying her next words, then, "Is there anything else?" she asks; "any other clue or discovery?""There is the cane.""The cane belonged to my brother; both Mr. Hilton and Mr. Glynne have seen it in his possession.""I know." The sheriff is looking at her attentively. "But--have you ever seen it in your brother's possession? Was it ever, to your knowledge, in this house?""To my knowledge--no." And now, in her turn, she studies his face. "Do you attach any especial importance to that cane, Mr. Cook?""Any point, not fully understood, in a case like this is likely to prove important. You see, there is much in your brother's own movements on the day of his death which we cannot yet explain. I think it may become needful to go into your brother's personal history to know more of his private affairs."Hope actually starts, but instantly controls herself; and, after a moment more of silence on the part of both, she consults the little clock upon the mantel."Is there anything more--anything, I mean, where I can assist? Any questions--" She catches herself, and stops short. She has not meant to use this word. She is not prepared to answer questions yet, and she wishes he would go. She needs time to think, and it is quite time--she sees it now--to act."There's one other little thing," the sheriff goes on; "it can't mean much, but there was a strange boy hanging about this place yesterday. He was seen by two or three. He came into the grounds, I am told. Do you know of such a lad?""I suppose you mean the boy who asked to look at my brother shortly before the funeral service began. It was some lad whom Felix had befriended--or so he said.""Oh, simple enough. Did you ask his name?""I did not. It was not kind of me, but--I forgot.""And quite naturally." The sheriff rises. "If you have nothing more to say I will go. And--" he looks at her expectantly, and she understands."I suppose you want to question me soon about Felix, Mr. Cook. But I am hardly prepared now; hardly fit. I want to think about what you have told me. Will you come to-morrow evening?"He consents with ready willingness to abide by her time and desires. To-morrow night will be quite soon enough he tells her. And then, at the door, he adds--"By the way, it may be well, perhaps, when I have talked with you to-morrow evening, if I see your aunt also. You have been away of late, and she--""She may think of something which you ought to know? Quite true. I will speak to my aunt. She will not object, I am sure.""Thank you."As he bows himself out with old-fashioned politeness, for Sheriff Cook is not a young man, Hope puts out a detaining hand."One other word. You still think--you are quite sure, that it is best to keep this search a secret for the present--are you not?""Quite sure! It is the best, the surest way to success."It is four o'clock when the sheriff leaves the villa, and in half an hour Hope reins her horse in, for the second time, before the door at Redlands, and so intent has she been upon her errand that she is fairly startled when she finds herself face to face with Loyd Hilton.During the past few days they have met daily, and the young man has been able to serve her in a variety of ways, and so simply, with such gravely courteous readiness, has he placed himself at her disposal that she has forgotten, for the time, the prejudice with which she has learned to regard him in the past, and has accepted his aid as frankly, as freely as it has been proffered.In fact they are better friends to-day than weeks of ordinary social intercourse could have made them, and one of them at least scarcely remembers that they ever were strangers.As he advances to meet her, there is a look of genuine welcome in the serious golden-brown eyes, heavy with their burden of unshed tears; but in

his face, as he lifts it toward her, and holds out his hands to lift her from her saddle, there is such a look of longing and sorrow, and hopelessness, bravely and patiently borne, that she starts, and her lips are parted to say--she knows not what, but the eyes, which in a single glance can tell the love or sorrow of a lifetime, are veiled almost instantly, and when the lids are again lifted the look is hidden and only sincere welcome and eagerness to serve speak from their dark depths. But the look, that other look, it has been imprinted by his soul upon hers. Such looks have shaped some lives and wrecked others, and once seen can never be forgotten.She has come with her heart full of her errand, so unhappily definite, so miserably peremptory, but when she finds herself going up the broad steps toward the shaded corner of the piazza, where Lorna Hilton, still pale and weak, reclines in her hammock, she lets him lead her on, and takes the hand so swiftly reached out to her, holding it between her own, and forgetting, for one brief moment, her griefs and ills.Miss Hilton looks really ill, and her dark eyes have, so Hope thinks, the strangest look of troubled inquiry--a puzzled, half-expectant look, and there is a pathetic droop of the dark-fringed lids, and the sweet lips, paler than their wont, which touches Hope, and arouses her wonder."I fear this is more than indisposition, Miss Hilton," she says, her surprise speaking in her face. "You scarcely seem strong enough to be up and out of doors.""I am better here," the girl says feebly, "and it's only 'excess of enthusiasm,' so the doctor says. I am forbidden to cycle any more for a time.""And very wisely I should think. Is this the result of trying to vie with your brother, in spite of his superior strength?" As she speaks the light words, she is asking herself if it is possible that her dead brother's death is in any way accountable for Lorna's condition. She has heard, and read, of the terrible exhaustion of the subject following upon these hypnotic demonstrations, and while mentally determining to inform herself better regarding this uncanny science, she adds a few more words of hopeful sympathy, and turns toward Loyd, who, making no effort to join in their brief talk, yet stands leaning against a pillar quite near, though somewhat in the background.Her former attitude of aloofness, which has been quite manifest to Loyd Hilton, and her determined evasion of the frequent opportunities for a meeting between the two, all her proud and half-resentful efforts to baffle Felix in his too evident desire to "throw her at Loyd Hilton's head"--as Aunt Cass has very frankly described it--all this is forgotten, swept away by the events of the past few days, and her brother's strange death has put all minor grievances out of Hope's thought; and Loyd Hilton's ready aid, the manner in which, in the most matter-of-course way, he has stood between her and the hard, unpleasant details of the days before the burial, doing all as the friend and near neighbour of a household with no masculine head, and doing it without ostentation, holding himself in

the background, and only his work bespeaking his presence--all this has been noted, and Hope, always honest whatever her faults of impatience and personal pride, has been surprised to find that while always present at need, he was, somehow, invisible, or entrenched behind some barrier of distance or surrounding, whenever she has attempted to speak her thanks, her appreciation, and her growing good-will.It had almost seemed that he avoided meeting her face to face in her own home, but he did not seek to evade her now, though he had taken no part in her brief talk with Lorna. And she turned toward him with extended hand, and bravely made the amende honorable."You have not given me an opportunity to thank you, Mr. Hilton, for all the kind acts that have made the past few days a little less terrible, less hard to endure! I have been so much absent, I have chosen to be so much a stranger here, that many things difficult and unpleasant would have fallen upon my shoulders but for you. To come, as you did, without formality, simply as friend and neighbour, and to rid my aunt and myself of the worst, the hardest--it was good, it was chivalrous of you!"Chivalrous! This last word slips out unawares, and it is her one only allusion to her attitude towards him previous to the tragedy which has brought them together so, while it has separated them and changed their attitude, each to each. Changed them, yes; but in a way and with a difference which she has yet to know.Loyd seems embarrassed, and he takes her hand in the lightest, briefest of clasps, as he says--"It seemed only what I must have done in any case." Hope wonders a little at his meaning. "There seemed no one else, except Glynne, and we were so much nearer. If I made no blunders, and forgot, or omitted, nothing I--we--must thank Mrs. Hilton. She told me what ought to be taken from your shoulders."And this brings Hope back to the remembrance of her errand, and she asks to be shown to Mrs. Hilton's room, if that lady can receive her."Mrs. Hilton," she begins at once, when the two are face to face, "if we are quite safe from interruption I have a request to make."Mrs. Hilton has been writing in the library, and now she takes in her hand the sheet of notepaper upon which she has been engaged, and conducts her visitor to an inner room."We are quite safe here, at least," she answers Hope. "This is my especial den, as you would have known had you been less a stranger to us this summer.""Mrs. Hilton, forgive me! Indeed I realise how much sweet companionship I have lost. And now that I do come it is only to trouble you!""It will not be a trouble to be of use to you, my dear, if that is what you mean.""Ah! don't be too kind--not yet. This is really an unpleasant thing I am come to ask. Mrs. Hilton, I have had an interview with Sheriff Cook, and also with Doctor Jarvis, and--they both agree that my brother was murdered.""Oh!" The lady, so swiftly surprised, could utter no further syllable, and for a time sits beside

the girl with pallid cheeks and lips closed tightly to prevent a quiver or a cry. And Hope, eager no to end the painful interview, hastens to explain, telling, not of the doctor's discovery, but of the sheriff's fixed belief. But she does not tell of the footprints, the tracked vehicle, or his reasoning about the bridge, and the manner of its probable destruction."With this new light upon the affair, Mrs. Hilton," she adds at last, "I have decided to have this matter investigated privately, and as thoroughly as possible. I will spare no pains, no expense; and I came here to-day to ask your permission to tell Sheriff Cook what you have told me about Miss Hilton's experience with--my brother that afternoon. I need not say that I will guard her name most carefully, I am sure. And--you must see that we are handicapped at the very outset if we cannot have all the facts."There is anxiety in the eyes of Mrs. Hilton, and there is relief as well."My dear," she says, after a moment's thought, "I cannot in all fairness forbid this thing; but tell me your chief object in entering upon this investigation. If it--is it justice or vengeance?""Mrs. Hilton," the girl breaks in hastily, "I will, be frank with you! I must talk to some one, and--I have not even consulted my aunt as yet. I cannot rid myself of the idea that there is a mystery behind all this trouble. It is more than suicide because of a disappointment; more than an accidental death; more than the common case of footpads, of murder for robbery. I have thought and thought, and I have reached a stage where I

must go forward! I owe it to Felix to clear his name of the stigma of suicide if he was murdered; I owe it to myself as well; and--I owe it to Miss Hilton to make all clear, if possible. Sheriff Cook will regard my wishes, and nothing will be made public if it seems best, for any reason, to suppress what we may discover." She rises quietly. "Have I your permission, then?""You have my permission, and I wish I might have your confidence as well."Hope's eyes met hers, clear and full. "I am going now to consult my aunt," she says, "and if it is best, if I may, I see no reason why you should not know what is being done. Still I cannot promise. I dare not promise--blindly.""You are right!" says the lady, "quite right."It is late when Hope reaches home, and she suppresses her impatience until dinner is over. Then she follows her aunt to her own room, and asks for an audience there."I have something very serious to tell you, Aunt Cassie," she says, "and we must not be interrupted nor overheard."She has dreaded this interview not a little, fearing an outbreak of that nervous voluble temper in which Aunt Cass sometimes indulges herself. And not this alone; she had seen, with increasing gratification, how Felix had been of late winning his way into his aunt's good graces, for the two had, from the first, seemed to react upon each other, like flint upon steel, and she is loth to suggest aught which may challenge the ever-ready, "I told you so!" and "I always said it."But while she has seen the little spinster tried many ways, and subject to many phases of a somewhat uncertain temper--and temperament, she yet to learn the strength, lying, like the soundest of cores, at the heart of a fruit somewhat knotty and uneven upon the surface, and when she has poured out her story, telling it as she has heard it--Lorna's adventure first, and the discoveries, beliefs, and surmises of the sheriff and Doctor Jarvis later--she looks with growing wonder and relief into the face of a new Aunt Cassandra, grave, collected, silent, for many moments.At last she takes Hope's hot hand in her own--for the girl has grown excited and feverish from the strain of the day's interviews and the anxiety for the result of this last--and says slowly, as if weighing with care her every word--"My dear child! this has been a terrible thing for you to bear, even for a little time, alone. But while I am inexpressibly pained, yes, and shocked, I am not altogether--surprised, and, if you are not already too tired, I am going to tell you why.""I am not too tired, Auntie. In fact I can't rest while there is anything to hear, and--we must understand--everything before I see Sheriff Cook again. I am listening, Aunt Cassie."But the little spinster sits in silence for some moments before she begins."I can see," she says at last, "just how you must wonder at Lorna Hilton's experience that afternoon but--I can corroborate all she says, Hope, and more, for--I have been a victim also of this strange influence. Were you not surprised to see me in

bicycle attire, and to know that I actually rode one of the machines?""Surprised? Yes!""Well, it was hypnotism that did it; neither less nor more.""I have heard you speak in favour of the bicycle, Auntie. Did you really care nothing for the exercise?""Nothing! Less than nothing. Why, I thought you knew that I was simply teasing you--you were so fiercely at war with all bicycle riders. Looking back now, I am well assured that ever since the meet at Manhattan Beach last June Felix has been practising his hypnotic arts upon me.""But why, Aunt Cass? Why?""We won't discuss the reason yet. Let me tell my story," and she relates in the simplest and most matter-of-fact manner her experience as a hypnotic subject; telling how, little by little, she had found herself listening to Felix, and believing him so long as he was beside her; thinking with tolerance of the exercise, and wondering what it must be like. How, after Hope's departure, he had been very constantly with her; always genial, never argumentative; how she fell quite rapidly now under the spell, and how a sudden cessation of the hypnotic influence, owing to his own mental preoccupation, had puzzled and then startled her, and had set her to thinking, aided by an article on hypnotism in the daily paper. Then had come Mrs. Hilton, and the full conviction that she had been, either for purpose or practice, hypnotised again and again, and had grown complaisant while in this mood, until her old antagonism was quite forgotten."And you really learned to ride a wheel while under this influence?""There isn't a doubt of it.""But--you can still ride?""True. Because the lesson was never withdrawn, I suppose.""But--""Oh, I know what you mean," and here the spinster's whimsical side crops out again. "I have ridden a wheel in the face of all the country round almost, and now I won't stop! Do you think I will avow that I learned, willy nilly, to do a thing I have always despised?""But need you--""Oh, don't argue I I shan't stop cycling at present, and--I must say it is not half bad exercise--once you quit tumbling about.""But, Aunt Cass, why did he teach you? What was his reason?""To become necessary to me, and to gain my goodwill by contributing to my amusement, I suppose. Let's drop that point, Hope! There's more to tell," and without more ado she goes on to relate the interview between Felix and Terence Glynne, of which she had heard the greater part, the reading of the letter by Felix, and her subsequent rescue of it from the grasp of the brier-rose bush."And do you mean," cries the girl, when all is told, "that you have not yet looked at that letter?""Not from that day to this. It's a woman's letter--that's all I know!""Then, Aunt Cassandra, let us read it at once. Who knows what it may tell us!"CHAPTER XV
HOPE'S SECRET"MY BELOVED WILL--or do you really prefer the other name?--and how am I to know which is the real one? How I would love to see you when you read these lines. Did you think all was up with me when I took that sudden downward flight? Ah, no! you and I are in the same world yet; we will stay in it together, and go out of it--depend upon it--not far apart. Meantime the old days are ended--are they not? And who is the woman with the great brown eyes, tall and fair and stately? You need not to admire stately women, my dear--I want to know more of her, and for this reason I wish to see you. I do not beg you to come. I do not command it, for I know--now--where to look for you, and I can come to you at need. I always did come to you at need, you remember."Do you know a place called The Heights. It is isolated--very. There is a roundabout sort of a wood road, which a horse and vehicle can traverse, and there is also a bicycle track much more direct--that is, from Lakeville. Do you know the three tall elms that give The Heights a name? They

stand due south from the rustic bridge, and half a dozen rods away. I shall be there--at the elms--at 6 p.m. precisely. I may not venture to ask you be there also, but--should you--I shall bring with me the beloved stick for which you have longed, and it shall be yours at parting--all yours, straight from the hand of your friend of other days."INEZ."This is the letter which is read aloud by Cassandra Chetwynde, and which goes from her hand to that of Hope, who looks at it closely, looks again, an then starts and rises abruptly."Wait a moment," she says, and is gone, returning like a flash with a tiny folded bit of paper in her hand."Sit down again, Auntie, and let me tell you the history of this," and she holds up the little note of warning flung into her lap in the train on the day of her return from the mountains."You see," she says, as she smooths out the sheet, "that this one is written with a pencil, and undoubtedly, in haste, possibly upon the train; and this," holding up the letter of the rose-bush, "is more carefully written; and with ink, but--look at them!""They're the same!" cries the other, after a close scrutiny. "How fortunate that you kept that note!""Perhaps," says Hope dryly. "Do you think we can find this Inez?""I think the sheriff can. It is not our business, Hope Chetwynde. He must have those letters--at once."With the letters to aid him the sheriff is not

long in constructing a theory. He is a keen man, who has the instinct of the investigator inborn. Moreover, he is keenly interested in the work in hand, and if he were called off to-morrow he would doubtless keep on secretly to the end, not for glory--he cares not a rap for the applause of his kind--but because it is not in him to sit down and be content with a riddle unsolved before him.He knows all the people about Lee and Lakeside, and is known of most, and he has never worn a disguise in all his life. He has the greatest admiration and the greatest respect for Hope Chetwynde, and if she were to close the case to-morrow and bid him seek no further he would obey her in his way. He would not remonstrate, he would, to all appearances, put aside all further thought of the "Chetwynde Mystery" as it is called by the newspapers. He would do all this cheerfully, and--he would scorn to present a bill for work unfinished; but "Tom Cook" never lets go his grip upon a mystery. Baffled, he does not lay down the clue and forget the case, and he carries in his acute brain to-day threads, clues, details of more than one affair of which he hopes and expects further developments as time goes on, and the cunning cease to fear and to be watchful.He says little when the two letters are placed in his hands, and he even affects not to feel sure of the resemblance of the two handwritings, but he chuckles over them as he drives away from the villa and talks to his hardy and faithful steed, himself a very efficient aid to his master in his long-distance work, for "Ranty" can cover more ground in a given time, his master fully believes, than any other living horse.He lets a week pass before he again visits the villa, where he appears, usually, at an early evening hour. He comes with no effort at secrecy, leaving Ranty either saddled or before the carriage tied ostentatiously at the front gate, which opens for pedestrians midway between the two carriage gates, and admits them to a broad gravel path leading straight to the door.Now Hope, in asking Mrs. Hilton's consent to the telling of Lorna's experience at need, has been looking forward to certain possibilities. It has seemed to her perfect frankness will be needful, but upon conferring with her aunt they agree that something may very well be left to the sheriff's astuteness, and so the hypnotic feature has been omitted and the sheriff knows from them simply that Lorna, setting out for a ride in Felix Chetwynde's company, and finding herself indisposed, returned to her home, while Felix, presumably, has gone on and to the Heights.Sheriff Cook is nothing if not direct. Beginning with a review of his first discoveries, he adds--"Before a man can go far in an inquiry of this sort he must find a motive and a person upon whom to fix suspicion. The theory may not be right and the person may be innocent, but, even so, this beginning may lead to better things. The beginning I had to have, and--there was only one possible clue in sight.""And that?" questions Hope."Is the bicycle ride with Miss Hilton."Like two foolish virgins Hope and her aunt exchange quick glances, but the sheriff's eyes are

lowered, and, not seeing the sudden gleam in their grey depths, the two breathe freely while recognising their folly."I hardly understand," ventures Hope, who scarcely realises how her attitude toward the Hiltons has changed, even as she is thinking how needless it is to connect Lorna Hilton with this affair, and how much it will hurt her--as well as Mrs. Hilton and--well, yes Loyd--if she is made to figure even as one of the witnesses in the case."Naturally." The sheriff draws his chair closer. "It pays to follow up even the little things in such an affair as this," he says oracularly; "and I started in right there. I won't stop for details now, I've been a week at the work; I've questioned half a hundred people, and I have friends at Redlands who can find out most things of importance there." He pulls from a pocket a small thick note-book and opens it. "Suppose I read you these items--some of them--they are filled in with dates and sources of information. These last I will omit." He holds the book out before them, for just a momentary glance at the closely written pages, and begins:--"Mem.: 'September 9th Miss Lorna Hilton meets F.C.'--Felix Chetwynde, you know--'at the summer-house, and they go away together up the cart road towards the Heights. At three o'clock they were seen not far from the bridge across the ravine, but on this side of it.'""That," ventures Hope, "must have been just before she turned back.""Ah! well, we will see," resuming his reading. "'At half-past four Mr. Loyd Hilton and Mr. Glynne

meet, midway between Redlands and Lee, let us say, and Hilton learns from Glynne that the ravine bridge is unsafe. Hilton turns back, and not long after Glynne also turns southward.'" He lays the open book downward upon his knee. "All these points, which I give as facts, you will understand, are verified by witnesses, and I have used my reason to weave them together into a continuous whole. I want this emphasised in your mind. Now for fact and possibility. I'll try to blend all into what seems, at least, a plausible story.""Plausible!" shrugs Hope, " I hate the word.""Reasonable, then. Now to begin anew. You will see how much I owe to you, Miss Chetwynde," bowing to the spinster; "I have used your facts freely. Felix Chetwynde, then, in a talk with Mr. Glynne, agrees to play fair; to woo his lady and win her or lose her within the week. He then reads a letter from a certain Inez--person unknown--who commands, in a most peculiar way, his presence at the Heights at six o'clock of that day. He sends for his wheel, which is in the hands of the repairer, finds it unfinished, storms for a time, and, after an hour of waiting, calls for it in person, and finding it ready, and the workman absent, takes possession and goes his way. We next find him at Redlands, and wheeling southward with Miss Hilton. This is at three o'clock. These are all facts. Now I must diverge. A certain man owns a drove of mules, some of them so vicious that they have been forbidden grazing privileges along the highway. This man testifies that at, or near, noon Felix Chetwynde comes to him and offers him twenty dollars in

excess of his fine if he will lead those mules, one at a time, across the bridge at the ravine and leave them there until evening. This he does, crossing the bridge at half-past one o'clock, which fixes the fall of the bridge later than that hour. These are also facts. Now if some one could tell me why the bridge must fall--"Hope opens her lips and closes them tightly again."It's pretty certain that the mules were driven over the bridge by some one, and your brother, Miss Hope, questioned the man and got the information that the animals would not recross unless driven, the grazing being of the best on the Heights. Now let us suppose that he wanted the bridge to fall at a certain time.""But--for what reason?" asks Aunt Cass."I can suggest two. Suppose he and Miss Hilton have crossed the bridge, may he not have wished to prevent her return, and, by forcing the mules across at a rush, have caused the bridge to fall? I am presuming that he knew just how much strain it would stand. On the other hand, Miss Hilton may not have crossed, and the animals may have been driven across to wreck the bridge, that Madam Inez might see how impossible it would be for him to cross the ravine at six o'clock."He pauses, but his auditors are silent. Hope's face is pale and drooping; while Aunt Cass sits uneasily in her chair. They know, now, that there is more to come."Of the last hypothesis," he goes on, "I can only say that it is possible; but until we have found the author of the Inez letter, we can go no further along

that road. Of the other," he once more refers to his note-books "we will go back to this fact; to begin, there were footprints on the upper or south side of the ravine that were made by a woman, or a child. And, beside a fallen log, caught in a clump of low bushes, I found a jetty coques feather, which matches those worn in Miss Hilton's Alpine hat that day. And now, my dear Miss Chetwynde, I may as well tell you what at present is my honest opinion." He straightens himself in his chair, and gives a last glance at the note-book. "I believe that Miss Lorna Hilton crossed the ravine upon the unsafe bridge that day; that your brother took her there, determined to learn his fate at once, and--that she refused him." He glances askance at the two, but both faces are averted, and at this he smiles. 
"Did he become desperate, then, and, having prepared for just such an emergency, drive the mules across and wreck the bridge, on pretext of their being dangerous animals? What did he say, or do, that Miss Hilton should go home and keep the matter silent at such at time? and why do not Loyd Hilton and Mr. Terence Glynne come forward and say that they were at, or near, the Heights that afternoon--and that as late as 6.30 p.m., Miss Hilton was with them then, and that the two men shook hands and separated? Hilton and his sister going by one way, and Glynne by the other? How is it that they heard no pistol-shot when they were in the woods at six-thirty o'clock, and Doctor Jarvis, as well as the experts, affirm that Chetwynde was dead at that hour? And--above all--how did Miss Hilton recross the ravine?""Mr. Cook!" It is Aunt Cassandra who suddenly interposes. "Tell us in plain words, whom you are about to accuse?""I accuse no one, yet! I suspect--strongly suspect Loyd Hilton!""And why not the other young man as well?" Cassandra asks.He looks long at Hope, and then, as she motions him to proceed, replies--"Because Hilton is not the man to let another out-do him in quickness of action. Glynne is a cooler man. Besides, she is his twin, and that, to sensitive temperaments, means much. More than that, Hilton was far the more agitated of the two; and last, Hilton's revolver, at his home, has one lately emptied chamber."And now Hope Chetwynde is upon her feet, and like a blaze of white light flashes out her heart's secret to the sight of the others, and to herself as well."What!" she cries scornfully. "Have you put a spy in his own household--already?"CHAPTER XVI
THE MAN WHO MUST"SHE will be quite herself again soon." This is what the sage physician, called down from city to attend Lorna Hilton, has told them when he has examined her case. "The shock of her neighbour's sudden death has, doubtless, been the cause, and it is merely a question of reaction of the nerves. Give them time! Give them time, madam!"The city doctor, who must be told something, has been told just enough, merely that the gentleman, a neighbour and her brother's friend, with whom Lorna had been cycling just a little earlier, had been found dead, close to the spot where the two had separated, and the thing had been a great, a severe shock, &c. More than enough, he concedes, to unnerve a sensitive young woman. "But it won't last; it won't last! She is finely organised, but elastic--elastic! She'll be quite herself in a few days."And he is not too sanguine.Ten days after that eventful one on the Heights Lorna is outwardly herself again. Graver than usual, more reserved, and inclined to long silences

