It was early morning. In an elegant boudoir, whose oriel window overlooked the garden, sat three young ladies, respectively, Bessie Glenn, two-and-twenty; Gertie Glenn, twenty; and Eve Glenn, eighteen—all dark-eyed, dark-haired, and handsome, yet each of a distinct different type.

"I declare, Bess," cried Gertie, indignantly, twisting the telegram she held in her hand into a wisp, "it's from Uncle Jet! Guess what he says!"

"I couldn't possibly," yawns Bess, from the depths of her easy-chair; "it's too much trouble."

"Is it about Alice?" questioned Eve, maliciously.

"Yes," replied Gertie; "but you are to try and guess what it is."

"Why, I suppose some stranger has chanced to flutter down into the quiet little village of Elmwood, and Alice thinks it her duty to stay there and capture him."

"That isn't it at all," snapped Gertie. "Uncle Jet says Alice can not come; but he has taken the liberty of sending another young lady in her stead, and hopes Miss Daisy Brooks will be the right person in the right place. She will arrive on the twentieth, at nine A. M."

Eve jumped to her feet in actual astonishment, and even Bessie dropped her novel, with widely opened eyes.

"Just fancy some tall, gaunt old maid of a companion, with such a name!" she cried, raising her eyebrows and picking up her book again. "I think you will find the daisy a rather ancient and faded flower."

"She couldn't be anything else," assented Gertie.

"Wouldn't it be fun if she should turn out to be young and pretty, and take the shine off both of you?" laughed Eve, puckering up her mouth. "I would enjoy it immensely!"

"Eve, will you hold your tongue?" commanded Bessie, sharply.

"You'd better hold your temper!" retorted Eve.

"Pshaw! what's the use of being so silly as to quarrel over a Miss Nobody?" cried Gertie, stamping her pretty slippered foot. "Guess what else is the news."

"Haven't I told you I despise guessing?" cried Bess, angrily. "It is not good form to insist upon a person's guessing—please remember it."

"Write it down on ice," said Eve, sotto voce, mimicking her elder sister's tone.

"Well," said Gertie, with a look of triumph, "I drove over to Mrs. Lyon's yesterday to see how everything was progressing for that contemplated marriage, and, lo! she informs me the wedding is postponed for the present, and Rex—handsome Rex—is coming home alone."

"No—o!" cried both the sisters in chorus.

Bess sat bolt upright, and Eve danced around the room clapping her hands.

"I don't think much of a marriage which has been postponed," said Bess, a bright spot glowing on both of her cheeks. "Who knows but what one of us may have a chance of winning handsome Rex Lyon, after all? He is certainly a golden prize!"

"'Don't count the chickens,' etc.," quoted Eve, saucily.

"Gertrude!" said Bess, severely, "you will learn after awhile never to speak before Eve. She is as liable to do mischief as her namesake was in the Garden of Eden."

"You ought never to go back on your own sex," retorted Eve, banging the door after her as she quitted the room, Rover, an ugly-looking mastiff, closely following at her heels.

"That is certainly an astonishing piece of news," said Bess, reflectively, smoothing out the folds of her white cashmere morning wrapper. "Now, here's a plan for you, Gertie. Find out his address in some way, and we will write to him on some pretext or other. Rex has probably quarreled with the haughty heiress of Whitestone Hall, and one of us ought certainly to catch his heart in the rebound. Send him an invitation to your birthday party, Gertie."

"I would be more likely to succeed than you, Bess," said Gertie, rocking complacently to and fro, and looking maliciously at her sister. "You remember he once remarked he did not like tall ladies, and you are certainly tall, Bess."

"Well, I'd rather be tall and willowy and graceful, than short and fat and dumpy," jerked out Bess, spitefully.

"What! at swords' points yet, eh? Ha, ha, ha!" cried Eve, suddenly, popping her head in at the door. "I'll be back after awhile to see which one of you gets the best of it."

Before either of the sisters had time to reply, the family carriage dashed suddenly up to the porch, and a moment later a slight, dark-robed little figure was ushered into their presence.

"This is Miss Brooks, mum," said Jim, the coachman, addressing the elder sister.

"I'd like to know why you have brought her in here?" cried Bess, angrily. "Why did you not take her into the servants' hall or into the kitchen?"

But Jim had disappeared.

"Well, now that you are here, you might sit down," suggested Gertie, wondering what kind of a face was hid behind the long, thick, clinging veil. "You may lay aside your bonnet and veil."

Trembling and sick at heart with the cold greeting which had been given her, Daisy did as she was bid.

"Why, I declare, you are younger than I am!" cried Eve, impulsively. "We were all expecting to see a wrinkled, dried-up old maid. Why, you'd make a much better companion for me than for mother."

"E—v—e!" cried the elder Miss Glenn, severely, "be kind enough to leave the room."

