CHAPTER XVI.

Te Aroha News, Volume VII, Issue 428, 14 December 1889, Page 5

CHAPTER XVI.

BEKOBE MIDNIGHT. Thu hours of the evening wore on, Sir Fetor Dangerfield had shut himself up in the lower rooms, on the watch, however, for any sound upstairs. He had had his revenge — he had offered one of the proudest girls in England tho most deadly insult a man can offer a woman. It wai the hoor of his triumph, hut in the midst of it all he felt strangely nervous and uneasy. •Dead or alive I will have my revenge. 1 The ominous words haunted him. In the mouths of other girls they would have been melo-dramatic and meaningless, but Katherine Dangerfield was not like other girlß. She meant them, and would move Heaven and earth to compass her ends. In her pretty, wax-life, crimson-hung room Katherine stood, long and motionless where he had left her. Her loosely clasped hands still hung before her, her darkly brooding eyes never left the fire. Her face kept its white, changeless calm — her lips were set in that hard, resolute, bitter line. The sonoroua clock over the stables striking eight awoke her at last from her trance. She started up, crossed the room, like one roused to a determined purpose, and rang the bell. Ninon came. ' I'm going out, Ninon — I am going to Castleford. It may be close upon midnight before I return, and tho house will probably bo shut up. Wait for me at the door in the southern turret, and when I knock let me in.' • But, mademoiselle/ the girl cried ; •to Castleford so late, and on foot, and alone V • I dent mind the lateness — no one will molest me. For the walk, I can do it in an hour and a quarter. Do as I bid you, Ninon, and say nothing to any one of my absence.' The French girl knew her mistress too well to disobey, but she lingered for a ] moment at the door, looking back wish* j fully. She loved this impetuous young mistress, who scolded her vehemently one instant and made it up the next by a pro* sent of her best silk dress. She loved her, as all tho servants in the house did, and never so well as now. ' If— if— oh ! Mademoiselle Katherine, don't be angry, but if you would only let me go with you ! The way is so long, and so lonely, and coming home it will be so late. Mademoiselle, I beseech you ! let me go too !' • You foolish child — as if I cared for the lateness or the loneliness. It is only happy people who have anything to fear. All that is pasb for me. Go, Ninon, and do precisely as I tell you, if you are still so silly as to have any love left for such as I.' The girl obeyed reluctantly, hovering aloof on the landing. In five minutes the door opened and Miss Dangeriield, wrapped in a velvot mantle, and wearing her little black velvet hat, appeared. • You here still, Ninon ? Do you know if Mr — Sir Peter Dangerfield ' — she set her lips hard as she spoke the name — ' is anywhere in the passages below ?' 4He is in tho library, mademoiselle.' ISo much thH better— we shall not meet, then. Lock the door, Ninon, and keep the key until my return.' She glided down the stairs as she spoke, dark and noiseless as a spirit. She met no one. Sir Peter was busy over papers, the servants were in Itheir own quarters, the house was more silent than a tomb. Softly she opened and closed the pondorous portico door, and flitted out into the night. Ik was clear, and cold, and starlight — the moon had not yet arisen. In that light no one she met would be likely to recognise her. The January wind blew keen and cold, and she drew her fur-lined velvet closer about her, and sped on with swift, light, elastic steps. The walk was unspeakably lonely. Until the lights of the town gleamed forth through the starry darkness ehe did not meet a soul. She had walked so rapidly thab she was out of breath and in a glow of warmth. She slackened her pace now, making for a deserted back stieet, and pausing finally before the quiet, roomy, old-fashioned hostelry known as the Silver Rose. • Does a lady named Mrs Vavasor lodge here? 1 The landlord of the Silver Rose started to his feet as the soft accents fell upon his ear. The next moment he was bowing low , before the slender, black-robed figure and the two grave, gray eyes. The heroine of the day, the talk of the town, the reputed daughter of the late Sir John Danger field, stood before him. ' Yes, Miss Katherine. Please come in hout of the cold. Mrs Vavasor does lodge here, but at present she happears to be hout.' • Will she soon return ?' ' Well, Miss Katherine, I really couldn't say, but I think it likely. She don't hof ten be hout heven as late as this. If you would please to come in and wait,' looking at her doubtfully and pausing. 'If you will show me up to her room I will wait,' the young lady answered. 