but as strong as ever, and with her memory strangely clear.It is while lying in her hammock, with Loyd's hand soothingly passing across her brow, and after some effort to review the affair in detail, that she suddenly realises the truth."Loyd!" she exclaims, "why, it's like a magic lantern slide suddenly opening to my mind! I understand--I understand it at last! and--I understand, too, what mama meant by her strange questions. Don't--don't remove your hand, Loyd! I seem to think better so."And then, slowly, with many pauses and comments and exclamations of wonder, now from one, now from the other, she reviews the scene; recalling their rambling talk, the arrival at the bridge, and the strange gradual sensation of languid yielding to, or agreeing with, his views and arguments on many subjects. A feeling of dulness, as if no longer able, or caring, to resist. Of hearing him say that she loved him, and was promised to him, with the feeling that it must be; a feeling indeed of aloofness, as if there were no others in the universe; and, above all, the sensation, scarcely strong enough to call belief, that she was with some one else--a personality vague, shadowy, but clear.And then comes the talk of their flitting, and her feeling that it must be. Then, something like a faintest mental shock, an echo of something far away, a feeble soul resistance, and all the time a knowledge of its futility, and then-- At this point Lorna pauses, and the rich colour dyes her cheeks and chin, and for a time Loyd sits beside her, his own cheeks pallid and his lips set. Then--"Well, sister," he says, with an effort, "Then you cry out. Something has aroused you. What was it?""That seems strangest of all! Some one calls to me from ever so far, calls me clearly, loudly. It is like a voice," dreamily, "and it is like--a name, and I am calling aloud, and striving to cast off restraining hands, to flee! I was filled with terror, and the call, whether it came from across the ravine, or up or down, whether it was a real cry, or came from my own spirit, it roused me--and--I--escaped." She looks at him from under half-opened lids, and her eyes are troubled. "I cannot understand," she resumes, musingly, "how you came so opportunely--you and--""And Glynne! It is simple, though. I met Glynne. I fancy he was seeking you. I told him how you went toward the Heights, and he at once took the alarm because of the unsafe bridge. Lorna," the brother bends over her and takes her slim little hand, "Terry is the truest friend man or woman ever had! I wish you could treat him more--more cordially." His eyes are fixed in keen inquiry upon her face, but even while she lifts herself to an upright position she shuns his gaze, and draws away her suddenly tremulous hand, as she answers--"I shall never open my lips in dispraise of Terence Glynne nor to condemn him. But don't ask me to meet him, Loyd, except as one must to avoid comment. Heaven knows how thankful I would be if I need never meet him at all. I--I thought he was going away?"Loyd looks at his sister with gloomy eyes. "God knows how much I long to mend this cursed state of things," he says, almost savagely. "It hurts me like a knife-thrust to see you so cold to Terry. I ask, he asks, mere common kindness, nothing more! Lorna, for my sake, never let a living soul see you cold and unkind to Terence Glynne. You don't know what I owe him!"Lorna's little feet drop to the floor, not lightly, but as if weighted. She rises from her hammock, and turns to look for a moment out over the lake. Then she takes a step past him."I do know!" is what she whispers across her shoulder. "But--I will try to do--as you--wish." And then, as he makes a forward movement, she cries, as she springs away, "Don't follow me!" and is gone.Half an hour later her maid appears at the door of Mrs. Hilton's "den.""Mrs. Hilton," she begins anxiously, "I'm afraid Miss Lorna is not so well this evening. I have put her a-bed already, but she's hot with the fever, and her eyes look so strange, and--she's not spoken a word to me, ma'am, since she told me to make ready her bed for her."Tired and feverish Lorna may be simply as the result of too much talking and too little strength, and her eyes, that may be only the effect of the lamplight or Jennie's fancy. But--not to speak kindly to her maid when dismissing her, not to utter the sweet word of thanks for the little last services along with her dismissal, or the thoughtful little word of interested inquiry, which is never

omitted or forgotten--! Mrs. Hilton utters the needed and ever-ready word of reassurance and commendation; and dismissing the maid, goes at once to the dimly lighted chamber where Lorna Hilton lies with locked hands, and the dry sobs breaking now and then from between her lips."Loyd--wait; I must have a word with you!""Mother, I have been wondering if I might venture so late to invade your den after giving up all hope of finding you outside of it to-night.""Come with me," she says; and he follows her in silence to the den where, since Jennie's visit two hours earlier, she has not been.He has just returned to the piazza after two long hours of pacing up and down the lake shore, and Mrs. Hilton has been sitting silent for the most part, soothing ever, by Lorna's bedside.Mrs. Hilton is one of those sweetly reasonable women, slow to judge and to speak. It is seldom that her face shows agitation, but it shows there to-night-agitation and a great anxiety. But, even so, she is loath to speak, to accuse, and while she looks in his face and hesitates he opens the way."Mother--what is it? Is Lorna-ill again?""Lorna has not been well--since a day--of which you know. Loyd, is it possible that you did not give due weight to my account of what the doctor said of Lorna's condition that day--?""Why--surely.""He said, and in all seriousness, that your sister, with her finely organised temperament and her sensitiveness to all untoward influences, had received

a severe shock; that the strain of it had been, and still was, severe; and that she was mentally and physically unfit for such another. These were his own words. 'Your daughter, madam, is peculiarly organised from a physical shock or injury, such as a fall from a horse, a broken member; she will recover quickly because she has been hygienically well trained, her blood is clean and pure, and there is no taint of disease in her whole physical system; beside this, her mind will rise above bodily ills, and it is the mind, madam, that drags down the body--' Do you remember?"
"I know; I know, mother!"
"'But,'" he added, "'the mental shock in her case will react upon every portion of her physical system. Give her mind trouble enough, and it will destroy the body. Mind will endure longest; the spiritual quenches the vital!'"
"Mother, has Lorna had another shock? and, if so--how?"
"That is what I fear to learn. Loyd, what has passed between you two to-night? Does she know--the truth?"
A look almost haughty, almost of anger, crosses his face; then, checking the words that first arise to his lips, he moves a step nearer--for both are standing--too anxious, too eager, to think of their own comfort--and says, in a gentle, deliberate tone, that tells of strong self-repression--
"Mother, when I learned how the doctor had declared that Lorna must not receive another shock, must learn nothing worse than what she must know when full memory returned, I promised--swore--to

you to keep my secret for her sake. I am keeping it; I have kept it, only for her. If I thought I might venture, do you think I would carry about this load of--""Hush, boy!" The lady sinks upon her own soft divan, and for a moment buries her face in its soft cushions. "Sit down and let me think. Something has come upon the child--suddenly; and I feared that, during your talk, the truth had come out. I knew she was prepared to tell you all her story, all she could remember, in detail.""She did! It was all that I feared; I could have done nothing else. He was mad, insane, I verily think. He would have dragged her away before my eyes, and I could have done nothing, even could I have reached them, except by making her name a scandal the country over.""You did--what you could. I do not dare to question your act, but it would kill her, Loyd. She must never know!""I know it! I know it. We have been over all that before.""But--not as I see it now! In quieting one fear in my heart you have let in another, Loyd. Did you ever think that she cared?""Cared! For whom--or what?""For--Felix Chetwynde?""N--," he opened his lips, but the word died in his throat. "Why?" he asked drily instead."Jennie called me some time ago. She feared her mistress was worse. I sent her away, and went alone to Lorna's room--" She pauses a moment. "I know Lorna," she resumes, "in all her moods.

She was never hysterical, and she only weeps when her pity is aroused. To-night she was--she is, I daresay--lying with the set look in her face that we both know, and the tearless, dry sobs were shaking her. It hurt me so that I let myself go, and tried to question her. She scarcely spoke at all, but she could not deny her wretchedness, and begged me not to 'remember it,' and ended by tacitly admitting that she--that, after all, she had cared--and that the discovery of his real nature, that sudden revelation of himself, has been eating into her heart. There have been times--when you first made Felix Chetwynde known to us--when I could see that he attracted her strongly, but later it seemed to have come to naught. But I was wrong--all wrong! and now--she will break her heart over a man who--""Mother, one word! Are you sure there is no other--no other-person?""I do not know of any other. Once I hoped it might be your friend Glynne--if either. But--she has always seemed to wish to avoid him somehow; and now--""Well--now?""She dislikes him. I am sure of it. She would hardly hear me speak of him with patience."Loyd's face is quivering, and she catches his two hands in both her own. "My boy, this grows daily harder, more horribly, miserably hopeless to our eyes. But there will come a way out! You are--you were--always too upright, too innocent of all ill-intent. God judges the heart; man only the deed. This cloud must lift, and you must be brave for Lorna's sake, and more than ever now must we

keep the truth from her ears! I did not dream that she cared for him. I fear she is only just now learning the truth herself.""But, mother! If she cared for him, why such fear of him? such terror? such a cry for help?""I do not understand it. If you could only have heard his words! He must have shocked her while in that unnatural state in some way which she cannot, or will not, tell. And there is something--I could see it to-night--in what she avoided or evaded rather than in what she said. She knows or believes something which she dreads to put in words.""Dreads?""Yes, dreads! shrinks from. She begged over and again not to question her, and never to speak of that--awful day--until I must."Loyd Hilton sinks wearily back among the downy cushions, puzzled, dejected; and, in spite of his faith, his courage, his strong will and steady nerve, more broken and hopeless than he had felt at any moment since that day of fate which had changed the present and darkened the future for so many."I can't realise it!" he groans, "and yet you are always right, mother. But how could she love that man, and yet fear him so?""She was not herself, remember. In coercing her will he was frustrating his own hopes.""And I, must I think that all might have been well had I only held my hand?""No, no, no, Loyd! He was a bad man! I sure of it, and so I believe is she!""Then"--Loyd sits suddenly erect--"if that is true, I may have been the blind instrument of fate.

But I wish--" He checks his desperate speech, and sets his jaw in stern, hard lines. "You must let me go, mother! I can't--bear--any more."He goes even as the words drop from fiercely controlled lips, goes to fight--with--this new horror alone. And the good woman, whose grave, keen eyes and calm judgment are seldom deceived, bows her head and lets the silent tears fall unrestrained, sorrowing over the children she loves as if they were indeed her very own flesh.And Lorna? As midnight passes and the small hours begin to measure their sleepless minutes, she rises, and, sinking down by her open window, looks out upon the lake; and, sitting thus, she murmurs brokenly, while gazing across the water with tearless eyes, "Oh, it is too much! To live with a heartache concealed is hard, but to conceal the real sorrow while assuming an unreal one is more; and yet, it is better so, perhaps. While they think me grieving over the man who is dead, they will not wonder at my grief, nor guess that I have no tears save for the living man who killed the other--for my sake--for MY SAKE!"If love is blind, sorrow is selfish, and Loyd Hilton is as nearly distraught as a sane and healthy man may well become when he enters Terence Glynne's rooms at the Lee House next morning. He has passed a night of distracting thought, and he has utterly forgotten all save his own wretchedness, when Terry, laying his friendly hands upon his shoulders, says, "Loyd, old man, it is going hard with you! And there's so little a man can do in such a case to help you. You won't break down, dear boy? You

must not, for--for your sister's sake!" And Loyd with all the misery of that sleepless night seething in his breast, pours it out upon his hapless friend, with no thought save that, at last, he may voice his uttermost woe and find sure sympathy."Break down! Oh no, I shall not break down! How dare I break down when to go mad and babble out all that is heavy on my soul would strike my sister down, mad like myself, perhaps, with the knowledge that I have slain the man whom she has found too late that she loves and the brother of the woman whom I love. Oh, it is a sweet secret to carry all a man's life!" He flings himself down in Terry's great easy-chair, with his face buried in its cushioned back, and he does not see the light die out of the face bent above him, nor guess that a heart leaden heavy beats in the breast of the true friend who lays a tender, strong hand upon his head, and says huskily--"Loyd, my old chum, I cannot bear it for you if I would, but--let me bear it with you! You were right to come to me. A man can't fight such a horror alone," and while saying this he knows that one may, must.CHAPTER XVII
"I CANNOT"HOPE CHETWYNDE lets two days pass before she feels that she dare move in any direction, and sometimes she wishes that she had never called in the aid of this cool, calculating reasoner, this sheriff who wrests secrets from the very ground and compels answers to his riddles from "stocks and stones."There are hours when she weeps over her brother's unhappy fate, and she is ready at that moment to denounce his slayer, for at such times she does not doubt that Loyd Hilton's hand directed the fatal bullet.Then she endeavours, judicially, impartially, to review the case. She pictures Lorna and Felix together upon the Heights; she puts aside for the moment her sisterly faith in a brother's uprightness, and imagines him confessing his love, boldly, brutally almost, and demanding Lorna's like a Corsair; at last, using his man's strength, passionately resolved never to relinquish his prize; and then comes the question, Why, if Lorna Hilton is

across the ravine, and if, being there, she has found the friend she trusted suddenly transformed into a foe to fear--why, in her alarm, her desperation, may not she have broken from his too fierce grasp, and, catching his own pistol from its place somewhere near, why may not she have fired that shot?But Hope Chetwynde is a woman, though so young in years, and she knows her sister woman. Lorna Hilton could not have committed that deed and still be Lorna Hilton, clothed and in her right mind. "She might have killed herself--never him," Hope muses, and turns to another hateful thought. And now she weighs the dead in the balance, sternly, and then shrinks back at the thought of pronouncing judgment. And lastly she pictures Loyd Hilton there, sees his sister's arms reached vainly out to him, fancies a pursuit in which the aggressor is gaining--for Hope is not a graduate in logic--and then hears, as a last resort, a pistol-shot.And so her distracted mind works on--sisterly affection, sisterly doubt, pity, duty, dread lest she may stir up a yet darker pool of guilt, self-scorn at the thought of a brother slain and unavenged. In her calmer moments other thoughts have weight; she thinks of the hired team, the destroyed bridge, of the letter from Inez. Once she brings a charge against the living, who may not stand up and defame the dead? What shameful secret, of that part of which she knows so little, may not be dragged to light?And yet--there is a murderer unpunished, and--there is Sheriff Cook.On the morning of the third day of her doubts

and hesitancy Hope knocks at her aunt's door very early. She has been very silent, very reticent during this time of uncertainty, and wise Aunt Cassandra has not vexed her with question or comment. Now Hope throws herself upon her aunt's less complicated methods of thought, her direct reasoning from fact to fact."I can't see my way, Aunt Cass!" she declares. "The thing grows more awful, more threatening, the longer I think of it. Tell me what to do! I have thought till I can think no longer." She drops wearily into the nearest seat. "I want to act, and yet--there are so many obstacles!"Aunt Cass tosses back the long, pale hair she has been brushing, puts down the ivory brush, and turns towards her niece, leaning against the dressing-table as she talks, all the blonde length of the thick hair, in which as yet there is no grey, reflected in the mirror at her back."Tell me these obstacles--first," she says quietly. "Let's disperse some of them at once--if we can."And Hope, sitting before her, enumerates them, each and all, and is herself surprised to see how little they seem to surprise or impress her practical aunt."You poor child!" the lady says, when all is told. "You are not yourself, or you would never have given three days, or three hours, to these side issues. You have nothing to do with these things. In fact, there is but one of two things that you can do.""And what are they?""You admit that Sheriff Cook has fixed suspicions, at least, upon Loyd Hilton or his sister?""She never did it.""I quite agree with you. Then you have either to instruct the sheriff to arrest Hilton openly, or you must inform him yourself, or through another, of your doubts, and hear anything he may say in justification.""But--aunt--""Hope, you have nothing to do with these possibilities! If you are going to put this young man on trial for his life, you must, in some degree, put your brother's character also on trial; and, just as Hilton and his friends must accept and endure whatever revelations may be made concerning him, so must you submit to whatever is made known concerning Felix.""But--ought I--""Your brother has been murdered--or so we believe. You cannot let the matter rest as it is at present. Drop these reasonings from cause to effect, and consider but three things--Right, Justice, Duty."The morning is still early when Hope Chetwynde rides again to Redlands, and, as on a former occasion, she declines her aunt's proffered companionship, and faces her unpleasant task alone.Having determined upon her course, she now appears quite calm, though very sad and pale. "My business, Mrs. Hilton," she says, "concerns you all. But, first, I wish to make it known to you, to ask you to help me, and to believe that, if I could have seen any other way out of this awful trouble, I would not have sought this one. I must first tell

you that I have caused a most thorough search to be made in and about the scene of my brother's death, and I have learned--much."And now, without naming her authority for what she tells, she repeats in substance what the sheriff has told her. And then the two women sit, each studying the face of the other, and both pallid and sad and for the moment silent; and, sitting thus, neither hears a slow, languid footstep in the room without--for Lorna is never debarred her mother's "den"--a step which halts suddenly as Mrs. Hilton says, in tones low and clear and not unkind--"Am I to understand, Miss Chetwynde, that you are here to-day to reveal to my daughter that which we have kept from her with such pains for her very life's sake, and to denounce my son?""I am here to know the truth! Was my brother murdered? And if so, why?""Pardon--you have no right to interrogate me in such a matter as this. Since you have come to me, I must know your intentions before I reply to you. Do you mean to accuse Loyd Hilton publicly?""If so, you cannot say you have not been warned. Mrs. Hilton, why may I not see and talk frankly with Lorna Hilton? Why may she not tell me why she went from here with my brother, and left him behind to lie all night on that dreary hilltop alone--dead?"When Mrs. Hilton puts her question, Loyd Hilton, passing the door of that outer room--left open by Lorna--sees his sister in the attitude of a listener before the drawn curtains of the den, and, crossing the room swiftly, hears Hope's first query, and attempts to draw Lorna away."Wait " she whispers, and, to his amazement, grasps his hand and smiles up in his eyes. "We are not afraid!""Lorna--sister! For my sake!" he whispers pleadingly. "Come--come at once!"But she answers again with that same quick look, more like the old Lorna--who has disappeared, it would seem, in Felix Chetwynde's grave--than he has seen her for days. "Wait! It is for your sake that I stay.""Do you mean--can you be so wrought upon by all this trouble as to, suspect, perhaps accuse Lorna, Miss Chetwynde?" Mrs. Hilton asks sternly. "No more than I would accuse you! But, could you put the same query, in the same spirit, and substitute for her name that of her brother? You are his confidante, I fully believe, madam; and can you look in my face and assure me that Loyd Hilton, in self-defence or otherwise, did not shoot my brother?"Mrs. Hilton knows that she must parry this at any cost, and, all unconscious of the two listeners so near them, she asks--because she must reply, or let silence pass for consent--"If you would tell me what you believe, or know. If we might understand each other, Miss Chetwynde--""You shall understand me at least!" There is no lack now of spirit, of firmness, of the Chetwynde pride that so ill brooks evasion or dissimilation. "Miss Hilton, I fully believe, was on the south side of the ravine as late as five o'clock that day. And if, as you have assured me, she met her brother and 

he brought her home, they must have met there, and"--Hope's voice is hard; her face is white and set. The Chetwynde pride has the mastery now, even though her heart is like ice in her breast, when she says--"and I believe that it was Loyd Hilton, and no other, who killed my brother--my last reliance and only protector. Can you assure me that I am wrong?"How her lip curls as she utters the words--the taunt!--for such she has meant it to be; and, for one long moment, how still the room is!Then the swaying portieres are swept aside, and a voice, clear, sweet, and low, but quite distinct and calm, says--"She cannot, for she does not know! But I can answer you, Miss Chetwynde; and I say NO! My brother's hands are as free from stain of blood as yours!" And now, before Loyd, before any one can interfere, she crosses to Mrs. Hilton's side, and takes her nervous, clammy hand. "Mother, it has all come to me in a flash--your solicitude, Loyd's tender, sad face. Some one has accused him, and he fears, or rather forgets, that I know. No need to ask my brother, my other self, the question. I know! If he were guilty I should know; if he denied, I would still know. Your brother's blood is not upon my brother's hands, Miss Chetwynde, and I thank God for it!" With a quick, impulsive movement she turns to Hope."Hope Chetwynde, from a heart that knows what a sister's sorrow must be, I pity you! I long to comfort you; and I am ready to answer for myself, and to tell you all I can of that unhappy last day of

your brother's life. He loved me, and though he meant me ill, I forgive and grieved for him. I ask you to believe this, to believe me even against evidence! I know. My faith in Loyd is not the faith of the lover, which springs from the heart and though earthly is sublime; my faith--my knowledge is soul knowledge; the same blood, carrying the truth from him to me. Loyd is innocent!"She flashes a quick, clear glance toward her brother, and what she sees in his face causes her to come closer, and to say earnestly, pleadingly--"Say that you believe me, Miss Chetwynde. Say it to him!"But Hope Chetwynde, with her head high, and her eyes straight before her, as if unseeing, only says, hoarsely, almost harshly--"I cannot!" and goes straight and swift from the room and the house; and as she goes Loyd Hilton, standing as he has been, shocked into speechlessness, and seemingly unseen by Hope, springs forward, and as she goes Hope is conscious of his sudden movement, of Lorna's detaining grasp upon his arm, and of his voice as he cries--"Miss Chetwynde--stop. You are right! Lorna, you must hear it now. I did it, and I am ready to answer for the deed!"But Hope never pauses nor turns. Fleeing for her life, she will never flee faster nor with face more strained and pale.CHAPTER XVIII
"AT HEADQUARTERS"AND now, at last, Hope knows the truth as between her own soul and her Maker; knows it, and in the loneliness of long nightly vigils scoffs at her imaged face in the mirror, and declares to herself her ultimatum.Hope Chetwynde, the girl into whose woful eyes she looks with scorn, in that moment's mood, shall do what reason and self-respect, sisterly duty, and the duty of a citizen demands. She will avenge her brother's wrongs, she will punish her brother's self-confessed slayer! And all the more shall it be done because, in the face of right and duty, and of his hateful crime, she has dared--she, Hope Chetwynde, to feel pity, to feel tenderness, and a longing to forgive; yes, to feel as she has never yet felt toward any other man! Ah! she knows the name to give it; she will not shuffle with her own soul and conscience, at least; she loves Loyd Hilton, and why, why, why? It must have been in her heart always, and only now sprung awake! Yes, that is surely it. It was there, before, and of course, being

there so long, she could not cast it out, and love never changes, never dies. No, she has given up the battle; she cannot chain down, cannot control this turbulent, rebellious heart of hers, but--she can control her deeds! And the world shall never say that she has forgiven her brother's murderer. It was right, it was duty, it was justice, that called out for his punishment. It was Felix Chetwynde--her brother--who from his grave, bade her remember his wrongs.She has heard Lorna Hilton's story, and, because she will neither see nor hear of Loyd, after they two have met, and he has told her his own, she is gentleness itself to Lorna, only she will never utter those words Lorna prays to hear--"I believe you. He is innocent!"He is guilty; again and again she reiterates it to Aunt Cass, and the little spinster only shakes her head, for she has ceased to argue with Hope, never crosses her now, and watches over her with an anxiety she is careful to conceal.She will break down soon if something does not happen to relieve her mind, Aunt Cass says to the sheriff and to Mrs. Hilton, and, very privately, to Doctor Jarvis, "Her state of mind is a horribly unnatural one"; and though they all agree, none of them quite comprehends, none save Lorna Hilton. And she, with a wisdom beyond her years, is silent. In the meantime, Lorna's suddenly aroused and changed mood has been a source of wonder to her friends. The discovery, so much feared and dreaded by them, of Loyd's part in the tragedy of the Heights, has seemed to stimulate her benumbed

faculties, while her fixed faith in Loyd's innocence has taken from the dreaded revelation of his participation in the wretched affair its sting and its danger. And, from the moment when Hope Chetwynde went so suddenly and swiftly forth from their presence, neither Loyd nor Mrs. Hilton have been able to withhold from Lorna any item of the many they have been so carefully and fearfully guarding from her knowledge. She has insisted upon hearing all, and her faith--as unshaken as her belief in Providence--in Loyd and in his ultimate vindication is the rock upon which her strength has renewed itself until, from being an object of their care and constant solicitude, she is their support and mainstay and cheer.She does not reason, she will not argue; but she believes, and, secure in what she accepts as a heaven-born instinct, she can face Hope with a courage matching her own, and a serenity Hope would give much to feel, if only for an hour."If I did not know," she says, when after two days she reverses the previous order of things and seeks Hope in her own home, and tells her frankly and as gently and charitably as possible, the story of that afternoon upon the Heights-still hazy as to parts, but grown clearer as to the first and last scenes. "If I did not know, with a sureness of knowledge which I cannot explain to you, but which is inborn, and which nothing can shake, I could not lift my head. I know Loyd believes that he fired the fatal shot. But he is mistaken, and the truth will appear some day. Meantime, as I know he is not guilty of the deed, I can wait and be patient."In telling what she can of that day, Lorna never comments; never allows a tone of resentment, or criticism of Felix and his motives, to creep into the story. She tells it simply, almost impersonally."I don't think I was afraid at the first moment. I don't think he was unkind--but--I know it now--he bent my will to his own; and at the last, when suddenly he let himself go, and that awful burst of desperation and wrath and recklessness swept away his strong grasp of himself, and broke the spell upon me, then I was filled with the wildest terror. I have heard that, when drowning, one sees a lifetime pass before one, with a host of memories crowded into a moment, and I felt like this when, suddenly, the scales seemed to fall from my eyes, and I knew all that he had meant--and did mean. Miss Chetwynde, it was not your brother Felix--never believe it! It was a madman!"But Hope, thinking over this strange interview, is not so sure, and the unpleasant question has more than once of late thrust itself upon her, "Was the Felix Chetwynde whom they, whom she, had known--gay, careless, indolent, but generous and kindly, and so devoted--was he the real Felix? Or had the real man thrown down his mask on that last day, at that last moment? and was it the face of the real Felix that had looked out from the coffin, cold, unsmiling unreadable, baffling?"One day she takes out the letter which Aunt Cass has guarded for a time and finally given into her hands, and peruses again, for the twentieth time no doubt, the strange words of the stranger woman who had signed herself "Inez."What could the writer of this letter tell, that she should dare taunt Felix Chetwynde with the possibility of her momentary appearance at the villa? Every word, every line, she perceives, as never before, tells of a power, a sword, held over his head. And what is it which she calls, with coarse irony Hope thinks, a "stick"? A stick which she promises to restore to him. What can it mean, this figurative "stick," which, she assumes, he will be rejoiced to retain? Can it be--Hope springs suddenly to her feet, her face aflame with a new strange intuition. How stupid she has been! How idiotic!It is early afternoon, and she rushes to her aunt's door. The room is empty, but her own maid appearing at the moment explains."Miss Cassandra has gone out on her wheel, miss," she says demurely. "I think she thought you were asleep, and she said I was just to tell you that she had gone out for a little exercise.""And is that all she said?""Why, miss," with slow hesitancy, "she did say, sort of to herself, that she'd paid dearly enough, she knew, to learn to ride a wheel, and now she meant to ride it. You know, Miss Hope, she did get some awful falls, even with Mr. Felix to help her."Hope is more than vexed."I suppose a bicycle will be in at my marriage, death, and burial," she complains to herself. "If it weren't for a pair of bicycles--but there, Aunt Cass is Aunt Cass, and she doesn't dream how much I want her this moment!"She does not delay, however, the thing she has in

mind, but drives with all speed to see, where she hopes, at this hour, to find Sheriff Cook holding official state; that is, at his headquarters.As she steps from her carriage to the pavement, she holds in her hand, not the beruffled silken parasol affected by ladies who drive, but a large sun umbrella, loosely rolled and strapped, and she enters the sheriffs presence with this in hand.He is alone, or rather he has cleared his office at sight of her pony carriage before his windows, and she comes straight to the point."Mr. Cook, I wonder what you have thought of my half measures and shilly-shallying ways in dealing with you. Will you tell me, please, why you have not made me behave like a reasonable being, and having empowered you to act for me, commanded me to cease hampering your movements? Why have you not asked for these letters?" and she places before him the anonymous letters dropped in her lap on the Lakeville express, and the other signed "Inez." "Why," she goes on breathlessly, "did you not demand--this?" she has shaken out the folds of the sun umbrella, and she now draws from out of them the oddly carved and mounted cane found beside her brother's body. "And--most of all--why did you not bid me throw open to you my brother's room--his desk, his letters, and all that?""Because, my dear young lady," he replies, when at last she ceases to pour out her catechism, "I was quite certain that, in due time, you would do precisely what you have done: bring these things to me or place them at my disposal.""But what did you think of such weakness--such folly?""It has been neither. You have very naturally dreaded what you saw more and more clearly day by day must be done--and known. Sit down, Miss Chetwynde. Do you think I have not known the struggle in your mind, the dread of what might become public property once it is known that there is an 'Inez' otherwise unknown, and so on, and so on? I have been simply waiting your time, sure that, sooner or later, you would decide to let things come to some definite conclusion. To know the best--and the worst.""Thank you. You restore my self-respect, and the time has come. Only--I ask once more that nothing be made known to the public until there is positive proof of murder, of intent; and that it is not a case of a wrong, or sin, recoiling upon the sinner."She takes up the cane, her voice is firm, her manner direct and composed. "In reading that note from 'Inez,'" she asks, "has it occurred to you that the 'stick,' which I have been taking for a mere figure of speech, means in reality this cane?"He takes it from her hand, looks at it critically, then puts it aside. "Yes," he answers, smiling, "I have thought of that."She rises, and turns as if to go."I leave all in your hands now," she says firmly. "There shall be no more reservations or concealments."When Aunt Cass returns, which she does not do until Hope has been two hours at home from Lee,

that young woman, without stopping to observe that the little spinster seems somewhat excited and self-absorbed, tells her across the tea-table what she has done, all of it, omitting nothing; and her aunt sums up her approval in these words--"Well, I'm glad it's done at last. You were wise--finally;" and then, after a moment's pause, "Are you sure, now, that you have told him everything?""Everything," declares Hope--"every simple item.""Oh, then of course you did not omit to mention once more the shabby boy who came here at the last moment to see Felix in his coffin?"And Hope starts and looks her guilt. She has forgotten it quite. The boy, and the crushed red rose under the coffin lid, both have slipped entirely from her memory."Well," comments Aunt Cass leniently, "you've had quite too much to remember, I'm sure. And now, let me announce my discoveries.""What are they?""First, that Redlands ghost, that we heard of so long ago, has begun to walk--or fly.""Oh, you have been to Redlands?""To Redlands, and to the cemetery. I really think, at last, that I have mastered my wheel, Hope."Hope is silent, and Aunt Cass hastens away from the topic of discord. "Do you know, my dear, that some one puts fresh flowers on Fee's grave almost daily?""Fresh flowers--what flowers?""Roses; great half-blown red roses!"CHAPTER XIX
THE REDLANDS GHOSTMISS CASSANDRA is very ill at ease on the day of Hope's visit to the sheriff at Lee. The girl's silence and moodiness are preying upon her usually even spirits. When she finds that Hope has been all day shut in her own room, she calls for her wheel, dons her short skirts and Alpine hat, and sets off. "Anything is better than moping," thinks this wise little woman, as she spins out upon the highway, inwardly delighted over her steady seat and balance.She has not meant to go to Redlands, but she finds herself first thinking of Miss Hilton, and then wheeling in that direction; and presently she comes upon Lorna and Loyd; not speeding over the ground, as they used to do daily, but sauntering across the sward lying between the highway and Redlands.They are at a little distance away, but she calls her greeting to Lorna across the "worm" fence, and through obscuring shrubbery, and the girl at once made her way to the intervening fence."Are you going to see mamma, Miss Cassandra?" asks Lorna, after a few words have been exchanged. "I hope so. Do go and give her the benefit of your good sense and practical ideas! We have had a real ghost at last, it seems, and the maids are in a panic, and want to leave us in a body."It is not the best of places for a conference; there is a ditch between the road and the snake fence, and Miss Cassandra makes her reply short and in the affirmative, and passes on, "To help lay the ghost," she tells Lorna, and as she goes she adds in her whimsical way, for she is given to frequent and lengthy self-communings--"A ghost, indeed. I wonder that the child can care to talk, even in jest, of such unreal horrors as ghosts, when there are things so much worse than ghosts at their very door "But, to her surprise, she finds Mrs. Hilton, too, absorbed in the subject of the ghost.She is upon the narrow stretch of lawn lying between the house and the sandy lake shore, and so close to the smaller entrance that the two meet, almost at the gate, and she takes the arm of her guest, and speaking somewhat more hurriedly than her wont, says, "Come with me to the boathouse, Miss Chetwynde, it's charmingly cool there, and no one can approach us unseen--unless, it may be, a mermaid. You are the person of all persons I could have wished to see this day;" and then when Miss Cassandra has placed her wheel in security, and returned to her side, she repeats Lorna's information. "Do you know, my friend, that in addition to our other worries we are a bonâ-fide haunted family."And then, having gained the shelter and security of the boat-house, the story is told clearly, with no waste of words.And this is the story.A few evenings ago the cook came in from a stroll upon the shore with a tale about a strange apparition, seen by her on her way home--just beyond the gates, in fact. Of course she told the others, and of course was believed by the timid housemaids, and laughed at by the gardener and coachman; but the next night one of the men saw the apparition. In fact, it was seen three times before the story of its appearance came to Mrs. Hilton's knowledge. Then the cook and Lorna's maid came to her, much terrified by this time.The story told by the servants was the same in each case, except as to the precise spot upon which it had appeared.Extending from the little fishing village--as the group of fishers' families with their tiny cottages, built merely for summer use, had been named--and running around the foot of the lake, and past the Hiltons' house, is a path lying at the point where the woody slope, that came down to the lake shore, meets the sands of the beach. It is narrow, but many feet have worn it smooth, and many interests have united to keep it free of obstructions; for the fishermen and their children traverse it by day, finding comfort and shelter in the trees that shade it on one side, and their elder sons and daughters make of it a lovers' walk at night; and day and night it is open to the lake on the one side, and shadowed by the last outposts of the climbing wood,

which goes up and up from this point, growing denser as it mounts higher, and interlaced here and there with tracks; tiny footpaths made, for the most part, by the wood gatherers from the fishing villages around the lake. It is upon this path, at different points, that the ghost has been seen--once close by the house, once beyond it, westward in the direction of the boat-house, and once farther eastward. But in appearance it was always the same."Of course," Mrs Hilton says at this stage in the narrative, "you are looking for an absurd denouement, but listen. I won't trouble you to listen long, ghost stories should be brief. Of course I smiled inwardly at these tales, and, beginning by thinking it a trick of imagination, ended by believing it the trick of a trickster.""Of course, and you caught the perpetrators, no doubt?""You shall hear. Sims, the gardener, is an old man, and full of fancies and superstitions; but Higgins, the groom, is young, strong, and, I thought, not likely to be deceived. So I arranged with Higgins to stand guard last night, my idea being that, for some reason, some one was spying about the house.""I see!" Aunt Cass nods sagely."I put Higgins at his post on the south-east side of the house, in a safe and well-hidden nook, and then, without informing any one, I established myself upon the other side.""What! You?""Certainly, I. I believe it's just what you would

have done." In spite of her uneasiness Mrs. Hilton smiles."Oh, of course, I--but--well--go on, my dear.""Loyd and Lorna have been so much together of late, and so secluded from the ordinary interests of the household, that by a little sternness I kept the servants from babbling in their hearing; and they saw and heard nothing--until this morning. But the maids watched in the grounds, in spite of my commands to stay indoors--very carefully though, and close to the house. I need not prolong the story, but will tell you what I saw after sitting long upon a camp stool, close in the shadow of a clump of bushes, with absolute darkness and shadow behind me, and the lake, the shore, and the open path before. You know what the night was?""Yes, neither too dark nor too light, just favourable for ghosts.""Of course you'll scoff. I expect it.""No, I wont! Go on--do!""Well, it was nearing midnight I knew, for I had heard the screech of the 'up train' for Lee, and while my gaze was still upon the path, or rather the water beyond it, I had almost forgotten the ghost, when suddenly a shadow came between myself and the lake, not ten feet away. It was the ghost.""Of course! Did it groan?""It did not. It seemed to hover just above the earth, not touching it, and it looked like a sheeted figure, long, and absolutely without movement of form or drapery, except the slow, gliding progress with which it seemed to float past me, and toward

the wood. It was just such a thing as the others had described, but I was as amazed as if I had never heard of it. It was dim of outline, yet not to be mistaken; and it made a spot of greyish light in the deeper gloom all about it. It moved seemingly without effort, and without touching the path, and it disappeared among the. shadows.""And--what was it?""If I only knew! I had bade Higgins make no sound, but if he saw the figure to pursue it and report to me. He saw it, but he could only say of it that it 'vanished' before his eyes. Even the girls saw it.""Do you think it is a trick? Of course it can't be an optical illusion!""You put your question strangely. Can it be that you believe in--ghosts?"Aunt Cassandra lifts her head, and her eyes are serious and sincere."The fool says in his heart there is no ghost. Far be it from me to set a limit to the Creator's power and will. What do we know of the invisible world about us! Yes, or of the visible? Was this a ghost? That is what we have to ask!" But Mrs. Hilton shakes her head."You have heard my story," she says, "now advise me.""Am I right in thinking that you do not care to have this talked about?""Yes. Oh, yes. I think I can depend upon the servants. They are attached to us--devoted.""I believe you." Miss Cassandra muses for a space, with her chin in her hand. "Do you really want my opinion?""Really! What is your thought?""This. If some one is seeking to spy for--any purpose, the person should be found out. If it were my case I would make some demonstration, as of sending a man about the grounds with a light, say for a couple of nights, as if the object had been seen and there was just a slight alarm. If it's a spy he will stop for a short time. Then I would set a faithful watch, and when the intruder grows a little bold, I would try and trap him. I would like, above all things, to see this gliding ghost of yours.""Come and stay .one night with us, then? I intend to follow your advice."Of course there is much more talk about the ghost, in which the little spinster has taken a strong interest, and concerning which she propounds many theories. But none seem to fit all the phases of the case, and when she takes her leave her first suggestion stands still as the approved and wisest source.The country roads to the west of the lake are many, and in excellent condition, and, owing to the conformation of the land about the lake's foot, and its sloping and wooded boundaries, they interlace at curious angles, and it is seldom that one need go from any given point and return to it by the same road.Miss Chetwynde is in no mind to return home--first, because she has been given something now upon which to exercise a brain rather fond of interesting problems; and next, because she is beginning to find the bicycle, her bicycle at least, a very fascinating companion. Not even the

servants knew how many of the early morning hours she has spent upon the terrace, mounting balancing, and tumbling for the most part at first, and gradually mastering poise and pedal, and after that direction and speed. It is yet early, and she rides on, aimlessly at first, and then she starts forward suddenly. The next curve will lead her to the cemetery, and she will go there. It is strange how loath Hope seems to visit her brother's grave, at least in her aunt's company. The man from the greenhouse at Lee was to have planted tall roses and white carnations, myrtle and hardy allyrum there."It is not far," says Miss Cassandra, accelerating her speed.The carriage gate is closed, but the lesser entrance admits all comers through or between its zigzag-spaced parts, and she guides her wheel toward that.There has been no rain for some days, and the soft sand takes her foot silently, warmed by the heat of the sun, for here the trees are far apart. It takes a fine impression of her bicycle tyre, too. It looks snakelike as it drags its single length along unevenly. As she twists her wheel in and out between the parts, she loses sight of the main pathway for a moment; and then, glancing down its length again, she sees a woman's figure moving on slowly, just a little ahead; she seems to have just entered, for she only now reached the first of the narrow out-branching pathways.The figure is that of a small woman, scarcely larger than our spinster, and it is clad in well-fitting but simple black. Thus much Aunt Cass; 

can see as she nears the stranger, who saunters slowly, and at last stops at the grave of a child, standing alone beside the path.At the sound of feet upon the gravel behind her the lady turns quickly, and with a look of surprise."I ask your pardon," she says hastily, and she moves back a pace. "I fancied when I came in just now that I was quite alone--here."CHAPTER XX
"BEGINNING TO BURN""ONE is pretty sure to be alone here, I fancy," says Aunt Cass, always the pink of courtesy to strangers, however much she may snub her friends, "unless it may be by some chance like this of ours." She is making mental note of the pretty stranger while she speaks. "It is so far from town, you see."Inwardly her thoughts runs thus: "Pretty, rather, but looks ill. Brunette, good style, good taste, half-mourning," for there is a little white vest peeping out from the well-fitting jacket, a strip of white lawn at the throat, and a snowy aigrette standing up from the little toque set back upon the head of black and waving hair."I am a stranger here," the lady is saying, "and find the time heavy upon my hands. Sometimes I think these doctors are not so wise after all; when one is ill one should be amused, not banished. I hope you will pardon me," a sudden note of restraint coming into her voice; "I am thrusting my own personal grievances upon you, as if I knew you.""There's no reason why you should not," says Aunt Cass composedly. "I am Miss Cassandra Chetwynde, of the Villa--'Beach Villa' some call it; it's really not a villa after all.""Miss Chet-" the stranger starts, and her colour changes a bit, "Miss--did you say Chet-" she halts again on the last syllable."Chet-wynde," says the spinster concisely. "Is the name familiar to you?" The social thermometer is suddenly at zero."Oh, I beg your pardon! I will not deny what must be quite plain to you. I have heard the name of Chetwynde; I have heard that sad story, and to me it seemed like a hurt." A small blue-gloved hand goes to the dark eyes, and the pretty worn face is turned away. "Miss Chetwynde, don't think me a common gossip, a hunter after sensations! Your brother's death was so like my own love. My husband was found--dead, like that."And the ice is broken. Impulsive, warm-hearted Aunt Cass explains her relationship to the dead man. Madam gives her name, her card. She is stopping at a country house, on the outskirts of Lakeville; she drove out this morning with a hired pony and her luncheon to explore the wood; she had not meant to come so far, but, being here, had decided to drive on to Lee, she had never visited Lee--unless she can find shelter somewhere nearer--she is used to driving about alone, and the country is so "sweet and safe." In her husband's lifetime they often lived in a tent a part of the summer. It was a fad of his, too. "I fear I shall not have the heart for that any more!" she says, sighing heavily.

"Ah, Miss Chetwynde, I must talk of something else."And now she interests herself in the green mounds about her, and the names upon them, and presently they have reached Felix Chetwynde's grave, and the spinster starts with a sudden exclamation."What is it, Miss Chetwynde? Ah! the beautiful flowers. Is it some new made grave then? Some young girl's perhaps? Surely, only a lover's hand would shower roses, red roses, like that!" and she stoops above the mound, as if drinking in the richness of the great cluster of crimson roses lying loosely upon the mound.And this time it is the spinster's tongue that is loosed, and she tells of her surprise, her wonder at sight of those crimson roses. For they do not come from Hope, "his sister," nor from herself, nor, she is sure of it, "they do not come from Redlands.""Red-lands?" the stranger repeats the name slowly. "Such strange names--to me! But, Miss Chetwynde, are they not perhaps from--from the young lady-love? He was engaged, I think they told me, and loved her so dearly they said. Poor girl!"If there is an influence, an ungodly power which will send Aunt Cassandra's temper and patience into the nineties it is the hearing of unauthorized gossip--about her own. Of course she knew very well the truth and the error of all this! But how should all the Lakeside know so much? Impatience came in and discretion flies out."I can't fancy how such rumours speed from a mere nothing!" she says testily. "My nephew was deeply in love with a most charming young lady,

but--it is wrong to let the idea go out that she is, or was, engaged to him! She is a sweet and lovely girl, and would have done us all honour by accepting him; but she never did.""And--he died--loving her still?""I fear there's little doubt of that.""And yet--these, you say, are not her flowers?""She will never place flowers upon his grave, I fear.""But why--why not?""Because," looking down at the grave, and finding a sort of relief in speaking out to this passing sympathiser--"because--I'm afraid he made her--almost with his last act--very unhappy! Hurt her beyond repair--almost.""What! Madam! Miss, you do not mean--do you mean that he trifled with her?--that he wrecked her life--even--""Madam!" all the proprieties have returned to their wonted seats, and Aunt Cassandra realises what she has done--is doing, but--there is no stopping now. "How can you imagine such a thing? But you are a stranger! Lorna Hilton could never become a toy, a tool, a plaything in any man's hands, least of all in Felix Chetwynde's. On the contrary, it was he who lost, first his heart, and then his head!"For a long moment the stranger stands with her head bowed, her face turned away. Then she comes a step nearer."Won't you forgive me?" she says brokenly, and her eyes are full of a dull pain. "I am a very miserable woman. I have been trying to forget my own

grief--by interesting myself in other's--and their sorrows; and now I have offended the only woman--the only lady who has been kind to me in all this lonely week! I will not intrude upon you longer--I will go."And Aunt Cassandra veers round again. Felix Chetwynde's name and his affairs are stopped by mutual consent, and, instead, the spinster talks upon a, to her, delightful theme--the bicycle."I never could ride," the pretty stranger affirms "I am too great a coward, too nervous, and--I don't think I could ever learn to love the exercise. To me it looks all labour.""Ah!" the spinster shakes her head. "I thought so once, and said that I would never, never ride a wheel. Indeed, I began it under--a--well almost--against my will, but--""Against your will, Miss Chetwynde? How--how was that?" the other asks breathlessly, and peering earnestly into the spinster's face. "Do you mean that some one made you ride--coerced you?"There is a wary look now in the eyes of the little spinster, but she only utters a little half-laugh."Sometimes," she says, quite amiably, considering her distaste for personal queries--"sometimes, you know, we elderly and lorn women come under a dictatorship as tyrannous as Juggernaut, and when we have nieces, nephews, grandchildren who are bent upon making us young--well, it is a tyranny; but a well meant and most affectionate sort. I'm properly grateful, now, at all events." And they begin to talk about the lake.When Aunt Cass leaves the cemetery Mrs. Myers

is driving her pony towards Lee. The two part with utmost friendliness. The spinster has instructed her just how, by taking an upper road, to reach Lee "with least circumlocution," and has kindly asked her to call on her way back to Lakeville next day.And now we find Aunt Cass sitting opposite her niece, with no mind to tell all of her afternoon's adventures, and quietly skipping her encounter with the pretty brunette widow in favour of the story of the roses."Perhaps they're from some one at Lee," Hope hazards, when the fact had been announced. "One could find out, I suppose, at the greenhouses.""I don't believe any one at Lee would carry such an immense bunch of great half-blown, deep-red roses, all of one colour and kind," her aunt objects, and at the mention of the "deep-red roses" Hope is so long silent that Aunt Cass plunges into a recital of her meeting with Mrs. Myers, not giving the story in full, and dwelling less upon their conversation than upon the good looks of the lady, and the evidences of past suffering that her face still bore, thus witnessing to the truth of her tale."And why, pray, should it not be the truth?" Hope asks somewhat impatiently. "It's only another summer boarder, aunt; we shall have them in every house presently," and then she lapses into a "train of meditation" which her aunt seems too indolent or too well occupied with her own thoughts to wish to break; and, as those thoughts continue to be of the lady of the cemetery, she is a little surprised when Hope suddenly sits erect and begins--"Aunt Cass!" Now Hope has three forms of address for her aunt, as well as three degrees of warmth, and it is the emphasis, in part, that marks the difference. When she is in her absorbed and direct mood she says "Aunt Cass," the last word slightly explosive, and then you know that Hope is occupied, and wants a direct answer. When she says "Aunt Cassie," she is languid, amiable, and probably idle. But when she says Aunt Cassandra! the question is beyond argument, and the battle must be to the strong.>Aunt Cass starts then, when Hope utters her name with that little explosive accent upon it."Well, my dear!" growing suddenly wary in her turn."At what time did you reach the grave--and find the--red roses upon it?""At," Aunt Cass consults her timepiece gravely. "I can't say to a moment. I left Mrs. Hilton at half-past three; and--my dear, you must hear about this ghost!""Presently, auntie. Now how long were you in reaching the grave--after you entered the cemetery gate?""Well, I declare! Let me see, fifteen minutes, I fancy.""And--the roses--they were quite fresh, you say?""Quite! As fresh as possible.""Um! and the lady, how long had she been there?""Just arrived; so she said. I did not see her when I first led my wheel in. I was looking after that.""Oh!"groans Hope. "Those wretched bicycles, they manage to thwart me, to get in my way--quite too often!""Well, the pretty widow won't get in your way, at least, on a 'bike'; she dislikes them, too. Though not so hotly as yourself.""On such a day as this," says Hope unheeding and oracular, "such a cluster of roses, cut ever so freshly, and laid upon the earth in the sun--more or less--were they in the sun?""Yes! I declare--they were, part of them at least.""Then, Aunt Cassandra, they had not been on that grave one hour!""Hark!"There are steps and voices outside, although the hour is growing late for callers. Hope moves towards the portiere, but it swings apart and Sheriff Cook stands in the doorway--Sheriff Cook--and behind him--Mrs. Myers."Good evening," he says genially as is his wont; among the ladies he is always a beau of the old school. "Miss Cassandra Chetwynde, I bring you a waif, a stray. She was violently endeavouring to steer her bark into Lee by your chart and compass, and was coming to grief when I came by, a good Samaritan for once, and rescued her."There are politely formal greetings, and, presently, it is made clear that Mrs. Myers has mistaken the road, and that her pony, having taken fright, had first scampered to the very outskirts of the villa garden, and then overturned the phaeton. That Sheriff Cook, whose title is not made known to Mrs. Myers,