'I must see her to-night. If you knew where she was you might send.' The landlord shook his head. I 1 don't know, Miss Dangerfield. She goes hout very seldom and never stays long. This way, if you please.' He held a candlo aloft, and led the way upstairs, and flung open a door on the landing .above. • ThU' be Mrs Tarasor's sitthV - room. Take a scab by the fire, Miss Katherine, and I dessay she'll be halong soon.' He went out and closed the door. Katharine stood in the centre of the room and looked about her with a certain amount of curiosity in her face. The room was furnished after the stereotype fashion of such rooms. A few French novels scatterod about were the only things to betoken the individuality of the vecupant. The door of the chamber opening from this apartment stood ajar, and looking in with the same searching gaze something familiar caught the girl's eye at once. The bed was an old-fashioned fourposter, bung unwholesoniely with curtains! Besides this bed was a, little table, Bcattered over with dog-eared novels, Pari•ienne fashion bookt, bonbonnieres, handmirrors, and other womanly litter. In the centre stood an Indian box of rare beauty and workmanship. Katherine recognised it in a moment. ' It was one of hers, a farewell gift from a military friend nrhenleaving India. She remembered how' more than once Mrs Vavasor had admired it among the other Indian treasures in her room, how all at once it had vanished mysteriously, and now, here it was — Katherine's short upper lip curled soornfully. . • . ,', •/ .' 'So,' she said, 'you are ajthief, as well as an intriguante, an adventuress. You, bftve stolon my box. Let us sea tQ what

use you have pufc poor lifctlo Ensign Brandon's gift.' She walked deliberately into the sleep-ing-room and took up the caskeb. It closed and locked with a secret spring — she touched ib and the lid flew back. It contained a slim packet of letters tied with ribbon, and an old-fashioned miniature painted on ivory, in a case of velvet ornamented with seed pearls. In every nature there are depths of evil that come to light undor the influence of adversity. Who is not virtuous, untempted — who is not honourable, untried ? The dark side of Katharine's nature that might have lain dormant and unsuspected even by herself forever in the sunshine of prosperity, was asserting itself now. She deliberately read the address on the letters. The paper wai yellow with time, the ink faded, but the bold, firm, masculine hand was perfectly legible still. • JJ/m Harriet Lelacheur, 35 JRosenmri/ Place, Kensington " — that was the address. She turned from the letters, pressed the spring of the picture case, and looked at the portrait within. Like the lottery, time had faded it, but the bold, masculine, bc/ieh face smiled up at her with a brightness that even a score of years could not mar. It was the eager, handsome, beardless face of a youth in the first flush »f manhood, with lips that smiled, and eyes that were alive. •A brave, gentlemanly face,' Katherine thought. • What could a man like this ever have had to do with heri Is this the lover she spoke of, from whom my mother parted hor ? Are these letters from him ? Was her name Harriet Lelacheur instead of Harman ? You may keep my Indian box, Mrs Vavasor, and welcome, and 1 will keep its contents.' With the same steady deliberation she pufc the letters and picture in her pocket, 1 and walked back into the other room. I There was a hard light in her eyes, an expression on her face not pleasant to seo. *On the road I am walking there is no turning back. To accomplish the aim of my life I must do to others as I have been done by. Mrs Vavasor and Peter Dangerfield shall find me an apt pupil. Ah — at last ! here she is !' She turned and faced the door. As she did so it was thrown impetuously open, and tho woman she hated stood before

It was Mrs Vavasor's last night in Casfcleford — her last night ; she had made up her mind for ever. It was all over. The romance, and revenge, and the triumph of her life were finished and done. She had wrought out her vendetta to the bitter end. Her price had been paid twice over. With twenty thousand pounds as her fortune, she would return to Paris, launch out into a life of splendour, and end by marrying a title. 'I am still young — still handsome — by gaslight,' she mused, standing before the mirror, and surveying herself critically. ' I am one of those fortunate women who wear well and light up well. The French aro right in saying you can't tell a woman from a gnafc by lamplight. With my twenty thousand pounds, my knowledge of this wicked world, my host of friends, what a life lies before mo in my own delightful city of sunshine. Yes, to-morrow I will go ; there is nothing to linger in this stupid, plodding country town for longer — unless — unless — it be to pee her downfall.' She paced softly up and down tho little sitting-room, Tli6 hour was early twilight, an hour Mrs Vavasor hated. Hers were no tender twilight memories t* come with the misty stars. Gaunt spectres of crime, and shame, and poverty haunted horribly the dark record that lay behind this woman. So the curtains were drawn, and the lamp lit, and the firelight flickered on the masses of braided black hair and the trailing robe of wine silk. 