having appeared timely and gallant, has ventured to bring the lady straight to their door."In fact," he says, at the end of his little speech, "I call it a lucky mishap, madam--Mrs. Myers; for the town of Lee is filled to-night with wheelmen, and you would have found it difficult to secure quarters there suited to a lady. You've fallen into good hands, I do assure you, ma'am.""And you are both most welcome." It is Hope who speaks. Hope who, with a swift glance toward her aunt, and a swift step forward, stands for a moment facing the sheriff--and between him and the strange lady. "You are very welcome, both," the words are pointed by a keen look in his face, and then she turns towards Mrs. Myers."How fortunate, Mrs. Myers, that our friend was on his way to us, just at this time! It is not often that he honours us with his company for longer than a luncheon or dinner; but I suppose the cyclers have driven you out--of Lee, too, Mr. Cook, although your note did not tell me that.""I should like to know what it did say," thinks the astonished sheriff; but he plays into her hands like the born actor he is, and soon there is a little circle about the library table, and tea is served for the benefit of Mrs. Myers.While she is sipping this Hope telegraphs to her aunt, mutely, but quite clearly it would seem, and after a moment rises, and turns to the sheriff."I know you do not keep late hours, Mr. Cook; and so, if you will come with me, I will put the papers and letters at once in your hands, and--if you don't mind, you may occupy my brother's room,

at least his study, and look over the papers as long or as little as you like. I'm very glad that you could find the time to come and to help us." She murmurs an apology to Mrs. Myers, promises to return soon, and the two go out and down the hall to the morning-room."Now" says the sheriff, when he has looked up and down the hall before closing the door, What is it, Miss Chetwynde?""First," eagerly, "you can stay here to-night, can you not?""If you need me--yes.""Listen," coming closer and lowering her voice to the merest whisper, "I told you of the boy who came here to take a last look at my brother on the day he was buried?""Yes. Your brother had been good to him, you said.""And--he said--one thing I did not tell you, because, at the moment, it seemed just a pathetic little piece of sentiment.""And--do you see it differently now?""You shall hear! Aunt Cassandra visited the cemetery this afternoon, and--she found the grave strewed with red roses; deep-red, hot-house roses.""Ah!" bending suddenly toward her, "and what else?""The thing I omitted to tell you about that boy is this. When he thought I did not see him, he put a single deep-red rose inside the coffin lid, pushing it quickly out of sight.""Miss Chetwynde, you were wrong in withholding that bit of a clue!""I fear so! I shall not repeat the error. When you arrived at our door just now, Mr. Cook, my aunt had just been telling me that when she reached the cemetery Mrs. Myers was there before her.""And the flowers?""And the flowers!"He stands a moment looking down into her face. Then he asks, "Is this all? Be careful now. Little things count in these cases. Think!""There's this one thing. It may, or may not, be of value. My brother's favourite flower was the red rose.""Ah, ha! we're 'beginning to burn' as the children say.""And this is just my suspicion. I am almost sure that the boy and this woman are in some way connected. Mr. Cook, cannot you look through my brother's desk and boxes to-night?""It's just what I mean to do! and I must have a little talk with you after your guest is stowed away for the night; and," putting his hand upon a nervously throbbing wrist, "rest easy, Miss! Hope! old man Cooks to the fore, no one will come in to your brother's rooms to-night, and nothing will be taken out except by me.""Don't ask questions, Aunt Cass," says Hope, wearily, when their guests have been disposed of for the night, and the two were again alone. To-morrow there'll be so much to say, but first I'll tell you that I went to Lee to-day to give the sheriff carte blanche and to turn all of Fee's letters and papers over to him for inspection.""Oh I so that's why he came to-night, is it?""No, it is not! His coming is quite unexpected to me. But I asked him to stay, and the letters and papers give me the excuse I needed for putting him in Fee's rooms.""But why there? There are other rooms.""True; but they do not need guarding.""Guarding! upon my word, Hope Chetwynde, I believe you take that poor little woman for a female housebreaker!"Hope turns away with a weary gesture. "Auntie, I can't talk to-night. I want to think I and things are becoming so strangely confused. To-morrow we will talk and I will explain everything so far as I can. And please, Aunt Cassie, try and recall everything that passed between yourself and this stranger; every word she said, so that you can tell it to Mr. Cook and myself to-morrow as soon as she goes, for as sure as you and I live I believe that woman put the red roses upon Fee's grave, and that she is the mysterious Inez!"CHAPTER XXI
A MORNING CALLWHEN the inmates of the villa awoke next morning they found that Mrs. Myers had already departed.She had risen very early, called for her pony, none the worse it would seem for its " runaway," and had bidden the housemaid--the only indoor servant then up--to say to her hostess that she, Mrs. Myers, had forgotten, before retiring, to say that she must return early on account of important business which might involve a hasty journey, adding a profusion of thanks and regrets, "She was sorry," the maid added, "to go away so early, and would give herself the opportunity to thank them in person at another time."Aunt Cassandra was honestly chagrined at this abrupt leavetaking, but Hope was evidently relieved. As for the sheriff, his comments were few, and of an extenuating nature. The lady naturally would be anxious to return the pony, which belonged to Thurton's livery; and Thurton was apt to charge the price of a good horse for the overnight use of one. Mrs. Myers might not possess the purse of a

Fortunatus. He said little more than this, and sought no opportunity to speak aside with Hope. He seemed preoccupied, and made no reference to his work of the previous night, although she knew that his light had burned until far into the small hours, and it was only when, his horse being ready at the door, he turned to bid them adieu, that he said, as he took Hope's hand: "I have taken the liberty of carrying away with me two or three small articles--a letter, some pictures, and the like, which I may be able to make useful. They will be restored to you, of course, and soon. Another thing, I have left, upon the open top of your brother's desk, Miss Chetwynde, a number of letters and an old diary, which I particularly wish you would read, both of you, I mean," turning to Aunt Cass. "After you have read them--in a few days possibly--I shall wish to talk again, with you, and more fully with you both. Miss Cassandra," and he turns toward the spinster, releasing Hope's hand in the act, while that young woman steps across the morning-room to reply to some word from the old gardener, for the girl is invariably kind to her domestics, never failing to hear with patience whatever they may wish to say to her, and never treating them to those little touches of haughtiness, to which her immediate family are sometimes treated.While she is thus engaged, the sheriff bends his tall head and grizzled locks, to look in the spinster's upturned face."I hope you will give those papers your close attention," he says impressively. "I have much faith in your sound sense, Miss Chetwynde, and"

--glancing across his shoulder toward Hope--"I must find or make an opportunity to advise with you before I see Miss Hope Chetwynde again."As he mounts his horse, and waves them a last adieu, the little spinster looks after him, noting the well set and shapely head, the strong profile, best feature of a rugged face, and the erect carriage of the broad shoulders, although the man is, as she well knows, quite sixty years of age; a clear brained, keen-witted man."What can it be concerning Felix Chetwynde that he must consult, with her, about before it comes to the attention of Hope?" she asks herself.As for the sheriff, he rides away with his thoughts upon the packet he carries in his inner pocket, a packet containing a picture of a young girl, with short, curly hair, and a dark, piquant face. A second picture, of the sort favoured in small towns, in the days of old, and called "tintypes," this being the faded and tattered presentment of two young men, dressed alike in cowboy costume, and not unlike in face. Besides these there are a number of letters and slips of paper, written over in the sheriff's own hand, and being, doubtless, copied extracts from letters or other documents."It's a queer state of affairs!" he mutters to his only confidant, his faithful steed, and then he shakes his head. "I wonder if either of the women suspect--I wonder if that keen-eyed, straight from the shoulder, little woman has never felt 'a prickling of the thumbs.' Women have all kinds of intentions, old chap, hey?" and having turned his

thoughts upon the "little woman," he seemed to find the subject interesting from a purely personal point of view."She's worth just exactly twenty-five of your 'sweet young girls,'" he declared. "Don't shake your old head, you stupid! You haven't had a good look at her; and she's every whit as young to look at as when she first came down to Lee for the summer with her tall and high-headed niece, but a slip of a girl, and--oh pshaw, you old gander, don't shake your head off--and that strong, firm, good mouth, and those clear, deep grey eyes would make any woman pretty. More than folks can say of your beauty, you old jay, you!" which was quite unjust to the clean-limbed, stately animal, who had grown to seem to his master half human.But while the "little woman's" regard for Sheriff Thomas Cook was considerable, he was not the prime object of her thoughts, as she let them work on, while waiting for Hope to signify her readiness to unburden herself.Something was troubling her mind, and she had not yet found her way to a decision regarding it. She had made a discovery, not serious or shocking in itself, but taken in connection with other persons and things, it might prove of moment, and she was not yet certain whether to confide it to Hope, or whether to keep silence until she saw the sheriff once more. And this is the discovery.The villa is built for summer uses, and there is a broad veranda all round it below, and a lesser one, divided by projecting gables, above, on the chamber floor. Aunt Cass occupies the room upon the front

balcony at the north-east corner, and the strange guest has been assigned to that upon the opposite or south-east corer, with the balcony crossing both rooms at the front.Aunt Cass, who professes to live upon "fresh air," usually walks for a short time before retiring upon this front balcony; and being used to traverse its full length, she steps out, shortly after the guest's door has been heard to close behind the maid who has proffered her services, and been thanked and sent away. The spinster has exchanged her gown for a soft neglige, and her little boots for noiseless, heeless slippers; and, busy with her own thoughts, she paces to and fro, looking out over the water, and forgets for the moment her neighbour behind the long French windows at the balcony's further end; and so presently she has crossed the line of light shining out from between loosely drawn curtains, and coming silently opposite the second window stops, for the moment, transfixed. For here the curtain is but half drawn; the mirror is directly opposite, and standing before it is Mrs. Myers--Mrs. Myers, who has never ridden a bicycle, and who has no liking for the sport--and she stands before the large mirror, which reflects her whole trim figure, clad in a bicycle costume! high-laced boots, short black skirt, natty jacket.The next instant the eye of the spinster takes in the fact that the bodice is the same worn during the day and evening, jaunty lapels, white vest, and all; that the short skirt is of the same black stuff, perfect in fit, and that, on a chair beside the mirror, lies the discarded black skirt, with all its fulness, length, and

sweep, while the looker-on can see that the little round hat or toque is divested of its soft floating veil, and lies upon the dressing-case close by.A moment the trim little figure stands thus before the mirror, then she turns away, her lips moving, a strange mocking look, half smile, half sneer, upon her face, and begins her preparations for the night; while silently, and wondering much, Aunt Cass abandons her fresh-air promenade and returns to her own room.All night her sleep is fitful and broken. But when the next day has passed Aunt Cass has not yet opened her lips, on the subject of the bicycle suit.All that day she meditates, hoping that some turn of fortune may bring the sheriff to the villa, but he does not come; and so, on the morning of the second day, she adopts artful measures, for not all of Hope's confidences have served to loosen her tongue regarding this one small matter."Do you want the ponies this morning, Hope?" she asks, as they sit at breakfast."No, auntie, I feel as if a long day of quiet, without the sight of any face but yours would be a boon. If you want the ponies, take them, do. I sha'n't in the least mind being alone--in case you are beguiled into remaining for luncheon." For Hope imagines that this is one of her aunt's frequent journeys of cheer and comfort to Redlands that is taking her from home.But it is not to Redlands that the little spinster drives the sleek ponies. Instead, after more than an hour of brisk scampering, for the ponies show their disapprobation in many ways, she draws them

up before a cottage which stands at the junction of two country roadways, half hidden among trees.It is the home of a Mrs. Rice--a woman widowed by an accident upon the lake--and the temporary residence, also, of Mrs. Myers.But Mrs. Myers is not visible; and, after some effort, a little black-eyed woman appears, with grey hair blown rough by the lake breezes, looking as affable and confiding as a child of tender years.It is surprising, too, how much this small person talks, and yet how little information Aunt Cass bears away. Going ruefully homeward she reduces it, in her direct way, to this.Mrs. Myers has been looking for a certain letter "for a whole week, very anxiously." It concerned a sick friend. Yesterday morning the letter came. The sick friend was about to pass through the city en route for the Hot Springs, and Mrs. Myers has rushed off to the city to meet her. "She will stay as, long as her friend remains in the city, so she said," Mrs. Rice had told her.In the little cottage entry Aunt Cass sees an old and shabby bicycle, and asks who is the rider."That," replies Mrs. Rice, "is my nephew's wheel. He is spending his vacation with me, and he rides in mud and in rain--just like a boy!"As she drives away from the door Aunt Cass has a vision of a slim and shabby lad flitting from the barn toward the woods at the back, and whistling "Annie Rooney" with fervour and brilliancy.The spinster rides away dissatisfied, and finds herself wondering if guile may not lurk beneath the locks of the widow Rice, and if she would be likely to accept--a bribe. But she does not turn back.CHAPTER XXII
SUSPENSEDURING the next few days Sheriff Cook is very busy with certain litigations of importance, which require his almost constant service, and when he finds leisure, at the end of the fourth day, to look about him, and learn the gossip of the town, he finds it busy with the name of Loyd Hilton.How it began it is hard to guess, and how amazingly a six-days' growth of gossip can spread, only the dweller in the village, the country community, and the little suburb of a large city, may know.It had gone the length and breadth of Lee, and was on its travels up and down the lake shore, when Sheriff Cook first sighted it and sought to run it down.
"Ain't heard on it?" queries Jim Walker, whose mission in life seems to be to assist at saloon seances, and street-corner confabs, and to subsist, as best he can, without much effort. "Wa', I do' know, it's strange! Ye see, yo've bin to court purty stiddy, 'n then yu sort of holt folks off 'bout talken with

yu 'bout your line o' work, anyhow." And here Jim winks and looks knowing and confidential, and makes the sheriff long to kick him."Can't tell how I hearn of it, first. But day 'fore yestiddy Tom Cole tole me 't that Brooks boy, what's allus pokin' around and snoopin', found a pi'ce ev paper onto the sidewalk, like 's if 't 'd ben tore of ov a letter; 'n it claimed tu be from somebody 't was clearin' out ter git out uv trouble on 'count uv havin' seen young Hilton shoot that Chetwynde feller up 't ther Heights. Oh, thar's lots o' fool talk goin' on sher-uff!"And this the sheriff soon discovered.When he had spent two days sifting, questioning, listening to "old women's tales" here and there, he had made no perceptible progress. He had obtained the scrap of paper, a dirty pencilled scrawl, written with evident attempt at disguise.It appeared like a half-sheet, the last page of a letter, written in pencil, and sadly blurred, and it ran thus:"--count of seeing the Hilton fellow shoot at Chetwynde up at the Heights, close by the ravine. If the sheriff had any eyes he'd see quick enough how he got across the broken bridge, what I'd like to know just for curiosity, is--how did the old wreck fall down just in the nick of time."Can't say when I'll come back; not till that thing blows over, for I don't care about being a witness. Take care o' my interests, old feller. Yours on the jump,--T."What the sheriff thought of this record, it would have been hard to tell by his looks or words. What

he did was to read it over once and again, examine it under a strong lens, nod two or three times, and then lock it carefully away in the drawer which contained the other "documents in the case."The breath of the mouth is an elusive thing, and even a keen sheriff or acute detective may not overtake it. Had that rumour taken concrete form, Sheriff Cook would certainly have overtaken it, spurred on by his anger and his zeal. But he could not stop this rumour, nor run it to its source.Mrs. Kane, chronic gossip, and wholly unreliable, told a story about a shabby boy who had with him a muddy bicycle, and who regaled a knot of other boys, "jest afore her kitchin winder," with a long tale about Hilton's animosity to Chetwynde, their meeting in the woods, their quarrel about something unknown, and the final shot resulting from it.This tale, coming from any other source, would have set the sheriff on a hunt for the boy, who "Rid away on his rickety ole wheel, jes' like ther wind!" But no one considered Mrs. Kane's tales, and he let it pass, though the description of the boy gave him a moment's thought.But on the sixth day after his night at the villa, Mr. Cook himself receives a letter, dropped in the Lakeside post office. It is brief and to the point."If you want to arrest the person who shot Felix Chetwynde, arrest Loyd Hilton. He will confess if arrested."There is no signature, and when the sheriff has read it he indulges in violent use of the language which stands, with him, for profanity."It looks, to a man up a tree," he soliloquises,

"as if somebody was trying to force my hand. They want me to arrest Hilton, to get him into trouble. Or else"--here he strikes his big hand upon his knee with sudden emphasis--"or else somebody's afraid. I'll happen to look another way at the wrong time. Now who--"He starts again, closes his lips, opens them to emit a long shrill whistle, and goes, after just another moment's thought, to his desk, where he writes a short note to Hope Chetwynde, sending it by a swift messenger. In response to this note, and scarcely an hour after it is despatched, Hope and her aunt arrive at the office, and are closeted for another hour with the sheriff.When the midnight express steams out from Lee, en route for the east, Sheriff Cook, in a very modest and retiring manner, enters the smoking car on the side farthest from the station platform, and when morning dawns he is far from Lee.When Hope and her aunt bid Sheriff Cook adieu for an indefinite length of time, it is with very sober, very startled faces in which, in spite of the seriousness and the wonder, there is a certain blending of something like hope, like hesitating but growing relief.This the sheriff sees. What does he not see? And he holds the little spinster's gloved hand, as if forgetfully, for a long moment, while he says--"Now remember, ladies, as yet this is only a pretty and well-fitting theory, with of course some proof, but nothing conclusive as yet. I know how

long the time will seem to you, but if I do not come back by the first of the week you will know that the east has sent me to the west, and that will mean, or may mean, that we are upon the right track at last. My advice to you both is, see as few people as possible, refuse to be interviewed or questioned; I think I would rather not write you--""Don't!" says Aunt Cass with an assumption of severity, and withdrawing her hand as if she had forgotten where it lay. "There's an old maid in the post office.""An inquisitive old maid," corrects Sheriff Cook coolly. "I had her in my mind. And a country post office--your affairs, ladies, are of deep interest to this community. I think I have no more to say. I am leaving to you the hardest task. Patience, and waiting.""One thing--" Hope hesitates, and her face is rosy, while her eyes are full of pain. "The--the Hiltons--how--""I had thought at first that I would see young Hilton. I had hoped he might approach me, but I think we had better let matters rest as they are. The gossip can be no worse. And after all, a meeting now would be difficult--awkward, in fact, now. Your course has been a wise one; why change it? Courtesy toward the ladies, avoidance of him for the present. That, I think, is wisest.""Pardon me. It is best to understand each other," it is Aunt Cass who speaks firmly but with her most courteous accent. "I have been, or tried to be, the same friend to Mrs. Hilton and to Lorna Hilton as before all this wretchedness. I have been

to see them, and shall go again. It is a promise, in fact. As for Loyd Hilton, I pity the fellow; and we seldom meet. You surely do not desire me to desert those two women. They have not a woman friend nearer than the city."
"I desire nothing which is distasteful to you, Miss Chetwynde. And I have every confidence in your discretion. Goodbye, once more, ladies."
"He has confidence in my discretion," muses Aunt Cass, as they ride home side by side, and silently for the most part. "He actually thought I questioned his belief in my ability to keep a secret. I wonder what he would say if I told him of the ghost? And I suppose he ought to know it. Still, it's not my ghost, and Mrs. Hilton has asked me to keep it to myself. I'll tell him my own discoveries, every one of them, but not the affairs of my friends. As for Hope, it's just as well, I fancy, that she took the ghost story so lightly, and that I did not force her attention, nor indulge in details. Because--" But here Aunt Cass turns suddenly toward her niece.
"Were you very much surprised, Hope?" Her voice is gentleness itself, and the sudden question is prompted by the long half sob, half sigh that breaks from the girl's silent lips.
Hope shakes her head and turns to meet her aunt's eyes.
"No, Auntie. I have been haunted by the shadow of the thing, always I think in a vague way. And of late I have been haunted by it. The thought and the wish--I can't talk about it yet, Auntie.""And I won't," declares Aunt Cass, kindly patting the hand upon the reins.For some moments they drive on in silence, then Hope, woman-like, speaks again."I am wondering what he could have meant when he said that there was something else--a quite important discovery, which he must not mention until his return.""You mean Mr. Cook?""Of course.""I can't imagine."But Hope says no more: only her thoughts run on and on until she finds herself saying over and over to her inner self, "What if he has found the person who wrote that note--who saw Loyd shoot him!" And her cheek grows paler, and she reaches home heavy-hearted, more than ever anxious, and carrying now, for how long she knows not, a weighty burden of suspense.CHAPTER XXIII
FACE TO FACE"WHEN the cat's away, the mice will play," is a time-honoured saying, and sometimes a true one. But in the absence of the watchful cat the mice sometimes nibble as well as play, and often do serious mischief.If the "cat" as represented by Sheriff Cook could have foreseen the complications which would follow his departure, he might have laid upon his uneasy and mentally tormented "mice" injunctions more strict, as well as glimpsed for their benefit a hint of his future plans.But "mice" were left to their own devices, and each, having his own particular woe or worry, grew restless, and each phase of restlessness developed after its own particular kind.Hope's position is very trying. If the sheriff's latest revelation of a new possibility has raised in her breast a new hope, it has also planted a new fear. She knows that in the eyes of the community she stands in the position of the aggressive one, who must move, if at all, upon the home of her neigh-

bour--move against Loyd Hilton, for to the public eye there is nothing else to be done.She knows how the rumour against Loyd is spreading and growing, and that he too, like the rest, must live in daily anticipation of her next act, and she still believes him the slayer of Felix Chetwynde. That they claim for Loyd extenuating circumstances may be better for him, but for her! Sometimes she tells herself bitterly that if he were only guilty, without a plea or excuse, red-handed with wanton and malicious intent, her heart would be less torn with conflicting feelings, if not less heavy. And her duty and her inclination would not be so sadly at war."Why don't she have that man locked up!" demands the cook, in the kitchen. "Shootin' down her own brother in cold blood. It's queer sort of doin's, that's what I think."It is not the first time the queen of the kitchen had made this or a similar speech, but it was the first time that Hope--about to enter the kitchen at the moment--had heard it, and it grated harshly upon sorely tried nerves."Cook," she said, entering with uplifted head and a look quite new to the kitchen contingent; "you are employed to prepare my food, not to criticize my conduct. You will bear this in mind in future!" and she swept out, her errand undone.This happens on the third day of the sheriff's absence; and as Hope mounts the stairs and reenters the morning-room, she murmurs wearily, "And I must endure two weeks of this, perhaps! How can I?"But before the day is ended she has more endure.Early in the afternoon Loyd Hilton--for the first time since the burial of Felix Chetwynde--wheels in at the open south gate, leaves his wheel beside the porch, and sends his card to Miss Hope Chetwynde.The girl receives it in the morning-room, and reads--almost in a panic of something like fear--these pencilled words--"I beg that you will receive me for a few moments in justice to yourself and to me.--L. H."Still trembling, she puts the message down. "Wait five minutes," she says to the maid, "and then show him in here."Five minutes later, when Loyd Hilton enters, she is outwardly calm at least, and frigidly cold because only thus can she meet him with perfect self-command.He pauses, standing erect before her, and begins at once his explanation, allowing her neither time for greeting or any other formality."I have called this morning, Miss Chetwynde," he begins, "because to sit inactive longer, in the face of all the miserable rumours that are current, is impossible. Once before you allowed me to tell you how I came to be in my present unhappy position. Then I told you that I would make no resistance, would remain here, and let you do with me as you would, since the only reason for my silence in regard to my share in your brother's unhappy death was removed when my sister learned the truth. Now I come to to