'I should like to §cc her in tho hour of her downfall,' she repeated. • I should like to see her mother's daughter in the poverty and pain I have felt. And I shall one day, but not here. Somehow — I am neither superstitious nor a coward, but I feel half afraid to meet that girl. I can see her now as she came gliding forward in that ghostly way in her bridal dress, that face of white stone, and those wild, wide eyes. Ah '. my lady I my lady ! In tho hour of your triumph how little you dreamed that my day would come too. 3 She walked softly up and down, a subtle and most evil smile on her dark small face. The striking of the little clock on the mantel aroused her ; it was eight, and she had an errand in Castleford before all the shop 3 closed for the night. She put on her bonnet, wrapped herself in a large fluffjr shawl, and tripped away. She was barely in time to roach the station whither she was bound before the shopman locked his door. She bade him good-night in her sweetest tones, and walked homeward, glancing up at the great winter star* burning in the purple, bright sky, ' And Sir John is dead, and Sir Peter reigns ! Sic transit gloria mundi ! Poor I little pitiful wretch 1 it was like wringing his heart's blood to part with his beloved I guineas to me yesterday. I wonder how he and my haughty Katherine, my queen uncrowned, got on together up at the great house, and I wonder how my handsome Gaston does this cold January night. Ugh !' She shivered under her furred ' wraps. Sho was a chilly little woman • This beastly British climate ! And to think ! to think that but for me she would be far away in fair foreign lands by this time, enjoying her honeymoon, the bride of a man she adored ! Yea — I may go ; no revenge was ever more complete than mine.' She was singing softly to herself as she ascended the stairs. Everything had gone so well .' She had had her vengeance and made her fortune at one clever throw, and after to-night a long vista of Parisian pleasures and Parisian life floated before her in a rosy mist. With the opera tune on her lips she opened her door and stood faoe to face with — Katherine Dangerfiold, She stood stock still. The song died on her lips, the sudden swift pallor that overspread her face showed through all the pearl powder she wore. Sbo had said she was no coward, and she was not, but in this hour sho stood afraid to the very core, to face this girl she had wronged. Katherine had arisen and stood beside her, and Katherine was the firet to speak. 'Come in, Mrs Vavasor — the room is your own. And you need not Uok such a picture of abjeot terror. I haven't come here to murder you— to-night.' , Her voice was perfectly clear, perfectly steady. An angry sullenness came to the elder woman'i relief. She came in, closed the door, and faced defiantly her foe. 'This is a most unexpected pleasure, Miss Katherine Dangertield. To what do I owe it?' 'And as unwelcome as unexpected, Mrs Vavasor, is it not ? To what do you owe it ? .Well, there are women alive— or girls, if you will, for I am only a girl — who would have given you back death for less ruin ,than you have wrought me. Oh, yes, Mrs Vavasor, I mean what I say— death ! But I am not of that sort ; lam one of the pacific kind, and I content myself by coming here and only asking a , few, question*, I perceive there was no time to lose. I hear you .leave Castleford to-morrow,' ' AI:. do.'' The widow's thin lips were shut in a hard, 1 unpleasant, line now, and her voice was sullen. ' Permit me to add that I am in somewhat of a hurry, and that

the hour is late. I must pack beforo I retire. I quit Castleford to morrow by the very first train.' •Ah t Naturally, Castleford can't be a pleasant place for you to remain. You aye not. popular here at present, Mrs Vavasor. I will not detain you long. Of course it ia at your own option whether you answer my questions or not.' i 'Of course. What can I do for you, alias Dangorfield ?' i She threw herself into a chair, stretched out her daintily-booted feet to the fire, and looked across with the same defiant face at her enemy. And yet her heart misgave her. That colourless face, with its tense, set expression, its curious calm, frightened her more than any words, any threats could havo done. Kathorine turned her grave eyes from the fire, clasped her hands together on the little table between them, and leaned slightly forward as Bhe spoke. ' Miss Dangerneld is not my name. You are the only one.who knowe. A Y ill you tell me what it is ?' 4 No—decidedly.' *Thafc ia one of the questions you will not answer. Here is another : Is my father alive? 1 ! 'He is.' * My mother is dead — really dead ?' 4 As dead as Queen Anne, Miss Dangerfield. I suppose we may as well continue to call you so to the last, for convenience' sake. Your mother is dead- —and, Katheline, you've been brought up a Christian, .and all that, and you ought to know. Do you suppose the dead see what goes on in this reeling, rocking little globe of ours? Because if they do, I sincerely hope your late lamented maternal parent is looking down upon you and me at this moment.' 4 You are a good hater, Mrs Vavasor. Now, I should like to know what my mother evor did to you to inspire such deep, and bitter, and lasting hate. You hated her alive, you hate her dead, and you visit that hate, as bitter as ever, years and years after, upon her child. I don't blame you, mind ; I don't say I would not do the same myself, under certain circumstances j only I am very curious to know all about it. 1 Mi's Vavasor looked at her doubtfully. 4 You hate,' she said, * and you talk to mo like this— to mo of all people alive. You hate — you who sit there so quietly, and speak like thid after all tho trouble and shame that would drive most girls mad. I don't think you know what hate means.' • The shadow of a amile came over Katherine'a face. She looked silently at the speaksr for an instant, that slow, curious smilo her only answer. •We won't discuss that,' she said. • Perhaps I came of a weak and pusillanimous race, and there is so much of the spaniel in my nature that I am ready to kiss the hand thab hits hardest. Never mind roe. Time is passing, Mrs Vavasor, do one generous thing to your i enemy at the last — tell her something more of her own story. You hay* had full and complete revenge — you can afford to be magnanimous now.' The perfect coolness of this unexpected address won its end. Mrs Vavasor, plucky herself, admired pluck in others, and all women, good or bad, act on impulse. • You are a cool hand,' eho said, with something of admiration in her tone, ' and I may tell you this — you are of no weak or cowardly race ; the blood that Hows in your veins haa been bitter, bad blood in its day. And you would like toknow something more of your mother? Your motker !' Her eyes turned thoughtfully upon the fire, her mind wandered back to the past. I can see her now standing before me as plainly as I used to see her twenty years ago, tall and stately. You are like her, Katherine — the same graceful walk, the face at once proudlookingand plain-looking — thedressof black and orange, or purple and crimson — she had a passion for bright colours, and the dark red flowers she used to wear in her hair. You are like her, and a little like your | father, too ; his way of smiling and speaking at times. You are moat like him now as you sit there^ so quiet, so deep, so resolute. Katherine, you will make your way in the world, I think— women like you always do. ' ' Will you go on, Mrs Vavasor ? Once more, never mind me.' Mrs Vavasor laughed— ail her airy, easy self again. • And you really are anxious like this to know why I hated — why 1 still hate your dead mother ? Well— l am in the humour to gratify you to-night— l have locked the past so closely up for such a length of time, that ib is something of a relief and a plensure to unlock it to-night. But to think I should tell it to you— to you ! These things come about so queerly — life is all so queer — such a dizzy, whirling, merry-go-round, and we a'l jumping-jacks, who just dance as our strings are pulled. And they call us responsible beings, and they tell us we can keep our own lives ! Why, look you. I might have been a good woman— a rich woman — a model British matron — sitting at the head of a husband's table — bringing up children in the way they should walk, going three times every Sunday to church, visiting the poor of the parish, distributing tracts and blankets at Christmas, and dying at last full of years, and good works, and having mj virtures inscribed in letters of gold on a granite shaft. I might have been all this, Misa Dangerneld, and I wanted to be, but that dead mother of yours stepped forward, interposed her wand of authority, and lo ! to-day, and for the past eighteen years, I have been a i Bohemian— houseless, friendless, penniless, and reputationless. Now, listen— here is the story. No names, mind ; no questions when I have done. All you are to know I will tell you. Your father lives — you hare hosts of relatives alive, for that matter, but I don't mean you shall ever see or know any of them.' She sank back in her chair, played with her watch-chain, looked at the fire, and told her story in rapid words. • Your mother was just my age when I first know her — a little the elder, I think — and just married. She wasn't handsome, but somehow she was attractive — most people liked her— l did myself for a time, And she was a great heiress, she was the wife of the handsomest man in England, and she loved him — ah, well ! as you loved poor Mr Dan tree, perhaps, and not much more wisely, 'I lived with her — never mind in what capacity ; I lived with her, and knew more of her than any other human being alive, including her husband. Indeed, after the honeymoon — and how he used to yawn and smoke during the honeymoon— he saw as little of her as possible.' She was the woman he was married to, and the woman he loved was as beautiful as all the angels, and not worth a farthing. It's a very old state of things, Miss Dangerneld — nothing novel about it. Your mother was frantically jealous, and having tho temper of a spoiled child, made his lor— l mean, made your father's life a martyrdom, with endleis tears and reproaches. When she sat sobbing sometimes, swelling her oyes, and reddening her nose, and: looking very ugly, I used to pity her, and ooce I ventured to offer my humble sympathy, and call my — — her husband a wretch. Do you know how, eho. received it? s^ jumped up and stopped my face.'