ask you, in Heaven's name, to act. I can face my accusers, but this ordeal at the hands of the public is too hateful for my sister's sake, for my mother's sake, if not for mine. And for your own sake let me stand where at least I shall not seem blacker than I am!"He has spoken impetuously, but Hope's voice is very low and lifeless as she asks--"What do you wish? I do not understand.""Is it possible? Can you not see that, having let all the country round know me for your brother's slayer, you can do no less than put me where the people may judge between myself and Felix Chetwynde? Yes, Miss Chetwynde. I would do much for you. Heaven only knows how much; but having publicly denounced me, pointed me out as the guilty man, you should end the drama and--""Stop!"--the lifelessness has gone from Hope's voice now--"do you mean--do you charge me with thus spreading abroad this shameful--this charge against you? Do you not know--" She stops breathlessly."I know little that transpires beyond my own door," he says, a touch of pride in the lift of the head. "I am the last one to whom such news could come because the one most concerned. My story, the truth about your brother's death, was told to you, to you only. How else should it have gone abroad? Pray understand. I do not dispute your right to make my--guilt public, but I had hoped it would have been in another manner.""In--what way?" Hope stands as one dazed."Can you ask ? You have been good enough to warn me that you have employed Sheriff Cook--and you could not have done better--but why, then, has he not sought me where I am always to be found now--in my home--with a warrant? I had hoped to spare my sister--and--your brother--""Oh!" Hope cries out, and then closes her lips as suddenly as she has opened them. "I have never wished nor asked," he goes on, "to be spared myself for my own sake."Hope sinks into a seat, and her head is bowed before him."But every criminal may ask for justice, and this I now demand. Since my sister will not believe my own confession of guilt, and since she must appear as an actor in the hateful tragedy, let there be no more delay, no more need for this hateful spreading of a garbled and untrue statement. Let the people hear and judge between Felix Chetwynde and myself!""Stop! stop!" there is fire in her eyes now, and she sits erect before him. "You must hear me now, Mr. Hilton. Sit there, please!"She speaks imperiously, and half-reluctantly he obeys her; and dropping into the seat she has indicated just opposite her own, he awaits her next words.
"You have spoken of Sheriff Cook. You do not know, perhaps, that he is absent now upon my business; I have put my case entirely in his hands with but one reservation. This, I cannot make known to you, but I must tell you now 'in justice,' as you have said, to myself, that the sudden spreading of

this story concerning you was as great a surprise to Mr. Cook and to myself as to you. As for its origin, it began with the fragment of an anonymous letter. Let me tell you all I can concerning this, at least."And she does so, not omitting the sheriff's efforts to trace the story to its source."And how," asks the young man, with his eyes upon her face, "does Sheriff Cook account for this?""He believes--we all believe--that you have an enemy.""I have but one enemy," he says, rising to go, "who can hurt me irreparably!"Slowly, as if by some volition other than her own, she rises also and stands again facing him, and their eyes meet and defy each other."I am not your enemy," she says dully, almost doggedly, inwardly she is fighting that other self that will not down. "I will say that much, I will!" it says fiercely, and then she is seized with a panic of fear. For he has taken a step toward her, and she sees through his eyes to his soul, and knows what he is about to say."I ought to thank you for even that," he says sadly. "I do not need to hear you say that you can never be my friend. That the merest strangers who may meet some day are nearer each to each than we--than I to you. To you that means less than nothing I know it well. To me--well, I have confessed to you my sin. Let me now confess my presumption, and absolve me, if you can, when you can. Why may I not say it, and

show you the depth of my abasement? To have slain one's one-time schoolmate would have been enough to embitter a brighter life even than mine. To have killed my sister's lover, no matter what the cause, should be horror enough to face through long days and sleepless nights; but what is left to the man who has shot down the brother of the woman he loves? Remorse? There are miseries far worse than remorse. And your sheriff can devise no punishment equal to that of this moment, when I stand--here and face the woman I have learned to love when to love was hopeless misery!"He draws himself up, and his pale face grows suddenly set and stern."I have said what I did not come to say, Hope Chetwynde; and now I add only this, I regard myself as your prisoner until this case is ended. When it is ended, if I am still alive, I will pray for delivery from a mad love, for pardon for my sin, and I will flee where I may never see your face again.""Coward!"What is it that has changed Hope Chetwynde's face to a sudden, glowing, burning, passionate beauty? where has fled her cowardice? her tremors? She has not moved one step toward him, yet she seems suddenly to have come very near. "Coward, after all your courage. Now--for the first--time. Well, go. But I tell you, Loyd Hilton, I would rather look from my window and see you pass sometimes, rather look in your eyes across all the sins and barriers of life once, twice, in each year, knowing what was in your heart for me, and that we might never come nearer, than to go

through life and never again see the face of the man I love. There, no, no. Don't come nearer. Go--you must go--now."Slowly, as if compelled by her great, glowing, commanding eyes, he backs toward the door, turns and opens it. Then, with a quick cry, he springs back into the room and catches Hope's tottering figure as she sways and falls, all the glow and fire gone suddenly out of her face.A moment he holds her close, then tenderly lays her upon the broad divan beside the fireplace, and bends as if to kiss her lips, only to start back suddenly and kneeling to kiss one limp hand instead, and thus to stride to the open door. Half-way down the hall Aunt Cass is coming toward him in bicycle array, having just returned from her "daily exercise.""Miss Chetwynde," he says to the astonished lady, "your niece has fainted!"As he hurries past her with a swift gesture toward the morning-room, Aunt Cass stares after him; and when Hope, restored and non-committal, is left alone at her own command still upon the divan in the morning-room, the little spinster walks out upon the piazza and looks away across the lake."In all my life!" she declares unto herself, "I never before saw such a look in the face of an unhappy man!"CHAPTER XXIV
"TRYING TO KNOW"THAT Loyd Hilton should feel strongly, be it sorrow or joy, without the cognisance of his twin, was impossible. And his mood for days before his visit to Hope had been one of gloomy anticipation and dogged resolve to meet the worst, and face it without flinching. "For Lorna's sake," he assured himself; but in his heart, deep down, lay the thought of Hope and the determination to prove himself a brave man if an erring one, as well as the resolve to be magnanimous toward the dead, and to seize for himself no advantage by blackening the fame of her brother.All this Lorna feels, and has felt, and there is no need for words between them; but Loyd's gloom has bred in Lorna a certain restlessness. The same feelings has prompted him to seek seclusion and solitude, urged her to look for companionship, and to seek, in the nearness of others, the atmosphere of kindliness and strength which her soul loved and demanded. While ever watchful of her brother, she yet held aloof and protected him in his solitude.

Usually Lorna has clung to her stepmother, and found comfort even in her silent companionship; but of late Mrs. Hilton has felt the restraint, the holding back of confidence which the girl has deplored, yet cannot overcome.In these days of dreariness there has been one influence, one atmosphere, which Lorna has basked in and longed for; and one other which has braced her to resistance like a tonic. It is Hope who has brought with her, for Lorna, the tonic atmosphere; and it is Aunt Cass--sensible, collected, unromantic Aunt Cass--in whose presence the girl has rested, and felt soothed and strengthened.From the beginning the spinster has stood staunchly by Mrs. Hilton, coming as often as possible to Redlands; and during the days of the sheriff's absence she is as good as, or better than, her word.In these days, as it seemed to Hope, her aunt was almost constantly awheel, and while the little spinster's outings carry her sometimes to the cemetery, and often toward, and very near, the cottage of Mrs. Rice--which now holds only the widow and her nephew--she also finds time to look in at Redlands almost daily, if only en passant, with some sage word of philosophy or cheer.At first Lorna has shunned her wheel, looking back with horror to that last fatal ride; and one of the spinster's kindly and wise efforts has been to overcome this dread.At first it is the pretext of a lesson in the uses of tool-bag, next a plea for companionship, and now, for some days, Lorna has taken a short ride along

the lake shore, sometimes alone, sometimes with Aunt Cass, but never once with her brother; and during these rides with her kind elder comrade the girl has grown more and more ready to confide in her, and to rely upon her good sense and practical judgment.One was a dreamer, the other saw the world through clear, wide-open eyes, but the one supplemented the other. One was ever ready to receive, the other, out of her strength, to give.Ten days have passed since Loyd turned from Hope's door a sadder and yet a happier man than he who had entered there; and Lorna, pedaling along the lake shore path, meets Aunt Cass, and wheels about to ride at her side, as she has done before of late.There is an earnest, asking look in the girl's face, and a pathetic droop of the rose-lipped mouth, that causes the spinster to look closely, and then to ask in her direct, kindly way--"My child, what is it? That old look of anxiety, of discouragement with all things, has got back into your face, your eyes! Is there a new lion to slay? and shall I draw my weapon and begin the combat?""It's the old lion, dear Miss Cassandra, or two of them. I think the one brought the other. I am so worried about Loyd! Since ten days ago he is different--somehow."Aunt Cass glances at her askance. She was absent from the villa at the hour of Loyd's visit, but she had been very observant of late, and has not

been above questioning Hope's maid, "for Hope's good.""How different?" she asks easily."Oh, I can't describe it as I feel it! Before this he has been so outwardly controlled, his face always the same; that repressed look, you know, which tells me, as if he said it, that he is holding back a burden of misery and hopelessness, and that he is strong enough to control what he cannot conquer. Do I make you understand?""Yes, dear.""Well, now, there are moments when he does not, or cannot, keep out of his eyes that inner struggle. But--most of all--there are times-rare times--when, for just an instant, his face lights up, and he looks like one who has won a fight, has conquered the last citadel, and is triumphant in the midst of woe. It is only a look, a gleam, and then it is gone."The spinster is silent a moment, then--"That is not a thing to be anxious about, my child. I am glad to have heard it. Don't dwell unhappily upon that. Your brother is a strong man, trust him, and--wait. Why"--with sudden change of tone--"I almost feared that your old dream, or fancy, had begun to trouble you again."If this is said to bring about a change of topic it has the desired effect. Lorna starts and almost misses her balance. "Ah," she sighs, "you must be a witch. I am more and more possessed with that idea, and last night, Miss Cassandra, I dreamed about it.""Tell me about it." They are riding along the

shore, and have now reached one of the wood, paths, lately cleared for the wheel by Loyd's efforts, and leading toward the west path to the Heights. It is a path heretofore shunned by Lorna, but to-day Miss Cassandra turns her wheel in this direction, and adds, "And let's try this path."As if unconscious of the way she is taking, Lorna swings into the wood path, with that graceful close curve her brother has taught her so well, and resumes--"Its all so hatefully distinct! I had gone to my room thinking of Loyd, and that strange change, now and then, of look and tone; and all at once the old puzzle came into my mind, as if determined to possess it--like a thought, you know, that you can't get rid of--and presently I was going over all the ground again--that ride to the Heights--the earlier talk--the strange feeling of languor and lack of will--the shadowy hour, or more, which seems like a lost dream--and then his wild words--my feeling of being fettered, forced out of myself; and then--oh, I won't go over it!" Her wheel turns unsteadily, and Aunt Cass drops swiftly from her own and says--"Let's rest here; there's a rise just ahead. We can sit by this tree--it's very pleasant--and you can finish your--story.""It always comes back to the same thing," Lorna resumes, when they are seated side by side, "and when I reached that point the same old question came up and asked itself over and over, 'What did I hear when I felt myself falling down and down? or did I hear anything? and what, when my face

was turned skyward and my body was upon the ground, did I see up above me? Was it anything? Was it a trick of my dizzy eye and brain, or was it a face? and if so, how could it fall! Oh, I don't wonder that the doctor told them all to pay no heed to my sick fancy, and mamma begged me to put it out of my mind, lest a mere fancy might mislead others, or cause them to think it an invention--to shield Loyd; Loyd--who is innocent!""And--the fancy--the vision--does it never grow clearer?""Never! but always the same. Miss Chetwynde, how good of you to let me tell you this thing that I have never ventured to tell to any other but Loyd. It was a relief to tell it to some one who would not try to hush me! If only I could remember it more clearly, and--oh, oh! if, after all, it should be him!""Close your eyes, Lorna; try to be quite calm, and see if you can see and describe your--fancy."Miss Cassandra speaks in her usual kindly tone, but her eyes are very intent and keen. Lorna shuts her own."I am falling," she says dreamily. "I do not look up, but the sky is suddenly above my upturned face, blue through a break in the leaves. Then--there is a face--just a face--and the eyes--I never thought of it before, but they are its prominent feature; I see the eyes rather than the face, and then--something comes, not from the eyes--the face, but straight down--just a swift gleam. It seemed as if the bushes rustled just then, and--that is all."They are both silent a moment, then--"Do you know, Miss Chetwynde, I have sometimes felt that if I were to go to that place and look up, as I did that day, I could be sure!"A sudden gleam comes into the eye of the spinster, but she turns toward the girl very deliberately, and asks almost indifferently--"Should you fear to try?"Lorna Hilton starts. "I have never thought-" she begins. Then, "Would you go with me?""If you wish.""I am not a coward, Miss Cassandra. Not afraid of real things, and I never harmed Felix Chetwynde. I beg your pardon!""There is no need. Of course you never harmed him. He harmed you, and I think, if you can ride so far, that is, that it may be the very best thing for you to go up there and try to see it all calmly. You are not afraid, but you have dreaded and hated the place. It is best often to face what we hate as well as what we fear. If you are sure that you wish it, I will go with you."Lorna rises slowly, a look of resolve upon her fair face. "Let us go," she says. "It will be trying to know--to understand--even if nothing comes of it."CHAPTER XXV
A FACE--AND A CHASE"HAVE you been here before, Miss Cassandra?""Yes, child, twice, and quite alone. I wanted to see for myself."They have left their wheels, and are standing close by the bridge, and about to cross."You are very brave.""Bless me, child! I did not come at night. Why should you or I fear these woods? Shall we cross!"Lorna nods, and, side by side, they go over the new bridge. As they step upon the earth on the further edge of the ravine, Lorna slips her small hand beneath her companion's arm, and, feeling it tremble, and the little thrill that shakes the slight figure, Aunt Cass puts her own firm palm over the soft nervous hand, and clasps it reassuringly, and so they go about this place of sorrowful memories slowly and together; and Lorna points out the log upon which she sat that day, and the bushes where Felix fell, taking her with him in a first and last embrace. But the visit shed no light upon her

dream or vision, and as they turned to go the spinster suddenly exclaimed--"Why, Lorna, you did not tell your dream after all!" She paused and leaned her back against a tree, with her face toward the bridge. "Why not tell it now?""If you wish." Lorna turns, and, facing her friend, begins--"I thought that I set out on my wheel to look for the face, and I rode a long, long way, and at last saw, far ahead, what seemed a bicycle, but as I came nearer it, it was the face, but it was turned from me, and the faster I followed it the faster it fled. At first it was a bicycle and a face interchangeably, but at last I gained upon it, and--What is it, Miss Cassandra?""N--nothing, child!" making a futile dab at her cheek; "at least, only a fly. Go on, please."She speaks easily, but when Lorna resumes, with her eyes fixed on vacancy, Aunt Cass turns her own keen orbs once more toward a certain point in the wood across the ravine, where, as she has known for some moments, some one is lurking. "As I gained upon the face," Lorna again begin, "it remained a face, and then it began to torment me by seeming about to turn, and I was in growing terror for fear it would escape me unseen, and then my wheel began to fail me, and I was in utmost agony for fear-- What is it?" for spinster has suddenly uttered a great sigh of relief and moved out from beneath the tree."I've been standing on one foot, child! Your wheel gave out. Do go on!""It almost gave out, when, just then, the wheel and the face were both just before me, and a great wall rose up ahead of us, and suddenly the wheel and the face began slowly, slowly to turn, and, just as my own wheel collapsed, my-- Ah-h-h!--the face--the FACE!"With arm extended, and dark eyes seeming to stand out from her ghastly face, Lorna stands erect for an instant, pointing straight over the spinster's shoulder, and then falls at her feet as limp and unconscious as on that other day when Felix Chetwynde met his death, and two happy homes were changed to abodes of gloom.And now, emphatically, we have "the right person in the right place." Hope Chetwynde, in her aunt's position, would have gone down upon her knees beside the fallen girl without loss of time, or so much as a glance beyond her.Aunt Cass, however, knows a "plain faint when she sees it," and, before Lorna's falling form has reached the ground, she has wheeled, and is looking sharply in the direction indicated by the girl's pointing finger.What she sees sends her rushing toward her wheel, with just a passing glance at her unconscious companion, crying as she goes--"Mr. Glynne, Mr. Glynne, come--quick!"Again the right man is in the right place. Terence Glynne needs no second bidding. From his leafy ambush he has not missed a movement of the girlish figure he loves to watch, even when hopeless of a nearer approach; and when Lorna falls he springs toward the intervening bridge, almost

cursing the brief distance that lies between them. At the middle of the bridge he passes Aunt Cass, and while neither pauses for an instant, she says, her voice rising as she passes on--"It is only a faint. Help her home!"Afterwards it occurs to both that to have reversed this order of things would have been eminently proper. But the eminently proper does not occur to Terry Glynne as he kneels beside the one only being in the world for him at that moment; nor yet to Aunt Cass, as, with wrath in her eyes, she seizes her wheel, and with one quick last glance follows in the direction taken by a flying figure on the other side, vaguely seen now through the intervening trees. She knew what she must do--and when was the time to explain?Time! Aunt Cass has supposed, until that moment, that she had at least mastered the art of mounting her wheel with all speed. She has never before realised that one must wait, always, with one foot poised until the right pedal has reached a convenient angle. She has never before observed how a woman, minus the bifurcated garment, having placed the foot, must balance, swaying in mid air while she wrestles with an undivided skirt, and at last wriggles into the saddle, and a proper position. And all the while she knows how, on the other side, just behind the three elms, a light figure is giving its own machine a little forward shove, itself a quick upward hop, and is seated and away. Oh, to weigh ninety pounds and to be a boy for just one half hour.But now she is across the bridge, she casts

another swift glance in passing at the girl already opening her eyes with a glimmer of consciousness, and dashes recklessly on.For a little way the path is difficult, but the waggon road, of which she has heard so much, and which crosses the wood belt and joins the "upper road" to Lakeville, lies in sight beyond her, and upon the path ahead, flying toward this wood, is the figure she pants to overtake. The figure of a boy in a shabby outing suit, and striped leggings, riding recklessly, yet skilfully, and fast--all too fast! Aunt Cass sets her teeth, leans over her handle-bar, and pedals faster and faster.For some distance the path winds, and the ground slopes very gradually. The going is better too, and the work in consequence quite easy. If the spinster is heavy, she is also strong, and for a time the fleeing figure ahead makes no perceptible gain.Then comes a big curve in the path, and the wild rider in rounding it, looks back, and Aunt Cass, bent over now like a veritable scorcher, hears a burst of shrill mocking laughter, that brings a dangerous flash to her eyes.On they speed. They have reached the upper road now, and the level track seems to rush backward from beneath the flying wheels. The lad in front skims along like a creature possessed; Aunt Cass is inspired with a fury of motion, and, as yet, no thought of fatigue. The cool air rushes past her in great waves--trees, fences, stocks, stones, and living things, all fly past, or seem to, each attenuated by the shortness of her passing vision; and still the two riders hold their own.But now, suddenly, and with another backward glance, the lad wheels out of the high road, and into another footpath, well worn, but narrow. It is new ground to the spinster, but she follows recklessly. This path, in places, is not quite level, not quite smooth, pebbles, like missiles, fly out from beneath the spinning wheels; the dust here flies like a sandstorm, and upon Aunt Cass the perspiration begins to stand out in great drops, and then to drip and trickle. Just beyond is a hill; she has never fatigued herself by attempting a serious hill, but she faces it now without a thought of flinching--with no thought save the wish that she could pause long enough to staunch that river of perspiration trickling off the end of her tip-tilted nose. Up the hill mounts the lad gaily, or so it seems, to his pursuer. And up mounts Aunt Cass. Drawing in a fierce breath, she urges on her steed, and, standing in the pedals bolt upright, she works on, vaguely wondering that the strength is in her, and panting more and more.At the top she would gladly pause; every breath seems gone from her body, her mouth is dry, and her tongue parched.For a little way now the ground is quite level, and the lad ahead seems to relax his speed somewhat. Aunt Cass begins to wonder where this chase will end. And now, by another swift turn, the leader in this strange race comes suddenly out--by what she now knows to be a "short cut"--upon a smooth highway once more, and for a little time pursuer and pursued ride smoothly, easily. Why the lad has relaxed his speed, unless it is, 

as seemed probable, through fatigue, his follower cannot guess, but she is thankful for it, and is meditating a sudden burst which shall bring them to close quarters, when her hair almost lifts itself erect, and a shudder shakes through her frame. Right before them is a long steep descent, trailing off at the bottom in a curve, the end of which is out of sight; and the lad, now at the very top, is already gathering himself for the rush.Aunt Cass catches her breath. The hill seems to her straight up and down; and then--the curve! The sight is appalling.At hills, up or down, she has heretofore drawn the line.But the lad is already off and away, his slim body held erect and motionless.Is she to be daunted now? Seized with the spirit of utter recklessness--or utter wrath--she shoves off, slides for a yard or two, draws her feet up on the fork, and begins to coast. The wheel seems to fly. Everything whirls before her eyes, which she longs to shut, but dares not, momentarily looking--literally looking--to be dashed to destruction.Half way down she feels--as by some second sense--dimly aware that the rapid flight is cooling her brow, and that her strained muscles are somehow soothed; but the feeling is momentarily only, and the next instant her prey vanishes around that awful curve, and she is shot across a terrace-like and almost level bit, and reaches its top in her turn.The boy must have pushed back his cap before taking the hill, for, coming out from the shelter of the curving bank above, a gust of wind takes it off,

and it goes sailing down before him; and, following the flight of the light head gear, the spinster fairly groans aloud; the railroad track runs squarely across the way at the foot of the steep last dip, and at this very moment a whistle sounds, close by, behind the bank. All things turn black before her for a moment, as the picture of herself, a mangled and inert mass, unrecognisable, and a thing of horror, swims lightning-like before her mental vision.It is rushing towards sure and certain doom, but she keeps on, her fascinated eyes fixed upon the fleeing form ahead.She can see the train now. They must meet at right angles, she knows, and she--she can neither stop nor turn back if she would!Her nerves and muscles seem paralysed; and--good heavens--the lad has struck the rails. He sways a bit--bounds lightly--he is over--and the train is just at hand!They do not see her! The engineer, the fireman, all are looking in amaze after the other flying figure. And now she has reached the track, and the great, looming, thundering creature, shaking the ground and roaring horribly, is just upon her. Thoughts of the Juggernaut flashes through her mind. "Fling yourself before it," something seems to cry to her, and then--once, twice, and yet again, the wheel bounds, wavers, zig-zags, and then--she is across the track. The train has passed just at her heels. She is safe! But, no! Did her heart fail her at last? Has she ignored the side track yet to be crossed. Bounce, bounce!From the sublime to the ridiculous, how short

the step! A woman run down, crushed, and mangled, by the day express is a tragic, an awful sight. A fat spinster scorching down a hill, heading off a train of cars, and herself taking a final header, after bouncing over the last rail, a header which causes her to disappear in a hedgerow of sweet clover gone to seed, until extricated by--can it be possible?--by the very lad she has pursued so desperately.Half a dozen rods away stands the station of the tiny burg they have reached all unknown to the spinster, and almost instantly there is gathered a curious, exclaiming group of would-be rescuers, and Aunt Cass, sitting, or trying to sit, erect in the sweet clover's embrace, too breathless, bewildered, and shaken to rise, to speak, or fully and at once to understand, sees the lad turn to the foremost comer."No, sir," he is saying with perfect gravity, and seeming candour, as if in answer to a question, as indeed it was. "No, sir, we were not together. No, I don't know the lady. She came down the hill just behind me; perhaps her wheel ran away. I did not suppose she meant to cross the track. I just happened to look back," then, as two or three women came hurrying up, he draws back."I think I must go now," he says modestly. "I hope the lady is not much hurt," and, as he sees Aunt Cass gathering herself together as if for speech, he bends towards her, meets her eye with a mocking devil of laughter in his own, springs upon his shabby but trusty wheeled steed, and is away; and as he goes, the staring crowd, as well as the speech-

less spinster, hear that mocking peal of laughter split the air, as the flying wheels bear him from sight.The sound does much to revive the capsized lady, and she sits more erect, and presently is lifted to her feet and helped across the way to the station.It has been a narrow escape, all admit, but there are no broken bones, only some painful bruises, a torn and "pulled out" gown, and a mind--but what feeble pen is sufficiently dagger tipped, what ink steeped deep enough in gall to portray the inward wrath of Aunt Cass? At this particular moment it is well for the fleeing lad that he is not in some remote corner alone with her, and at her mercy.Intense wrath is a great stimulant. Greater even than the glass of wine pressed upon her by a good-hearted, motherly woman, who earns the spinster's lasting gratitude by standing between her and the bevy of questioning lookers-on about her."Laud sakes! can't ye see't she's only shuck up like, an' out o' mind. Tell ye what, ma'am, ef ye'll jest come over to my place, right acrost the road, ye can rest up, an' get on to a train fer hum when ye get good an' ready."The good woman's "place" is a three-room cottage across the track, and very near, and Aunt Cass is glad to avail herself of its hospitality. Her wheel has fared worse than herself; and she could not ride it further if she would.
The train which so nearly ran her down was the day express from the south-east, running past the little stations without halt, and with scant slacking of speed, but two others pass, going east and west,

and by-and-by--stiff, and halting ungracefully, her battered wheel travelling by express--Aunt Cass creeps from her tormenting comforters, and boards the east-bound train for Lee, and the villa; a sadder but not a wiser woman.CHAPTER XXVI
TERRY MISAPPREHENDSTERENCE GLYNNE is a strong young fellow, sound in heart and in body. Life has never turned to him her cold and seamy side; he has friends, and fortune, and robust health; and nature and circumstances have combined to make of him a cheerful optimist.At first he has seemed undaunted by the tragic events of that day at the Heights, while he has deeply deplored them. Even his strong and earnest love for Lorna Hilton has not made him heavy hearted; he knows of no barrier between them, and he knows how to wait.This at first. Then Lorna--who heretofore has always met him with a smile of welcome, if not of actual encouragement--seems to change. At first he has thought it the natural result of her shocked and depressed condition; had even sympathised in what he thought her shrinking, for a time, from a meeting with one so closely concerned in the affair which has placed her in so delicate, so cruel a position--because of the reserve which must be

kept for the sake of others, -in part, and for her own sake as well.His own fine and chivalrous instincts have led him to refrain from seeming to seek her presence for a time, but when at last they are by chance thrown together, the pained look in her eyes, her affrighted and nearly silent greeting, and her almost instant withdrawal, gave him a shock that hurt, and which he could not understand.But it was nevertheless a fact. Terry was too clear-sighted, too honest, too much in earnest, to attempt self deception. Lorna, his one time friend, the cordial, candid, sympathetic Lorna, who never willingly hurt the feelings of any; Lorna shuns him, or meets him with too evident unwillingness and dread, and he never imagines why.Then comes Loyd's wild outburst, and the pain of hearing that the girl he loves is learning--too late--how much she has cared for the man who is dead.It is a crushing blow; and it is well for Terry that the rumours concerning Loyd Hilton's guilt, with all the flying gossip which follows its first appearance, comes to take him outside himself in his loyalty to his friend; for he has never once thought of abandoning Loyd, or of being the less ready to serve Lorna because she loved--or so he now believes--a man unworthy in life as in death.Anxious to serve Loyd, for that is to serve Lorna, he still knows that he must not claim the least knowledge of the affair, less for his own sake than for theirs; but what he can he does, chafing at the thought that it is so little. Whenever the miserable

story is so much as hinted at in his presence, he declares it a scandal and a folly, and defends Loyd, by argument where argument is comprehended, and by flat denials everywhere, and he is lawyer-like in dodging knotty and delicate points. But one day he is approached by Sheriff Cook. "I want a word with you, Mr. Glynne," the sheriff says mildly; and then, without any preliminary: "I wish you would take my word that it will be best for all concerned that you do not champion young Hilton too freely. We want no more complications, and too much talk may bring them about us. I am speaking in all friendliness mind. And, remember, the same hand which set this ball rolling may turn the light on other things," and he meets Glynne's eye, a look of meaning in his own. "Believe me, you can serve Hilton better now by silence. Later it may be well to speak." There is no explanation--only that look, and it sets impulsive, generous Terence Glynne thinking.The sheriff speaks as one who knows, and Glynne is not one to underrate the ability or the wisdom of the man.He has seen Hilton seldom of late, but they have agreed since the very first not to see each other too often, lest an appearance of intimacy and mutual understanding should provoke criticism, and it is an actual relief to Terry when he is called to the city for a time upon business connected with the management of a rather large estate, which for years has been the care of a guardian, and which has only within the past two come wholly into his own hands.He is not aware when leaving Lee that Sheriff Cook is out of town, and he has no time for leave-takings.He returns at last, after a longer absence than he could have foreseen, and his first thought is for Loyd and Lorna. He has no familiars in Lee to whom he would care to apply, for, by an untoward bit of ill luck, as he views it, his friend Harley is off with a fishing party.With his usual directness he seeks for the sheriff, and learns that he has just arrived and has driven out to the only home he now claims, his sister's home upon the outskirts of Lee. This is in the morning.Immediately after luncheon Terry again seeks Sheriff Cook, and it is only when he finds him still absent that he mounts his trusty wheel and goes to the villa straightway.But Terence Glynne, the near friend and confidante of Loyd Hilton, is not the man whom Hope can face with equanimity, not knowing his mission, and in the absence of her aunt; and so Terry finds himself denied."Miss Cassandra is absent," the maid assures him, "and Miss Hope is indisposed and begs that he will excuse her, and come--at another time." And then it is that with set teeth and the look in his eyes of a man who has resolved to know, and not to be thrust aside, he turns his face toward Redlands.From the first moment of their meeting, Mrs. Hilton has been glad to welcome Terry Glynne to her home, for his own sake; and it is for his own sake that she greets him with a shade of embarrass-

ment now, for, believing, as she still does, that Lorna is mourning for Felix Chetwynde, and knowing also the hope and the love which such men as Terence Glynne can no more conceal than they can their own honest manliness, she is ill-prepared to give him the comfort she would, or the news he seeks. She is somewhat anxious, too, for Loyd has gone out upon the lake alone. He does this often of late, she tells Glynne, and Lorna--this is the source of her chief uneasiness--Lorna, according to Higgins, the gardener's aid, has gone into the woods to the southward upon her wheel, and in company with Miss Cassandra Chetwynde; and, while the lady is glad to have Lorna in such good and safe company, she fears that the girl may overdo, in her desire to be with the kindly spinster, and venture too fast and far.When Terry turns away from Mrs. Hilton's door he rides slowly southward, along the lake shore, and presently he comes upon the trail of the two bicycles, their swinging curves distinct in the soft sand.Why shall he not follow them? He longs to see Lorna, if only for a moment, and Miss Cassandra is his friend, even as he is hers. She is so safe, so sensible, and--if Lorna is not too cold toward him--if she does not really shun him again, he is sure that Aunt Cass will give him the chance for just a word alone with her.The thought warms his heart. The trail is fresh, and he follows on, wondering much when it leads him directly to the Heights. There are moments in the lives of most when

formality, ceremony, the wordy, meaningless preface to the real thought waiting for utterance, all fall away, and human beings are as humanly direct as Nature's children were meant to be when Nature reigned.It does not startle Lorna when, arousing from her brief swoon, she sees Terence Glynne bending over her, and having seen him, she heaves a long sigh of content, and rests for a moment with her eyes half closed, then putting out her hand, she lets him lift her to a sitting posture, and glances about her. She does not ask how or why he is there; she does not think of it; she thinks first of the face, and then of her friend."Where--is she?""Miss Chetwynde? She rode off in hot haste in pursuit of some person of whom I could only catch a glimpse through the trees. She called, as she ran, for me to assist you.""Then--there was some one!" The girl's face begins to glow. "There was some one then! and now--now!--Oh, if Sheriff Cook were only here!" Her eyes are brightening, her breath comes almost pantingly, she is powerfully excited, and Terry begins to fear that some sudden fright has for the moment unsettled her already sorely-tried nerves."I was sure of it!" the girl goes on eagerly. "Almost certain that if I could only muster the courage--it would come back to me! And now--it has come, it has come! Oh--I don't see how I can wait--for that sheriff to come back. If only I could get to him now!"Her colour is rising; already she is struggling to

her feet, is moving toward the bridge. He must soothe her at all hazards, thinks this deluded lover; he must take her home at once."Miss Hilton," he says very quietly, "Mr. Cook is at home. He came this morning.""Oh! are you sure--sure? I am so glad! Now at last, I can go to him and tell him that there was another in the wood that day. Oh, I have so longed to be able to show them where to search for that other one, and now--" Is she growing hysterical? Her voice trembles and breaks; she stops and, leaning her face against a tree, begins to sob.Terry is almost beside himself. Has not Mrs. Hilton confided to him her fears for the result of so much brooding over her brother's unhappy position, of her talk--"wild talk," as the good lady has described it--of some one else--of a face she has forgotten and longs to recall, a face seen in the woods that day?And who should know better than himself that Lorna could have seen no face? He recalls Loyd's discovery, made from the tree top, of the carriage going so swiftly down the hilly wood road, recklessly, and without a driver. Can she have heard their talk in her half-conscious state, and imagined it some fleeing assassin whose face she has seen?Oh, it is folly to think; he must act, must take her home, before she grows really delirious, as she was at first, and as, the doctor has said, she might so easily become again.Suddenly the sobbing ceases, and she looks up. "Do--do you think I ought to wait here for--Miss Cassandra?" she asks anxiously."Not at all We ought to go at once, Miss Hilton. Miss Chetwynde put you in my care. She--there was some one she was most anxious to see." And now for the first time he gives a moment's thought to the spinster, and to wonder if she, too, had suddenly gone mad. But no, there is method in Miss Cassandra's madness, of that he is very certain. She has pursued in hot haste, and doubtless in wrath, some spy; there is evidently reason in her flight. And may it not even have been, in part, at least, for him--to give him the opportunity he craves?She has gone, whatever the reason, and he is here with this lovely, distraught girl. He must think--he desires to think--of her, and her only.Very gently he speaks, urging her to calmness; and humouring her strange fancy; and presently they are mounted, he riding close beside her, watchful and tender, and marvelling at her strength and sudden quiet. If she will only remain thus; at least until she is safe within her own walls!Suddenly she turns toward him."Mr. Glynne, I ought to explain my meaning to you, I know. Perhaps my brother has told you something--about the face--which I saw and was not quite sure--""Yes! "he breaks in eagerly. "Yes, Miss Lorna; Loyd and I are quite in each other's confidence, you know. You need not speak of it now. I quite understand--quite."Lorna thanks him, and relapses into silence; something, it is evident, is troubling her mind.Little more is said by either, and the girl's old

manner of reserve comes gradually back as they go on. She grows weary, too, and when they arrive at Redlands--goes at once to her room, leaving Glynne to explain to Mrs. Hilton."I'm so tired, mamma!" she says. "Please let me go to my room, and--Mr. Glynne--will you mind telling her? I cannot talk of it--now."Mrs. Hilton hears his story with a troubled face."I am not surprised," she says. "I have felt that if something does not occur to lift this stigma from Loyd's shoulders--""But she believes him innocent," Terry interposes."She does, firmly. But she has also grown to believe, or to fear, that the world and his judges will pronounce him guilty. It is this belief and this fear together that are preying so upon her mind, until now she is trying to believe in some other agency, some chimera. Oh, I wonder how it will all end!""It must not end ill for her if human power can prevent .it," he says, and leaves her with a strange; new look of resolve upon her face.Miss Cassandra arrives at the villa late, and "much fatigued"--or so she declares--going at once to her room. She gives no account of her afternoon, but she sends the "boy factotum," as she is fond of calling their lad-of-all-work, with a note of inquiry to Mrs. Hilton, and goes to her rest, only when she hears that Lorna is at home, fatigued, but unharmed.Next morning early a messenger comes from Redlands with a note for Miss Cassandra, which read thus--"DEAR MISS C.--The 'ghost' walks again. If

you can do so, come and stay with us to-night.--A. E. HILTON."The spinster reads this note and sets her teeth."It has gone far enough!" she declares, with fire in her eyes. "A fig for foolish promises! The sheriff knows how to hold his tongue at need."And while the morning was yet early she was off--this time in the pony carriage--to Lee and the sheriff's office.CHAPTER XXVII
A RECOILING VENGEANCEFROM the boat-house stretching northward, the path beside the lake shore lies open for a long distance, stretching back until the sand of the shore is merged into a grassy lawn-like slope, overlooked by the villa and going even beyond it.On the south side of the boat-house at Redlands there is much shrubbery, and the path passing both boat-house and dwelling goes along the foot of the lawn with a line of shrubbery, almost continuous, on the upper or land side, and merging into the shade of the wood to the southward.It is along this path that the Redlands ghost is seen to "walk," and to-night the preparations for watching are on a scale more extensive, ominous, and threatening, than any one of the avowed ghost-hunters guesses.Aunt Cass, who has arrived before sunset, will be at her post, with or without Mrs. Hilton, as that lady may think best. Later the sheriff--informed by the spinster--has promised the "haunt" a rendezvous "quite private and single-handed," and Higgins--

having overheard a word dropped between the two ladies--has also resolved to "have another shy at the ghastly thing." Higgins is rather sore at his former failure to capture or identify; and to-night he, too, promises to show his ghostship "a thing or two."Neither Loyd nor Lorna are in the secret, either of last evening's appearance or to-night's plans. But Lorna to-night has a secret of her own.A little note has reached her by the morning's mail--a note handed across the breakfast-table by Mrs. Hilton, and which Lorna read with a little thrill and shock, and then ignored, letting it pass, to the others, as of no moment."Miss Lorna Hilton," so runs the note. "If you would know the truth concerning both your brother and lover be at the boat-house to-night at ten o'clock, and standing in the door facing the path; stand outside, not in. You must come alone, and no one must know of your coming. The writer of this will also come alone and will tell all only on these terms.--I."Lorna is not a physical coward, and what will she not do to know the truth--the truth which must clear Loyd, and, perhaps--how she prays for it--his friend and--her lover also. She does not hesitate a moment. It is only a short distance to the boat-house, and she would venture even further for such a purpose.The ghost, on each and every appearance, has come from beyond the boat-house, or has vanished in that direction, fleeing past it, and up the Lakeside path, and the boat-house appears, to more than one, a point of vantage.At twenty minutes before ten o'clock a man's figure steals softly and silently across the park-like piece of woodland which separates Redlands from the high road, and through which runs the lane, opened for the use of the Redlands inmates. Skirting the northern boundary of the lawn, he approaches the boat-house, looks up and down the path, upon which in the open moving objects would be plainly visible for a short distance, and then dropping upon his breast draws himself, with quick, snake-like motions, across the path and into the darkened boat-house, where he seems quite at home, seating himself, after a little, in the curve midway between the window-like openings between the entrances on the north or toward the shore, and the west, or upon the path.Here, by leaning either way, he may look, without other change of position, through both openings, and here, for some time, he sits, as if waiting were a thing of habit.It is ten minutes later, perhaps, that a woman comes slowly and with cautious tread from the side piazza of the house, and, gliding in among a thick-set group of tall white lilacs and late syringas, stands there quite concealed, and close to the path, waiting, listening, peering out from time to time.It is just ten o'clock when Lorna Hilton, wrapped in a long storm cloak, glides out from the servants' entrance and crosses the lawn swiftly and shadow-like. She knows every foot of the way, and she does not hesitate. At the door of the boat-house she pauses, peers within, draws back with a little shudder, and takes her station just outside, as directed, her face turned westward.There is no moon, but the sky is gemmed with stars, and the air is balmy and sweet.As Lorna takes her place the first faint strain of music is heard, and she knows it to come from up the lake, from Lee or beyond, where a little pleasure steamer is starting out, up the lake or down, as may be, with its freight of pleasure-seekers."Is it going up or down?" she wonders idly, as she listens and waits, and presently her query is answered by louder strains as the boat, well in shore, comes slowly down.How loud the music sounds now in the still night air! It would quite drown any lesser sound, such as an approaching footstep upon the sand, or--is some one coming now? Some one close at hand? She leans forward to look, with one arm twined about the pillar against which she has been leaning.Just a moment before, the watcher among the lilacs and syringas has been startled almost into revealing herself by the sudden appearance, close to her, and just on the other side of her thicket, of a small figure encumbered with something which it deposits at the very edge of the path, against a small shrubby tree, and so close that she can almost reach out and touch it as it is being placed and arranged with such care.Aunt Cass, for the watcher is no other, feels a little triumphant thrill as she waits. "Ah, my clever friend," she says to herself. "That was well thought of to come in through the stable-yard and across the garden, instead of down the path as usual. Are you looking for a ghost, too, I wonder, or"--she starts thinking of Lorna, whom she has

seen, and has fancied out on a ghost-hunt like herself. Could this figure be seeking Lorna? As the newcomer steps cautiously out upon the edge of the path, Aunt Cass is thankful for the noise of the band so near them now, for, in moving to follow, she has caused the lilacs to rustle. But she is not heard; and unmindful now of the anticipated ghost, she creeps after the gliding figure just before, and going toward the boat-house.They are very near it now, and Aunt Cass, stopping as the other stops just ahead, sees with a thrill something drawn from the breast, held up to the eye for an instant, then clasped in the ready right hand, as the figure moves on. As it is raised aloft in the uplifted hand, a gleam of light glances from it, and the spinster shudders.Is it a pistol or a knife? She thrills with something like fear, but she keeps on, scarcely an arm's length behind the creeping figure.Boom, boom, tum, tum, tum! goes the music. No fear of being heard now. And now the path makes a little inward curve as it circles around the boat-house on either side. But the advancing figure keeps to the lower path, going between the building and the lake; and Lorna, waiting at the landward front, sees neither the first nor the second shadow as they slowly make the circuit of the boat-house, coming around and towards the waiting girl from the further side.But if Lorna does not see, some one else does. At least he sees the first figure as it creeps around the north-east curve of the little building and halts

an instant to raise and hold in readiness something at which he guesses, more from the gesture than from actual sight, and now the creeping figure, with hand uplifted, is at the corner. It peeps cautiously, to be assured that Lorna is still there, and then--There is a swift spring, a cry of warning, and a quick, upward blow at the threatening arm. At the same instant Lorna feels herself snatched backward and within the boat-house, and sees two flying figures, pursuer and pursued, hearing at the same moment the tinkle of falling glass upon the stone paving of the little surrounding portiere."Are you hurt, Miss Hilton?" asks a man's voice breathlessly; and even as she answers No, Lorna sees him spring through the nearest archway and dash down the path. Then there is a quick exclamation, in the same voice, and she hears--"Miss Chetwynde!""Mr. Cook?""Good heavens! are you hurt?""No, but that little beast, he--he threw me down, and it's no use, Mr. Cook, he's off on his wheel. Let's look after Lorna. He must have meant harm to her. What was it?"They are at the entrance now, and Lorna meets them there."What is it?" she asks, and at the moment there rings out a shriek of fear, or pain, or both; and at the same time a loud shout as of triumph."Stay here! Be careful! It was vitriol, I think!" With the words on his lips the sheriff is off in the direction of the sound.Higgins has done his work well. At the point

where the lawn merges into the wood, beyond and southward, the shore extends outward like a tiny cape; and here a group of trees has been cut through to open the path, so that at this point the shadows are dense across the way where the branches meet overhead.It is the only spot so covered, and here Higgins, heedless of possible consequences, and eager only "to catch the ghost," has set his trap and has succeeded beyond his highest hopes.Across the path, from tree to tree, he has stretched a tennis net. "Now then," he says to himself, "let it come a-sailin' along. If it's a live thing that'll stop it," and it did.Having placed his net, he has taken his station behind a tree, with a lantern, lighted and covered with a blanket, close at his feet, and when the sheriff reaches the place, he finds the man bending over a form lying in a horribly cramped position, and motionless upon the ground, the light of his uplifted lantern showing a pallid face, a boyish figure, and a wrecked bicycle, all entangled in a torn tennis net, which well-nigh brings the sheriff to his knees, as he comes hurrying on. At the next moment Loyd Hilton, with a second lantern, comes running up.Being men of nerve, they waste no words. The boy lies close to the foot of a tree, and when they lift him the blood trickles from a cut in the temple.There is but one thing to do, and it is promptly done. They lift the lifeless form, and send Higgins--frightened now, and ashamed, after a sharp reprimand from his master--running ahead to prepare the way."A boyish figure, and a wrecked bicycle." Under Fate's Wheel,
Page 290Illustration included in Lynch's Under
Fate's Wheel.As they bear their burden gently forward, Lorna and Aunt Cass come panting upland as the rays from Loyd's lantern fall full upon the still face, the spinster starts, looks closer, and, suddenly turning, hurries Lorna on.A moment later she meets them at the steps alone."Give me your lantern, Loyd," she says firmly, "and put him down a moment upon the divan while you go and care for Lorna. I have sent her to the kitchen on an errand, and you must not let her come back here until-" she glances down at the pale face. "Be careful!" she adds as they enter the door."Take him to my room," Loyd says, as they place their burden upon the hall divan for the moment, "and send some one for Jarvis at once."As he turns away Mrs. Hilton hurries toward them."What is it?" she asks, but Aunt Cass, who has pushed Loyd away from the divan and hurried him after Lorna, now turns and says to the sheriff, "Stand back," and ignoring for the moment Mrs. Hilton and her query, she kneels beside the divan, looks closely into the white face, and thrusts her fingers through the thick, close, clustering hair. Then she rises and loosens the collar of the négligé shirt."Mrs. Hilton," she says, turning suddenly, and suddenly becomes the cool commander. "You will have to give this poor soul another room, not Loyd's, and--call your woman. This"-pointing to the prostrate figure--"is--a woman.""A--woman!" For the moment Mrs. Hilton

has lost her gentle self-control. "Do you mean--a woman--and--the ghost?"And now Miss Cassandra feels a touch of the "nerves.""The ghost? Yes. She is the ghost! She has just tried to kill Lorna, or destroy her beauty with vitriol. She is also, I believe, the owner of the face of Lorna's dreams and visions. But--she has been half, or wholly, killed by your servant's trap, and--she is a woman!""Come!" Mrs. Hilton turns and leads the way upstairs, while the sheriff, after one glance toward Aunt Cass, lifts the slight figure, obedient to her signal, and carries it to the dainty chamber, at the door of which the two women stand waiting."The heart still beats," he says, when he has placed his burden upon the bed and examined it with quick, intelligent touch and glance, "and there is a weak pulse. Now for Doctor Jarvis.""One moment." Aunt Cass turns from one to the other. "Loyd and Lorna must not be admitted--must not know--yet. And--I will take charge of this girl--at least, until the doctor comes. Let there be no talk. I believe the key to our mystery lies there," and she points toward the bed.CHAPTER XXVIII
WITH THE SHERIFFLITTLE things sometimes turn the tides of great events.When Sheriff Cook arrived at Lee, after his two weeks' absence, he meant to see Hope Chetwynde without delay. But the first word addressed him upon his arrival was from a friend and near neighbour, and it told him of his sister's illness. She had been ill three days, and the case was now grown critical. Without waiting for more, Thomas Cook galloped with all haste to his sister's, and his own country home.All that day his thoughts were given to the sufferer, and he hardly left the house, But at noon of the second day the favourable change of the morning was confirmed, and pronounced permanent, and then he hastened to town.He had scarcely arrived at his office when Miss Cassandra Chetwynde appeared, and when he had heard her tale of the Redlands ghost he modified his plans."The ghost, taken alone, would hardly justify me, perhaps, in changing the order of my doings," he

said after some thought. "But when I consider the mysterious rumour concerning Loyd Hilton, and reflect that the rumour and the ghost have appeared almost simultaneously, I find the ghost of interest. I meant to visit you at the villa this evening, Miss Chetwynde, but as you intend to be absent, and the matter can very well be kept until to-morrow, I will come to Redlands myself some time near midnight. I shall not announce myself, and--do not look for me, Miss Cassandra. It is the ghost I shall come to see. I know the place to be haunted--in the opinion of the fishermen, at least. But the ghost has only recently taken shape."
And so they parted.
"My dear, I have promised to spend the night at Redlands. You won't mind being left for that time will you?"
This is what Miss Cassandra has said to Hope before setting out for her "ghostly" vigil, and it is all she has said, upon this subject; and Hope is not surprised. Aunt Cass is not given to explanations, on the one side; and Hope, on the other, would have let no thought of fear or the proprieties come between herself and any wish or plan of her Aunt Cassandra's, and fear the girl had none. Neither, at this time, did she object to a little solitude. She had so much to think of, and so much to hope for.
Now the sheriff had intended, before the visit of Aunt Cass, to go to the villa that night, believing that his arrival was by now known to Hope. But this was not the case, and so the spinster assured him. Hope's seclusion, and her lack of interest in small mundane matters, kept from her knowledge the