' I am glad to hear it,' Katherino said, with composure. * She served you right.' 'Ahl no doubt ,! You would have done the same, lam sure. Well, it was about that time the romance of my life began. Your mother's brother came from Ireland to make her a visit, and we met. He was only twenty ; I was your age, seventeen. He was handsome and poor — your mother had got all the money, he all the beauty of fcho family. I was — my modesty makes me hesitate to say it— considered pretty in those days — that is, in a certain gipsy style of prettiness. It was a style that suited him, at least, and we looked at each other, and fell in love, and earth turned to Paradise, and we were among the blest. • I don't need to tell you what followed, do I ?— the meetings by chance, tho appointments, the twilight walk, the moonlight rambles, the delicious blissful folly of it all ? No need to tell you— your own experience is recent. Let me skip the sentimental and keep to hard fact*. A month passed — courtship progresses rapidly with two people of twenty and seventeen. We were engaged and we must be married at once, or life would be insupportable. But how ? Youths of twenty and girls ot eeventoen cannot marry clandestinely and yet legally in England, except under very great difficulties — under p«rjury in fact. As deeply as he adored me, ho was not prepared to perjure himself on my account. We must try a Scotch marriage for itthere was nothing else — and think about the legality ufterward. He was poor— l was poorer. What we were to live on after marriage was an unanswerable question. We never tried to answer it — we must be married first at all riska — time enough to think of all these prosaic details after. ; 'No one suspected our secret — his folly and my presumption, that is what they termed it. We had fixed the day of our flight— he had packed our portmanteaus— in less than a week we would be in Scotland, and united as far as Scottish marriage laws can unite, when all of a sudden my la — your mother's sharp, grey eyes were opened and saw the truth. A note of his to me fell into her hands and she opened and read it. Not a very honourable thing to do —eh, Kabherine ? It told her all — of our flight in two days, of our propoeed marriage —all. 'I have told you, Katharine, that you are like your •aaocher. You are. You have taken all your troubles quietly, and made no outcry, no complaint. She took things quietly, too. Three hours after ahe got that note she came to me, quite com* posed, and determined. ••Harriet," she said, " I am going into the country for a day—only a day. Pack a few things and be ready to accompany me in an hour.' ' I stood confounded. lit was away ; what would he flay when he cam* back ? But it nai impossible for mo to disobey, and then — only for a day. We would be back in time after all. ' For a day ! Katherine, she never stopped until we were in Cornwall. She had an uncle, * rector there ; he and his wife lived in a lonesome old grey house on the sea coast. It was late at night when the rumbling stage coach brought us to the door ; and I was worn out with fatigue. I aeked for some tea ; ray— your mother gave it to me graciously, with her own hand, a smile on her lips, and a sleeping potion in the cup. 1 " You must be tired, my poor Harriet," she said; "and you didn't think we were coming all the way to Cornwall. No more did I, but I took a sudden fancy to pay the old place a flying visit." '"A flying visit?" I repeated wearily. 11 Then you mean— " * " To return to foAvn to-morrow, my dear child. Certainly you don't suppose / could exist here, and in the height of the London season too ? But I think country air and solitude will do you good. Goodnight, Harriet ; you look sleepy ; dent let me keep you awake." *I remember her laughing as she went out, then my eyelids awayed and fell, and I slept the sleep of the drugged. • The noon aunshino of the next day filled my room when I awoke. I was still lying back in my chair, dressed. I had nob been to bed. My head ached, my eyea felt hot and heavy — I was unused to opium in any shape then, and its effects sickened me. I struggled wearily with memory. With a sharp pang I recollected it was the day fixed for my wedding day, and I was hero alone, and ho was — where ? •And she had done it all. The first glow of that fire of quenchless hate that has burned ever since kindled in my heart then. I went downstairs wullenly enough, and ! asked the rector's lady for my mist — for your | mother. And the rector's lady— in the i secret too— laughed in my face and told me she was gone. Gone ! While I slept, she was far on her way back to town, and I wan left behind, without a penny in my pockeb, , a prisoner in that stupid Cornish rectory. • Katherine, I shall pass over that time. It ia nearly twenty years ago, but to this day I can't look back without some of the frantic misery and pain I endured then. I was only seventeen, in love, and a fool : bub the pain of fools ia as hard to bear as tho pain of wise men. I understoood it all —I was never to see him again. She had found us out, and this was her plot ! I threw myself face downward on the floor of my room, and lay there for twelve hours, neither moving, nor eating, nor apeaking. And then I got up and went downstairs and— kept silent still, and waited. • Two months passed away— two months. A short time enough as I reckon now —an eternity then. My order of release came at the end of that time. Old Markham, the butler, wai sent to me, and I was taken back to town. I asked him just one question on the road. I•' Where wai young Mr ?" and I got the answer 1 looked for. Mr had joined the — th Rifles, and gone out to Canada a fortnight before. • I said no more. I went back to town ; and your pother and I met. She looked a little afraid of me in the first moment— and she had reason. ' " You muafc forgive my running away and leaving you, Harriet," ahe said. •• It was a whim of mine, a practical joke, knowing how you hate the country, you child of London. It won't happen again, and I have hosts of presents for you that I know you will be charmed with." • I thanked her, and took the presents — took everything that was given to me, and bided my time. I knew, just as well as though she had told mo, how she had laughed and ridiculed her brother into the army, and out of England. I knew it all and she knew that I knew it, but we never spoke of ifc — never onee — until the hour of her death. • There, Katherine ! ■ that is my story ; i that is the secret of my hatred of your : mother. Don't you think she deierved it?' 'From you— yes,' Katherine answered promptly ; 'at the same time I think jrhe did exactly right. She knew what you were, doubtless,' and took the only means of saving her brother. Gentlemen and oflicers don't, as a rulo, marry their sisters' waiting maids.' Mrs Vavasor sprang, to her feefc. Tho random arrow had sped home. •It is false i' she gasped . *lam no wait-ing-maid—you know nothing—'

l lt is true !' exclaimed Kafcherine, also I vising. ' You were a waiting-maid— and I ' know all I desire to know at present. My mother was a lady, her brother was an officer in the — fch Rifles, my father lives and will recognise his old servant when he eees her, Harriet Lelacheur !' Mrs Vavasor stood white, terrified, dumb. Good Heavens ! what a fool she had been to speak at all to such a girl as this. 1 You see I know your real name, among your many aliases. As I have found out that, so I shall find out all the rest. As surely as we both live and stand hore, I shall one day discover my father and punish yew. I devote my life to that purpose— to finding out who I am, that I way be revenged on my enemies. On you, on Peter Dangorfield, on Gaston Dan tree. I shall one day be avenged for all the bitter, cruel wrong you have done mo. I am only a girl, alone in the world, without friends or money, but I shall keep my word. Secretly and in the dark as you have worked, so I shall work, and when my time comes the mercy you have shown will be dealt back to you. Now good-night, Mrs Vavasor. We understand each other, I think.' She opened the door, looked back once, darkly, menacingly, then it closed after her, and she was gone. Ninon eat up for her mistress. It was close upon midnight when that mistress reached Scarswood. But she felt no fatigue — some inward spirit, whether of go»d or evil, sustained her. As she parted with the girl she laid two sovereigns in her hand. • You have been a very good girl, Ninon,' she said kindly, * to a very capricious mistress. Thank you for all your patience, and good-night.' She went to her room, but not to sleep. It was disordered — she set it to rights. Her jewels— all— lay in their velvet and ivory caskets, her rich dresses hung in the wardrobe and closets, her bridal dress among them. She took a small portmanteau, packed a few articles of dress and linen, a few of her most cherished presents, one or two books and souvonirs, closed and locked it. Then, still dressed as she was, sho eat down by the window and waited for the dawn. It came— rosy and golden, and touched tho eastern windows into flam*. Then the arose, and taking the portmanteau in her hand, went softly out down the stairs and along to that door in the turret by which she had {rone out and come in last night She closed it noiselessly — the household wore not yet astir — and walked rapidly down the crisp, frozen avenue to the gates. The rising sun shot red lances through the brown boles of the trees, gilded the many windows and turrets and tall chimneys of the old hall, making a wonderfully bright and fair picture of early morning beauty, had she but turned to see. But she never once looked back, (2 ? o be continued,)