items of daily interest known to most, and in this case Aunt Cass, the only one at the villa who knew of the sheriff's return, had been purposely silent, so that when, soon after her aunt had set out for Redlands, Hope received a note from Sheriff Cook, it aroused her to interest and action.The note simply announced Mr. Cook's return, and the fact that he would visit her on the following morning at ten o'clock.And now Hope wished earnestly for her Aunt Cass, for the doubts and fears, so long pent up, now that they were soon to be confirmed or dissipated, seemed to clamour for utterance, and there could be no other listener but her sensible, sympathetic aunt.Early next morning Hope sends a note to Redlands informing her aunt of the sheriffs return, in all innocence of heart, and begging her to be at home without fail to meet him at ten o'clock.At nine o'clock, his good steed awaiting him, Sheriff Cook is standing at his outer office door studying the situation.When he left Redlands last night Doctor Jarvis was in attendance, and had pronounced the case critical. There is an injury to the skull, he said, which must in time affect the brain; and there are other internal injuries, the extent and seriousness of which he has not yet fathomed. There is also a dislocated wrist.The injured one is still insensible, and as there seems nothing more for him to do then, he prepares to go. As he bids Aunt Cass goodbye at the door of the sick room, she says impressively--"When she speaks--if she ever does speak--and the doctor thinks it possible, I think you will be interested in what she may have to say--that is, if I have not made a mistake.""A mistake! How?""Merely in the matter of identity." And she will say no more.The sheriff is thinking of this, and is asking himself if it is not possible to go by the shortest route to Redlands and still reach the villa at ten o'clock, when some one comes up the steps, and he turns to confront Terence Glynne.The young man's face is anxious, and he asks for a few words with the sheriff in a tone at once so grave and businesslike, that, in spite of his own haste and preoccupation, the officer turns and silently unlocks his door.Two thoughts have occupied the mind of Terence Glynne since his parting from Lorna Hilton at her own door yesterday: one that Lorna, whose vivacious sweetness and dainty beauty were made for happiness, was overwhelmed with sorrow, sorrow which, as he now believed, was blighting her health and preying upon her mind, and all because the cloud upon the fair fame of the brother she loved and believed in, seemed growing heavier and more threatening, with no hope of its lifting or changing. The other was the thought, the belief, that he, and he alone, may lift this cloud--for her sake.Shut out as he is, and has been, from the confidence of Hope and the sheriff, while worthy of both, and believing the return of the sheriff to mean the beginning of hostilities against Loyd, and his

arrest for Felix Chetwynde's murder; tortured with anxiety for the result of this climax, so feared and dreaded by Lorna, and never guessing the latent courage and strength of the girl seemingly so delicate--Glynne has come with a fixed purpose, which he announces to the sheriff with an abruptness which actually startles that usually collected and calm official."Mr. Cook, I have come, at the last moment, I am sorry to have to say, to give myself up for the shooting of Felix Chetwynde. I don't intend to make my confession needlessly black, nor more sensational than must be. I wish you could make it appear that I have not confessed, but that you have discovered my secret, but--""Look here, Glynne--""One moment, please; let me have it out, and make an end of it. It is true that I warned Loyd that the bridge was unsafe! It is also true--though you may not have known it--that I followed him--""Oh--um!" The sheriff has fallen into an attitude of intent listening, noting closely every shade upon the young man's face."I followed him, and saw--saw what has been described to you, I believe, but as a thing to be held back from the public if possible. I mean--the scene between Chetwynde and--Hilton's sister.""Yes.""I saw this. I saw him take her away. Hilton, I mean. You know of this, too?"The officer merely nods. What he is hearing seems, somehow, to be highly gratifying to him."What you may not know is, that I found a way to cross the ravine. I was boiling with rage! I could have throttled the man with my two hands! I could have hurled him into the ravine--if I had not had a weapon at hand. Mr. Cook, you and the doctor have marvelled at the direction from which the fatal shot must have come. You could not reconcile it with such facts as you knew. If you had turned your thoughts toward me--towards another direction, or, if you had investigated closely, you might have thought of--" "Stop! Without more words, are you offering yourself as guilty in the place of Loyd Hilton?""I am.""And--do you intend to make a full--confession?""No! My conscience does not urge me to that.""Yet you distinctly claim to be the man who shot Chetwynde?""That is what I claim, and I have wondered, more than once, why your suspicion has never been directed toward me."The sheriff turns and silently unlocks a drawer in the desk beside him."Did it ever occur to you that I had turned the eye of suspicion towards you--perhaps?""You!" Glynne's start is unmistakable, and, for a moment, his face is tell-tale. Then he pulls himself together again. "After all," he murmurs, "I don't know why it should surprise me!""Nor I." The sheriff suddenly takes from the desk drawer one of those small oblong leather tool bags used by the bicycle rider, and carried strapped

upon his wheel. "Do you recognise that, Mr. Glynne?""That!" Terry catches at the thing and turns it over in his hand. "Why, it's my tool bag!" he exclaims, in unaffected surprise. "Here's my name upon it!""When did you last see that little article?""Why, I missed--" Again he recovers himself. "Am I compelled to answer? I think not.""You need not. I found your bicycle bag at the Heights, near a tree only a few paces from where the body was found.""Ah!" Terry catches his breath."But that is not all, Mr. Glynne. Let me show you how well prepared I am for this visit. At first I did look upon Hilton as the person most likely to have done the deed. But the downfall of the bridge set me to studying things up there very closely, and one day--I had already found the little bag--I discovered, close to the edge of the ravine, traces of what I at first thought to have been a struggle. But a few days later I chanced to kick a long pole out of my path, and then to wonder how it came there. Taking it up in my hands, I discovered that one end had been sharpened, and that particles of dry earth still clung to it. Taking it to the place where I had found the footprints, I examined closely, and concluded that some one--an athlete he must have been--had leaped the ravine by the aid of that pole.""You were very shrewd," said Glynne gravely. "I admit it; I crossed by aid of the pole.""Next day," goes on the sheriff, "I prowled a little further out and around the place near the bridge, and found that some boards had been wrenched from the nearest fence. One could see little in the depths of that ravine, owing to its narrowness, and so I lowered myself down with the rope ladder I captured from the Hervey burglars, and, under the old bridge, just as they had been dropped, I found the missing fence boards. When, by inquiry, I found that the boards had been in place--the fence repaired, in fact--just two days before the tragedy, you can guess at my conclusions. Possibly you know something of that, too?""I know all about it. But, having confessed the deed, Mr. Cook, I will say no more--at least, not now.""As you please." The sheriff shuts the leather case away in his desk again, saying in a low, stern tone, and with his back turned to his visitor, "I keep this, of course. Do you know of any reason why I should not put you under instant arrest?"Again Glynne started, and this time flushed hotly, and again he restrained his first impulse."If I had not been fully prepared for that possibility," he replies, "I should not have come to you.""Well--I dislike to do--!" the sheriff, who having turned back now faces the window, stops short."Glynne," he says hastily, "Mrs. Hilton and her daughter are coming up the steps. Do you wish to meet them?""Not if it can be avoided.""Then I must ask you to step into that alcove behind the screen. There is a chair there. I will manage matters as I best can for all of us. I fancy they are only bringing me--a message."There is no time for hesitating, and reluctant, doubtful, Glynne slips behind the screen, and within the same moment the ladies are in the room.As they enter, the sheriff meets them, hat in hand."You were going out?" Mrs. Hilton says regretfully. "Can you give us, give Miss Hilton, just five minutes?"He bows, and before he has opened his lips Lorna is speaking."Mr. Cook, my errand may seem to you the weak, almost foolish whim of a fanciful girl, but I must tell you of something which has just come, fully--to my mind."Without naming her brother, or Terence Glynne, she tells how, when about to faint in the wood, about to fall, in fact, she had seen a face--or so fancied; for at first she doubted, thinking it might have been a vision of her sick brain. She describes the face looking down, and her memory of something darting swiftly downward, something like a stick or long weapon. She tells of her doubts and fears, and finally of her experience of the previous day; of her ride to the Heights with Aunt Cass, and the sudden appearance of a face looking out at her from the bushes; of her recognition of it, and of the vivid return of her memory.She was sure now that she had seen the face on the day of Felix Chetwynde's death, sure that it was no vision, no fancy."And how," asks the sheriff, "do you connect this face with the shooting of Mr. Chetwynde?""How! I have known, always, from the very first moment, that Loyd was innocent, and yet some one shot Mr. Chetwynde! May not this be the guilty person? Why not? The face, I know it now, looked down from the tree just overhead.""And--the something that fell: do you know what that was?"Again he turns to his desk, opening, this time, the long deep drawer beneath the writing-leaf, takes out something wrapped about with rolled paper, and stripping off this covering, holds it out before her eyes."Did it look like this?"For a moment Lorna starts as if fascinated, puts out her hand toward it, and then draws it back. "Yes!" she declares breathlessly, "yes! it was like that, I am sure. It was long, and dark, and the silver ornaments shone as it fell. What is it?" "It is a cane, and a somewhat odd one. Will you take it and show me how, in what way, it fell--whether straight down, as if purposely dropped, or over and over, as if it had slipped from the hand."Lorna takes the cane and holds it aloft."It came straight down like this," she says, and lets the stick fall from her hand. It strikes the floor with a queer little clicking sound, and suddenly the sheriff pounces upon it, and has it in his hands, bending over it, and turning it this way and that. Then he holds it out for them to see."I've broken it!" cries Lorna; and indeed it would seem so, for certain of the silver knob-like

mountings and scroll-shaped ornaments were loosened and displaced.For a moment the sheriff continues to examine the singular stick, then he looks up and smiles across at Lorna."You have broken a web, Miss Hilton! A web of circumstantial evidence strong enough to destroy your brother, but for this!" holding up the cane."What is it?" they both ask breathlessly."It is a cunningly contrived air-gun: the work of some French genius, I'll dare swear. It shoots without noise, and I believe the bullet taken from Felix Chetwynde's head will be found to fit it." Then, seeing Lorna's bewildered look, he exclaims, "Is it possible that you do not know that this weapon, for it is a weapon, was found close beside the dead man?""There is much that she did not hear," interposes Mrs. Hilton, "because of her illness, and the doctor's orders."The sheriff turns to Lorna."Miss Hilton," he says, with grave kindness, "I wish this thing might have happened earlier, or that your friends had recognised the courage which I feel sure is in you. For I honestly believe that if there had been perfect frankness between us, we should have been spared the complications which have followed the death of young Chetwynde. As it is, I have had to work out the case by myself, and if the finger of suspicion has pointed to your brother--""My brother is innocent!""I hope we may prove it so. Of one thing I am

sure--he would have been the first to come to me and tell his story, but for the fear of its effect upon you. Your friends hoped to spare you all knowledge of the truth. It was for your sake, too, that Miss Hope Chetwynde refrained, at first--until I already knew the main facts, indeed--from telling me what she might have told. And last, Mr. Terence Glynne has held his tongue, also for your sake, until your brother's name became mixed in the public mind, at least, with this wretched affair, and he too has chosen to sacrifice himself on the altar of friendship."Lorna's face flushes, her eyes droop, and her lip trembles."I won't stop now to describe the manner in which this rumour started. It did not begin with Miss Chetwynde, nor with myself, for we both are your friends; but Mr. Terence Glynne has proved himself the staunchest friend of all.""How?" Lorna's voice is the merest whisper."By attempting to shift from your brother's shoulders to his own the burden of accusation. By denouncing himself instead.""Oh!" cried Lorna, "why did he do it?" and, she covers her face with her hands, while Mrs. Hilton, hitherto so silent, asks slowly, gravely--"Did he say he did it?""Not in so many words," and the sheriff smiles. "Do you believe he did it?""Not the least in the world! If he had, he would never have let your brother figure for a moment as a suspected man. Ladies, I must ask you to defer further discussion for a little time. And now, how is your waif, your captured ghost?""In a most critical condition," replies Mrs. Hilton, "but conscious this morning.""Have you learned who she is?""No; Miss Cassandra Chetwynde is with her constantly, and we," with a meaning glance toward Lorna, "have been shut out by her stern command.""Which is just what I must do for you. I am due at the villa this morning on business of importance, ladies, and if you will allow me to bid you adieu for a short time, I think I can promise you some news before night."When the ladies had withdrawn, Terence Glynne came from behind the screen, a look of reproach upon his face."Mr. Cook, how could you?""Mr. Glynne, how could you try to impose upon an old bird, like myself, with such a chaffy story? Why, you can't even lie, much more commit a murder. You may have felt like shooting Chetwynde; we all do mental murder at some time or other. But you never did it, otherwise, though, I'll confess that when I found your little tool bag I did feel, for a moment, that you were worth watching, but I think I know now how the bag came where it was found; but that's another story, as they say. And now I am going to turn you out. Seriously, though, Glynne, 'twas a plucky thing for you to do, especially as I happen to know that you were on the ground. And when I consider your height and muscle as compared with Hilton's agility, I incline to the belief that it was you who took that flying leap across the ravine.""We will waive that question, Mr. Cook. I see

you are well informed. But tell me, why must you tell those ladies that I had made an attempt at high theatricals, and failed through my lack of wit, as I now see that I did.""Then you admit that you didn't shoot?""Sometimes I wish to heaven I had! I only lacked the weapon.""Well, honestly, I couldn't resist. I wanted that dainty lass to know what a brave man will do for--a friend. And it was a brave thing, Glynne, for I have at hand now enough circumstantial evidence against you to make your case a close call should it ever have come to court. It is this," and he lays a hand upon the air-gun, "which may, and will, I hope, set Loyd Hilton and yourself beyond all danger or doubt. And now I must be off! Look here, Glynne, you are one of the interested; you may be able to elucidate some point for us. I want you to ask no questions, but go, say in an hour from now, to Redlands. Go to see Loyd, and stick to him until you see me or are ordered off. This is business on the square! I want you there--I may need you; will you go?""If you put it that way, Mr. Cook, I can't refuse, of course," and Terence Glynne bows himself out with a very grave face."Gad!" mutters the sheriff, as he prepares for the third time to set out. "I am going forth to fight an unknown quantity, and my success, I fear, must depend upon--Aunt Cass."CHAPTER XXIX
A FALSE FRIENDAFTER dispatching her note to her aunt, Hope Chetwynde grows restless, and her restlessness becomes a fever of impatience, when the messenger returns, soon and alone, bearing this note from the spinster--"When the Sheriff comes bring him at once to Redlands. Tell him that I was right about 'the key.' He will understand and come readily.--AUNT C.""I should say so, indeed," ejaculates Sheriff Cook, when he has read this message, promptly placed in his hands upon his appearance at the villa. "Yes, indeed! Order your horse, Miss Chetwynde, and let's be off! I can explain a little, perhaps, on the way. Ah, that aunt of yours is worth a dozen blundering men!""But our business? " objects Hope, rebelliously. "I don't want to go to Redlands.""We are going there on our business, nothing less, and every moment may have its risk! Dying people don't wait for laggard mourners.""Is--is some one dying, then?" Hope pales instantly."Some one was seriously hurt last night. No more questions, Mademoiselle, until we are in the saddle. Then I shall have enough to tell you to last us to Redlands."As they mounted their horses Hope observed a long slender object, wrapped in paper and hung by a string over his saddle-bow."Are you carrying a sword so carefully concealed?" she asked carelessly, with an effort to curb her anxiety, and to seem at ease."No," he replied briefly. "I am carrying a cane which is a weapon, nevertheless." And he was silent until they were out upon the highway; then he reined in his horse, and when she had done the same, he asked, a kindly look in his serious eyes--"Shall I give you the result of my journey in one lump, Miss Chetwynde?""Yes," she whispered, her face paling."Then--it is as you feared.""And he was not--" she paused."He was not--Felix Chetwynde."As the Sheriff led Hope up the steps at Redlands, for she seemed weak almost to faintness, he asked--"Have I your permission to use this information as seems best to me?""Yes. Tell the truth, all of it! It is hard, it is pitiful, when I think of my brother; but I am glad that it is--as it is!"At the door Mrs. Hilton met them; and Aunt Cass, pale and weary-looking, was hurrying toward them

down the stairs. The sheriff went forward apace to meet her, and put out his hand."Well?" The syllable was a question."It is true! It is she. She is sleeping now, and will sleep some time, half an hour at least;" then, as the others draw near she lowers her voice, and for some moments they talk earnestly."That will be best," she says at the end, "and I will come down. The doctor is with her; he says it is our only chance."As she turned away the sheriff addresses Mrs. Hilton."Madam, will you call your daughter? Miss Chetwynde has consented that I shall relate in the presence of your family my experience while looking into the matter of the Heights. It concerns you all; and as I see Mr. Hilton and his friend Glynne on the lake shore, I will also ask them to join us.""It is true," Hope adds, in response to Mrs. Hilton's inquiring glance. "You have a right to know it all It concerns you all, and," with a weary half smile, "it changes everything."A moment later, Hilton, with the set look of a man to whom Fate has said her last word, and who expects nothing, yet will not yield; Glynne, puzzled, embarrassed, and eagerly expectant; Lorna, with her sadly wondering gaze; and Hope, schooled to calmness, and with the look of one from whose shoulders a burden has been lifted, all are seated in the drawing-room, eyeing the sheriff, who is speaking apart with Mrs. Hilton, but who ceases as Miss Cassandra enters the room."The doctor will inform us of any change," she

says, as she seats herself near Hope. "And--I think there is little time to spare.""In that case," says the sheriff, standing facing the group with his back to the mantelpiece, "I will explain. We have reached the end of the strange complication surrounding the death of the man you have all known as Felix Chetwynde, and before I add more, let me say to you, Mrs. Hilton, that I have just now been confirmed in a belief I have held from the first--I and your daughter. She, reaching her conclusions at a bound, through the wonderful intuition--telepathy would be the better name for it--which is the gift of some natures where the ties of blood are so close--I through my slower reasoning faculties. This belief, now become a fact, is that it was not your bullet, Hilton, that slew this man."At the beginning of this search Doctor Jarvis told Miss Hope Chetwynde that he had extracted the ball from the brain of the dead man, unknown to the coroner, and that this ball did not fit the weapon, which proved to be the dead man's own property, and which Mr. Hilton had used that day. I will only add that the weapon which the ball does fit is now in my possession, and that on the day after the tragedy I found the bullet from Chetwynde's pistol lodged in the tree beneath which the body was found. This may explain to all of you why, during all the public clamour, I made no attempt to arrest Mr. Hilton, although I kept a strict watch upon his movements, until I became assured that he did use Chetwynde's pistol, and of this I became certain by degrees. I have already, at different times, made known to Miss Hope Chetwynde such progress as

I made--at least the certain discoveries. Later a suspicion took form in my mind, which I did not venture to put into words until one night, spent at the villa, during which I occupied her brother's room, and examined his correspondence, the entire contents of his writing-desk, in fact, 'as well as other things.'"The sheriff has kept on with his speech, allowing Loyd no opening for questions, and giving him time meanwhile to recover from the shock of the happy news. Aid now as the young man essayed to speak he waved him to silence--"Not yet, Hilton! You can talk presently. In fact, I intend, after a little, to ask you to give us your full and complete version of the events of that half-hour on the Heights. Now I must simply sketch my own movements."It was some time before I became assured that you, Mr. Hilton, were on the scene that day, and this was only when I had traced your movements from the time of your meeting with Mr. Glynne, here, to your arrival at the Heights, or a week after the event.""I would like," broke in Glynne here, "to know how you did that?""I began," smiled the sheriff, "by convincing myself that neither of you were elsewhere at that time; and then by much questioning and beating about the bush--for you have staunch friends, gentlemen, at home and abroad--I traced you, both of you, to the Heights with your wheels."At about this time a bit of information given me by Miss Hope Chetwynde, merely in passing, and

not as a thing of importance, began to suggest to me that this matter might be much more complicated than it seemed. Miss Hope had told me of a lad who asked leave to look at the dead man on the day, and almost at the hour, of his burial. I gave it only a passing thought then, but later, when Miss Cassandra Chetwynde told of a visit made by her to the cemetery, and of finding a quantity of roses--red roses--on the new-made grave, Miss Hope was reminded that this lad had slyly thrust red rose inside the coffin lid on the day of his visit."Now, I had already learned that red roses often appeared upon that grave, and was about to develop matters in a new direction, when I chanced upon certain documents in Chetwynde's desk."I had discovered the tracks made by Mr. Glynne's flying leap at the edge of the ravine. At first I took them for signs of a struggle there. I had ferreted out the hiring of the mules by Chetwynde, and how they had brought down the bridge. I had found the missing fence boards at the bottom of the ravine; I had found Mr. Glynne's little tool bag, lost off his wheel at the Heights; I had also studied the character of Chetwynde, as it was known among men. And I had constructed from all this, together with Miss Hilton's statement of what she could recall, a theory, namely, that Chetwynde, determined to win a bride, by fair means or other, had arranged his plans. I had also learned of the horse and buggy hired by him and waiting near by, how he had beguiled the lady to the spot best suited to his purpose, and, by using his strong mesmeric powers, was about to force her to flee

with him, when her brother, coming to warn them of the unsafe bridge, arrived at the critical moment, and, unable to reach the miscreant, had fired at him across the ravine; after which Glynne had come to the rescue, as you already know."Here, for the first time, Lorna lifts her flushed face to look, oh, so penitently, at Terry, and meeting his eyes, lets her own drop quickly."I had arrived at this stage, and would doubtless have moved upon the enemy--yourselves gentlemen,"--bowing to Terry and Loyd--"with a pair of warrants, for principal and accessory, when Miss Cassandra's discovery saved me from making a donkey of myself. It was really Miss Cassandra Chetwynde who put me upon the right track. Miss Chetwynde," bowing to the little spinster, "may I tell your adventures as you told them to me?"Aunt Cass nods, and the sheriff briefly relates the visit to the cemetery; the discovery of the roses; the meeting with Mrs. Myers; how that lady appeared later, under his escort, at the doors of the villa, and how the two became guests; how Miss Cassandra had discovered the lady guest in bicycle costume, in spite of her denial of any knowledge of the wheel; and, finally, of the spinster's visit to the widow Rice and its results."And now," he says, becoming at once graver and more severe of countenance, "I have to tell you of my discoveries in the dead man's room."He turns his gaze towards Hope, as if asking her consent and forbearance; and she, interpreting the look, says firmly--"Tell all, Mr. Cook. Our friends have the right to know. In a way, it concerns them all!""I had observed," the sheriff resumes, "on more than one occasion signs of anxiety and uneasiness in Miss Hope Chetwynde, which led me to think that her mind was burdened with some doubt, fear, or suspicion of which she could not bring herself to speak; and when she came to me one day and placed in my hand that article"--pointing to the stick which he had unwrapped and placed upon the table--"which, as you all now know, was found beside the body, and offered me for the first time, the freedom of her brother's closed-up rooms and effects, I know that this unspoken anxiety related in some manner to Chetwynde."Now, this man, all his life, must have had strong faith in his lucky star; for he took serious risks, was careless, in fact. Among his papers and scattered letters I found occasional notes--memoranda, it would seem--jotted down for his own guidance. And there was a little book full of these." He draws from his pocket a little red morocco note-book, and opens it. "Let me read you a paragraph or two--"'Item.--Must not forget that F. C. was always good to little sister.'"'Item.--Not to forget that F. C. was fond of cats, dogs, and birds, and was a studious fellow. Oh, lor!'"'Item.--Bear in mind that F. C. is fond of books, music, and "refined plays."'"These items, and more of the same sort, furnished me with suggestions of a new and startling nature. Why, I asked myself, should Felix Chetwynde make such notes as these? I turned from the desk to a myself where such a man would be most likely to

keep his most private and secret documents. Looking about the rooms, I noticed a small trunk bearing marks of much travel. I drew it out and looked it over. At one end was a large canvas-lined card or label, one of the sort meant to withstand water. It was nailed on with so many stout brass-headed nails that it made me wonder, and it was so large that it could have contained the name, Felix Chetwynde, several times over, and have space to spare. I had come to the villa prepared for work, and I had in my pocket the little implement which helped me to draw those nails with considerable effect. I must admit I had decided that the big label covered something, and I found myself right."When it was at length removed, I found that a name had been outlined upon the trunk leather with brass nails like those I had removed. The nails had been drawn out, but the perforations remained, and they formed a name--it was not that of Felix Chetwynde."He paused a moment, but no one spoke. There was absolute silence in the room."It did not take me long after this discovery," he went on, "to force a way into the trunk. At some other time I will tell of my investigations more in detail; just now I need only say that I found a mass of evidence, such as handkerchief having two sets of initials, pipes and knives bearing the monogram W. B., and sheets of paper bearing evidence that an attempt to copy another's handwriting had been persistently followed up, and took for future use this note-book, a woman's picture, a soldier's journal, and an old 'tintype,' so called--a faded picture of

two young men in uniform, who in size, form, and feature resembled each other."He took from his pocket the pictures and the journal, and laid them upon the mantel beside him; while all, save Hope and Aunt Cass, looked and listened in wonder."With these to aid me," he went on, "I set out in search of history; and, unlike most students, I read my history backward. I went first to the school where you, Loyd, and Glynne also, I believe, passed your last year of school-life, in company with the man whose death has caused us all to come together here to-day. I showed the faded picture of the two 'regulars' to the three of the faculty who had been longest in the college, and asked them which one was, in their opinion, Felix Chetwynde. With one accord they pointed out the one on the right of the picture. Then I visited the academy in another state, where young Chetwynde, in his parents' lifetime and for one year after their death, was sent to school."It was more difficult to find any who remembered him; but I finally found one of the old teachers still there, though not then in the academy, and he named for me two young men, formerly Chetwynde's class-mates, and now in business together in the university town, and these all declared, on seeing the picture, that the one on the left was Felix Chetwynde."My next journey and search was longer and more difficult. But the journal gave me the name and number of the company and regiment in which Felix Chetwynde, under the name of Hall, had been

a sergeant. After some time I found an old regimental officer or two--one of them formerly the captain of the company to which Hall had belonged, and also several re-enlisted men. One and all, these identified the soldier on the left in this picture as Sergeant Hall, and the one on the right as a young man named Beale--at one time a man in the ranks and of the same mess with Hall."From the officer, who in Hall's day had been Captain Lewis--Colonel Lewis now--I learned these facts, for which this journal," holding up the worn little book, "had in part, at least, prepared me."In the summer of 1889 Hall and Lieutenant Beale, who had not ceased to be friends because of the promotion of the latter, were sent out with a part of their company, under Captain Lewis, to settle some little difficulty in one of the far western reserves. They were soon to be mustered out, and they came back from their foray some two weeks before that time."When only half a day's ride from camp, Hall was hurt by a fall from a half-broken horse, and was sent, under care of Lieutenant Beale, to the nearest ranche, the trip to camp being a rough one and too long for one in Hall's condition."They went to the ranche of one Jim Harch, and here, on the second day, Sergeant Hall died of his wounds. He left all his belongings and his farewell messages to his friends in the care of Lieutenant Beale, in whom he trusted implicitly."Two weeks later Beale, still in camp a two hours' brisk ride from the ranche where Hall died, was mustered out, and he left the west hastily and in

very bad order, taking with him the farewell messages and the effects of poor Hall, and also the pretty daughter of Jim Harch, the owner of the ranche."While uttering these last words the door has opened slowly; and looking up as he pauses, the sheriff meets the eye of Dr. Jarvis."You will understand why I have told you this tale of western life," he says, "when I add that the dead man, known to the west as Private Hall, was, in reality, Felix Chetwynde; and that the man who was killed at the Heights was his false friend, Lieutenant Willard Beale, who, profiting by his resemblance to his friend, and knowing his history, has usurped his place. One word more, and then we are to hear the last word, the solution of the mystery surrounding the death of the false Felix Chetwynde, and that word lifts the last doubt, the last suspicion, from either of you gentlemen. Neither the pistol of the dead man--in your hands, Mr. Hilton--nor the other weapon, lately discharged and lying in your room--you did not know that I had looked so near home, did you?--took this man's life. This did!" and he holds up before them the silver-mounted cane. "It looks innocent enough. In reality it is an air-gun. I have submitted it to expert gunsmiths, and they tell me that there are not half a dozen such in all the world.""And now," turning toward Miss Cassandra, "we have all to thank Miss Cassandra Chetwynde for the final solution of this strange affair. But for her quick instinct in the beginning, her keen eye for faces and expressions under any disguise, her courage, and finally her Christian kindness to

unfortunate and suffering transgressor, the cloud might still hang over this house! Doctor, at last we await your directions.""She wishes to see Miss Chetwynde," says Doctor Jarvis, and nods toward Aunt Cass, who leaves the room quickly, the doctor remaining near the door.During her brief absence not a loud word is spoken; only Lorna, leaning toward her brother, puts out her hand to him; and Mrs. Hilton, seated between the two girls, places a hand upon Hope's, and presses it gently, whispering--"It is better so, is it not?""Oh, so much better," murmurs the girl. "My poor Felix died a true man and honest, if reckless and a rover. Mr. Cook has brought me a letter from the Captain Lewis of whom he has spoken. It is sad, but far, far better than the other.""Did you never doubt him?" meaning, of course, the false Felix."From the first I could have been tortured by doubts if I had not fought them back, charging all changes, all that seemed unlike my tender-hearted, generous young brother, to a wild life among wild, rough men."And now the door opens."Come," says the spinster. "I will lead the way; and Lorna, my dear, she must not see you, and you must have charity. Doctor Jarvis will place you where she cannot know of your presence. I want you all to hear her."CHAPTER XXX
AND LASTIN silence they file into the room and group themselves about the bed, the spinster close to the pillow, Mrs. Hilton opposite, with the doctor at the bed's head, close to the patient. Mrs. Hilton bends a kindly glance upon the small, pale face with the burning eyes; but Hope presses close to the bed, stoops down, and, looking with infinite pity into those dark, inquiring orbs, whispers softly, "Poor child, I am sorry for you--so sorry!""You don't know!" breaks from the pale lips."I can guess, and I am sorry just the same."For just a moment the wide open eyes droop their lids; then the sheriff and the two young men take their places, not far from the foot of the bed, which faces the window, the light from which shines upon the weird, pinched face, already bearing the stamp of death.A moment the dark eyes range from face to face. Then she says, in the weak but clear voice which halts at times, as if to husband its strength--"She--did not come--then?""I thought you would not wish to see her," says Aunt Cass gently. "Do you?""No. I might grow weak and ask her to forgive me, and--I don't--want--her to!""You must save your strength, you know," admonishes the doctor, as if addressing a child. "Say what you most wish to say--first.""First!" A gleam of sarcasm leaps to the dusky eyes. "As if there would ever be any 'last'--for--me!"She turns her eyes towards the spinster, and a softer look comes into her face."Shall I begin? Are they all here?""You know Mrs. Hilton, in whose house you are, surely?"The roving eyes turn toward the lady."You are a good woman," she says, very low. "I can say I am sorry--to you.""I know--I understand," murmurs the lady, and lays a soft hand upon the jetty curls."And you"--the girl looks at Hope--"you were very sweet and kind to me--once.""I wish I had been kinder," whispered Hope, and a spasm of pain crosses the girl's face."I tried to hate you--once," she says. "I thought you were--his sweetheart--then."Miss Cassandra bends over her, and whispers softly, "Remember!" And again the dark eyes turn to her face and linger there. Then she turns them slowly to where Loyd Hilton and his friend stand side by side."I want you both to know," she says slowly, "that I saw you that day at the Heights. I want to

tell you that you are free, from to-day, from any blame or suspicion. It was I who killed the man you have all called Felix Chetwynde. I shot him with his own air gun--the gun he had more than once threatened to turn upon me to silence my tongue. I am going to tell you why." She raises her eyes to the doctor's face."Higher!" she says, and when she is lifted and pillowed higher she hurries on with a sort of feverish eagerness. "He says I may talk, that nothing can hurt me now, and I prefer to tell you myself. If I--stop--she"--with a look of submission toward the spinster--"will finish the story. It is not long."I was just fifteen when Willard Beale came riding up to our ranche in the far west, bringing a sick comrade to us for shelter, because the road to the post town, farther on, was too hard and long for him to travel. The name of the sick man was Hall--at least that was his army name. There are many false names among the privates out there. I had never known such a man as Lieutenant Beale--so handsome, and a gentleman."I did not care for him at first, but we got acquainted out there very soon."I need not talk of that time. I know now how old my story is all the world over. One night we had stolen out from the ranche to go to the post town to a circus. I had never seen a circus--it was the first in the town--and I went wild over it, especially the wheel--the bicycle--which was a wonder to me, and fascinated me utterly. Then and there I determined to run away and learn to perform upon a wheel."I told him of this wish as we rode home, and when we parted I could not sleep for thinking and planning."I knew he was still up, and I crept out to talk with him more about my craze. I cared far more for it than for him then."He was not outside the house smoking, as I had expected, but I heard his voice in the room where the sick man lay. I sat down close under the window, not thinking of their talk at first, and I heard the sick man--your brother, Miss Chetwynde--tell of his home, of his sister, who was so sweet and good, and of his regrets because he had made her trouble."He knew he was dying, and he asked Lieutenant Beale to carry home his dying messages when he should go out, and his love to his sister. He left all he had to the lieutenant's care, and the false friend swore to fulfil all his wishes."She paused a moment. Hope was sobbing softly, sitting upon the foot of the bed with her face in her hands."The next day," went on the girl, with a troubled look from aunt to niece, "the sick soldier died, and two weeks later I ran away from my home with Lieutenant Beale. In that time he had taught me to love him. He seemed to make me obey him, even against my will. I won't trouble you with my story. I did learn to ride the bicycle. I became a professional rider, and because Will was jealous--that was at first--I rode as a boy. After a time trouble came. We quarrelled and made up again and again. Sometimes my money supported him

for weeks. Then, all at once, he told me he was going abroad, and I believed him, and nearly died of grief. Six months later I found him, by accident, in a town where we were performing. I had joined a circus then, and we were friends for a little while. He was studying in a college there, and I had to go on with the company. He told me he was studying law, and I--fool that I was--felt proud of him. It was then that he came to see me one day--we were showing a week at a resort a few miles from the college town--and brought with him the 'stick,' as we always used to call it. He had won it at cards, after winning all the man's money; and when I found, as I did almost at once, that he had assumed the name of Chetwynde, and I threatened to expose the fraud, he flew in a rage and threatened to shoot me with it--the stick, you know. I had handled it often, for I know how to use firearms, and he had showed me the trick of the air chamber. He had often threatened me with the thing before when things went ill, and now, when he again threatened, I watched my chance to steal it from him, for I really began to fear it.""Won't you rest a moment?" asks Mr. Hilton gently, but the girl shakes her head."I must finish now," she says, and hurries on. "On the last night of our stay, he came a little the worse for wine, which did not happen often. He dared not lose his wit, for he had become what people call a 'card sharp,' and needed all his senses. But this night he had left them behind, and when I hid the stick he never missed it." Again for a moment she looks toward Aunt Cass, and a small

brown hand goes out toward her. The spinster takes it, all blood-stained as it is, and holds it quietly in both her own."The next time I saw Willard Beale," the girl says wearily now, "was at Manhattan Beach Cycle Track, where I gave some exhibitions of trick and fancy riding. He was with you, Miss Chetwynde," looking again from aunt to niece. "I was on the high trestle, and the shock of seeing him there with his sweetheart, as I then thought, made me lose my poise, and fall. It came near being my death. I wish now it had! No, I don't mean that; he is better dead, and it will soon be all the same to me."From the moment of my seeing him thus, I never again lost sight of him. I found out the game he was playing, and I began to torment him. I took lodgings with the widow Rice, who, as I soon found, would ask no questions if she was only well paid. I told her I rode the wheel in boys' clothes because of the greater safety for a woman alone, and for the greater ease of movement. She thought me an actress, and to her my little trips upon the wheel were all 'larks.' I let her think so. I had listened and questioned where I could, and had found out that Willard Beale was making love to some rich girl. Then I went raging mad, and wrote the note which, I felt sure, would bring him quickest to the Heights, first, because he dared not stay away; and next, because he was wild to recover his 'stick'--a little water, please." They give her the drink, and, save for this, there is no sound nor movement. In the rear of the room where Lorna

has been sitting she now stands, her head bent forward, and her face eager and horror-stricken."I was in the woods early," the girl resumes. "I was too restless to wait for the appointed hour, and the sight of my recreant lover across the ravine astonished me, for it was two hours or more too early. A moment later I saw his companion, and, fired with jealous rage, I began to watch them. When they neared the bridge I hid my wheel, and in doing so discovered the horse tied to the fence."When he went to drive the mules across the bridge their backs were toward me, and, under cover of the noise the animals made in crossing, I climbed into the tree, where I sat, it seemed to me, a lifetime. "I watched it all, and knew that he was hypnotising Miss Hilton, for I knew of this gift--or curse. I can't go over the story of that long watch, but little by little I realised his purpose, and was resolute to foil him. When they came directly beneath me I trembled lest I might be discovered, but he never took his eyes away from her face. Then, at last, came the final effort, when he went too far, and awoke some strong chord of opposition in her nature. Then she struggled to escape him, and cried aloud for help."When he began to pour out hot love words, swore he would never let her go, and caught her up in his arms, I pointed the air gun--which I had taken for another purpose, and had not dared to leave beside the wheel--I thrust my arm straight down through the branches and leaves and deliberately fired, not knowing whether the ball would strike him or her, and not caring then. At the

very instant when I fired, and they fell, my eyes met hers full, and I was sure she saw me. Then came that other report, at the same instant almost, and it startled me so that the air gun fell from my grasp. How I got down from that tree when the two young men, whom I had not seen until after the pistol shot, were not looking, I need not tell. I stole to the carriage, which I felt quite certain was there awaiting the dead man's use, and, fearing pursuit if I took the cycle track, I got my wheel into the carriage, and crouching down beside it so as not to be seen from the hill, I set the horse off with a cut of the whip, quite sure that the cyclers would not attempt that rough waggon road in pursuit."My one desire then was to put space between myself and that spot upon the Heights. I got on the train at Lakeville, and went straight to the city. On the train I saw Miss Hope Chetwynde, another sweetheart I supposed her then, and, jealous still, and eager to hurt others as I had been hurt, I wrote a note, accusing her lover of falseness, and then hinting at his death. I hardly knew what I wrote, and I managed to toss it into her lap unseen. When I went to the villa to try and get one look at my dead lover's face, I learned for the first time my mistake, and my hate and jealousy all turned toward Miss Hilton."When I met Miss Cassandra Chetwynde at the cemetery I feared her keen eyes, but I could not resist the temptation to go to the villa that night, hoping to get into his room. You knew how I was baulked then! Then I began to play ghost at Redlands, with the aid of my wheel and some of

my trick riding, in the hope, sooner or later, of getting the chance to do Miss Hilton an injury. When I encountered the two ladies at the Heights, I knew that Miss Cassandra suspected me; and when I found that the sheriff was again in Lee, I determined to make an attack upon Miss Hilton and go away at once. You see how that has ended. As for the tales about Mr. Hilton, I set them going because he was her brother, and I hated her and longed to make her suffer as I did." Her speech for some moments has been gradually growing slower, with longer intervals between the sentences, and now she pauses, and seems thinking, and gradually her gaze fixes itself upon the face of Hope Chetwynde, and as she looks Hope bends closer, drawn, it would seem, by that gaze."What is it?" she asks in a half-whisper. A look of pleased surprise dawns upon the pallid face."You knew," she says, "that I was thinking of you. May I ask you a few questions?" and the look in the eyes grows pathetically eager."Anything, if you are strong enough." Hope's voice is very kind."Ever since that day when you let me look at him, I have thought about you often. You have always been good? Always been happy?""Good!"--having promised to reply, Hope does not hesitate--"I fear not--not always. And happy? Except for the loss of friends I have had no troubles.""I knew it! And you were taught goodness, and about God and heaven, and how we ought to live, were you not?""Yes," Hope replies wonderingly."Do you think that you and I, when we were little children, could have been alike--were born so, I mean, I as good as you?""I am sure of it, child!""And if you had been in my place--if you grew up among rough people--bad people? What if your mother died--the only one who was good and wise and kind that you had known--if she had died when you were just a child?""My mother did die then.""But"; and here the girl's eyes go swiftly from Hope's face to that of Aunt Cass. "But you had her; and oh the difference!"Suddenly Hope leans forward and catches the girl's hand lying limp and white upon the counter-pane. "Listen!" she says gently, firmly. "The difference will all be in your favour. If I had done what you have done mine would be the greater sin, for I knew. We came into this world alike, equal; you, Lorna Hilton, and I. The same God sent us here, the same will judge us. And if Lorna and I have been given more of love and care and friends, we shall be accountable for more. And if we sin, our sin is greater, because we knew. If you have done wrong, your Judge, who knows how you have lived, lacking the things given to us, will judge you less severely, and will forgive you the more readily because of these things. And you, poor child, if I had been in your place I might have been a worse woman, perhaps. If your sin has been great, your Judge knows your sufferings, and you are atoning for it with your life now!""I--say it again."As Hope repeats the words, Mrs. Hilton whispers to the doctor, "Should not this be stopped?" But he shakes his head. "It does not matter," he says, just loud enough for all to hear, but with his face turned from the bed, "she is growing deaf. It is a last symptom; and she is burning to talk. Let her be gratified. It cannot matter; and when the next change comes there may be a few hours of life, but little more speech or hearing for her." As a proof of his words, she does not hear his low but distinct utterances; and as he ceases, Aunt Cass slips down upon her knees beside the bed, with her face close to that of the dying girl. "Inez!" she says solemnly, "listen to me, and try to understand. In some way you have done a wrong to all here--to these two young men, who have both been doubted, suspected, because of the deed you have done; to Miss Hilton, who might have been a blind, disfigured sufferer all her days, because of you, but for the sheriff here--""But for you, Miss Chetwynde," breaks in the sheriff in a hushed voice."You have hated my niece, and tried to make her unhappy; you have played the ghost, and thereby made Mrs. Hilton's home uncomfortable, and her servants afraid. You have deceived and tricked me. But, in spite of all this, there is not one of us here who does not forgive you willingly, fully, because we know that before you could sin against us you must have suffered deeply, and been deeply wronged. Can you not see, my child, that if we can forgive you your Father and

Judge, who, more forgiving and loving than any mortal, will surely forgive when you ask to be forgiven? And in taking a life--a life that belonged to Him--you have wronged Him more than all."Slowly--slowly the hopeless shadow fades out of the dark eyes, and a new look enters there."Oh," she whispers, "now--I--begin to understand!" and then, after a moment, "What must I--do?""Forgive others from your heart, and ask to be forgiven.""Not--Willard Beale?""Yes.""I can't!--I never can. I will-""Listen!" the firm but gentle voice interposes. "You are not the only one whom that man has wronged. Think of Miss Hilton, and how narrowly she has escaped a worse fate than yours. Think if she had married him, what a life hers must have been, what suffering; for, my poor child, while a wronged woman is deeply to be pitied, a wife's sufferings are most heart-breaking of all! And think, too, of my niece Hope. How he has deceived her, and how she has opened her home to him, shared her purse with him, made him a companion or intimate. How he has wronged her, and also her dear brother, in his far-off grave, outraging most sacred family ties. These wrongs are less than yours, it is true, but they are bitter wrongs notwithstanding, and ask them if they do not forgive this dead man!"Silence for a moment, then, "May I--see--Miss--Hilton?"Slowly, but without an instant's hesitation, Lorna moves forward, stands a moment at the bedside, and then drops upon one knee beside the spinster."Inez," she says softly; "I am a woman like you, full of faults, and needing to be forgiven for many things. As I hope to be forgiven, I forgive you! I forgive Felix--Willard Beale! I never meant to do you a wrong; and if I have caused you sorrow or heartache, forgive me as I pray the blessed Lord to forgive us both."And now the dark eyes close, and two tears come slowly from beneath the white lids."Oh," she says, with a long quivering sigh; "you have forgiven me before I asked! And--I meant to ask, I did. I did! Oh, I didn't know folks were so good! No one has been so good to me ever before--if they only had!"She is silent so long that the doctor lifts his finger and signals, and one by one they file from the room, all but the doctor and Aunt Cassandra.Half an hour later the spinster enters the drawing-room, where all have remained, awaiting a final word from the room in which the sheriff has now no interest, nor place; yet where the prisoner is a prisoner still, but with death standing guard."The change has come," she says sadly, but yet with a look of relief. "But she is repentant--reconciled; and she does not suffer in the least. It was a sudden sinking of the vital forces, a weakness; the result, in an unusual form, the doctor says, of concussion. Her speech, hearing, life itself, will fail her altogether. She is as weak as an infant and helpless like one; and she may live like this

two weeks perhaps." She looks across at Mrs. Hilton. The look is a question."She shall have such care and comfort as we can give her," the lady says, as if in reply. "After all, in a strange and terrible way, she has been a benefactor to most of us.""There is one question," says the sheriff, "still to be decided. What use, if any, shall we make of what we now know? Miss Hope, what is your will?"Hope looks up from her place beside Loyd, where, for twenty minutes, she has been sitting in sober content, and her reply is ready."Loyd must be cleared! As for the identity of the dead man, why need that be made known? We are not old residents here, only summer sojourners. If possible, I would have the whole pitiful, hateful story a secret among us who are here.""If you will trust it to me, I think I can manage it," said the sheriff.When the next issue of the Lee Weekly Gazette appeared the following interesting bit of news was chronicled on its foremost page, headed--"MURDER WILL OUT."On Tuesday last Sheriff Cook returned from a two weeks' absence upon business of an important and very private nature."Sheriff Cook has been working in private upon the Chetwynde case, or the 'Tragedy of the Heights,' as our esteemed contemporary has called it; and he went ~broad in search of evidence which, being found, entirely removes from Mr. Loyd Hilton's

shoulders any faintest suspicion of guilt. It seems that learning that a strange young man had been seen in the neighbourhood at about the time of the shooting, the sheriff, who, from the first flouted the idea of Hilton's guilt, quietly traced him; and his search ended at the deathbed of the real slayer of Felix Chetwynde."A full and complete confession entirely exonerates Mr. Hilton, and we, with his many friends, unite in offering sincere congratulations."There was, it appears, an old feud between this man and Chetwynde, all the facts being known to the parties most concerned. It has been decided--death having cancelled the debt to justice--to let the details remain unpublished, as its exploitation could only whet a morbid appetite and benefit none. We have the above direct from the sheriff, and it may be regarded as official and final."In the same issue, on another page, there appears this item:--"We learn from Dr. Jarvis that a young lady, who is a visitor at Redlands, is in a critical condition owing to a fall from a bicycle while in rapid motion. The injury has affected the brain, and there is but little hope of her recovery.""The best way to keep a secret," Aunt Cass has said, "is to tell it," and it proves true. Poor Vic Harch, instead of being an object of doubt or suspicion becomes a subject for commiseration, and for calls, curious or kindly; and when, some ten days after her last ghostly ride, she breathes her last, painlessly, and with her fast glazing eyes fastened upon the face of Aunt Cass, it is as a friend and guest that

he is borne to the city, where she is laid to rest in he beautiful home of the dead, not as the friendless inner, but as an erring soul, whose one hope is in he All Merciful."When the last day comes," says Aunt Cass, as they look the last upon the stilled face, "I would rather be poor Inez than the man we have known as Felix Chetwynde!" Who does not say Amen?Hope and Loyd, Lorna and Terry, are too happy to long remain under the cloud cast over them by the sins and sorrows of others.There is much to explain and to confess. But the one confession most necessary to happiness of each, has been made in many wordless ways long before that half-hour in the parlour at Redlands, when, coming from that scene of confession and approaching death, they come together without need for words and felt that life for them was at high tide at last.As for the sheriff, he wooes in the good old-fashioned way, deliberately, but successfully at last. Lorna and Hope are married in the early autumn, and one day Aunt Cass finds Hope, the young matron, in her fine new city home, hanging over the entrance door the silvered horse-shoe that has been her mother's "lucky guard" for all the years she can recall."I wouldn't take that for my household lucky bit, Hope," she says. "It ought to be a tiny, gilded bicycle. Have not all the things that have really happened, begun, or ended--for you, Loyd, Lorna, Terry, myself, all of us--with the bicycle?""Begun?""Yes. Whether you place the beginning at the Manhattan Cycle meet, when that poor, unhappy girl fell from her high wheel, or whether you go further back to the day when she set the wheels of Fate in motion by running away from home to be a bicycle rider.""Ah!" sighs Hope, "she stopped Fate's wheels then, at least for herself, when she took her last ride from the boat-house to Higgins' tennis net. Poor misguided, misled Inez!""Say, rather, that from the very beginning she was under Fate's wheels. Have you ever reflected, child, on the caprices of this so-called blind goddess? Some of us, a few only, she carries triumphantly on in her chariot, high above the mud and slime, secure from the pitfalls, and only touched now and then, in passing, by a flying bit from the roadway, or shaken by a jolt here and there, while others--like poor Inez--begin their journey and end it under Fate's wheel.""Poor Inez!" murmurs the happy wife, "Heaven pity and forgive all
such!"UNWIN BROTHERS THE GRESHAM PRESS WOKING AND LONDON