"I sha'n't go one step until I have had my say out," cried Eve, planting herself firmly down on a hassock in the middle of the floor. "Nobody likes me because I'm rude and free-spoken," declared Eve, addressing Daisy; "but I believe in letting people know just what I am to begin with. I'm not one of these sleek, smooth, tigery creatures that hide their claws under velvet-paws. We are three model sisters," she went on, recklessly; "we have tremendous spats—when we are here alone; but if a visitor happens in we all sit with our arms around one another, 'just to have the appearance' of affection, you know."

The elder Miss Glenn arose with dignity, motioning Daisy to follow her.

"Papa will see you later, Eve, dear," she said, with a baleful glitter in her sloe-black eyes; and as Daisy followed her she could not help but compare her with Pluma Hurlhurst, with that treacherous, mocking smile playing about her full, red lips—and quite unconsciously poor little Daisy fell to thinking.

"Rex will go back to Pluma Hurlhurst now," she thought, with a bitter sigh. "He has cast me out of his life; he will go back and marry her."

Poor, innocent Daisy, how little she knew of life or the insurmountable barrier which lay between the haughty, scheming heiress and Rex—her husband!

"I was asking you if you resided in Elmwood, Miss Brooks," said Bess, raising her voice. "I have asked you twice."

"I beg your pardon; please forgive me," said Daisy, flushing painfully. "I—I was not aware you had spoken. No, I lived near Elmwood—between there and Baltimore."

Daisy was sorely afraid Miss Glenn would ask her to name the exact location. She did not, however, much to Daisy's relief. By this time they had reached the door of Mrs. Glenn's room, and as it was slightly ajar Bessie pushed it open without further ceremony and entered.

"Has Miss Brooks come yet?" asked a thin, querulous voice.

"Yes," answered Bessie; "here she is, mamma."

The room was so dark Daisy could scarcely distinguish the different objects for a moment or so. She saw, however, a dark figure on a couch and a white jeweled hand waving a fan indolently to and fro. A sudden impulse came over Daisy to turn and run away, but by a great effort she controlled her feelings.

"Step forward, if you please, Miss Brooks. I can not observe you well at such a distance; do not tread on the poodle on the rug or brush against the bric-a-brac placed indiscriminately about the room."

"Oh, dear, if there were only a light," thought Daisy, in dismay. She was afraid of taking a single step for fear some of the bric-a-brac mentioned, either at the right or left of her, should come crashing down under her blundering little feet.

"I always exclude the broad glare of early morning light, as I find it especially trying."

As she spoke she threw back one of the shutters with the end of her fan, and a warm flood of invigorating sunshine poured into the room.

"Dear me," she cried, staring hard at the beautiful little face before her. "Why, you are a child, scarcely older than my Eve. What could that stupid brother of mine mean by sending you to me? I have a notion to send you back again directly."

"Oh, please do not, madame," cried Daisy, piteously. "Only try me first; I will do my very best to please you."

"But I did not want a young person," expostulated Mrs. Glenn.

"But you sent for Alice, his daughter, and—and he thought I would do as well," faltered Daisy, timidly.

"Alice Jet is over forty, and you are not more than sixteen, I should judge. How did you happen to think you could do as well as she?"

The color came and went on Daisy's pretty flower-like face, and her heart throbbed pitifully.

"I am not so very wise or learned," she said, "but I should try so hard to please you, if you will only let me try."

"I suppose, now that you are here, we will have to make the best of it," replied Mrs. Glenn, condescendingly.

The fair beauty of the young girl's face did not please her.

"I have always dreaded fair women," she thought to herself, "they are the most dangerous of rivals. If she stays at Glengrove I shall see she is kept well in the background."

While in the morning-room below the three girls were discussing the new turn of affairs vigorously.

"I am determined she shall not remain here," Bessie Glenn was saying.

"I heartily indorse your opinion," said Gertie, slowly.

And for once in her life the tongue of reckless Eve was silent. She looked thoughtfully out of the window.



CHAPTER XVIII.

The first week of Daisy's stay at Glengrove passed quickly. She was beginning to feel quite at home with Mrs. Glenn and Eve, but Bessie and Gertie held aloof from her. She was beginning to believe she never would be able to win her way to their hearts. Eve—warm-hearted, impulsive Eve—took to her at once.

"You are just the kind of a girl I like, Daisy," said Eve, twirling one of her soft gold curls caressingly around her finger; "and if I were a handsome young man, instead of a girl, I should fall straightway in love with you. Why, what are you blushing so for?" cried Eve. "Don't you like to talk about love and lovers?"

"No," said Daisy, in a low voice, a distressed look creeping into her blue eyes. "If you please, Eve, I'd rather not talk about such things."

"You are certainly a funny girl," said Eve, wonderingly. "Why, do you know all the handsome young fellows around here have fallen deeply in love with you, and have just been besieging both Bess and Gertie for an introduction to you."

No laughing rejoinder came from Daisy's red lips. There was an anxious look in her eyes. Ah! this, then, accounted for the growing coldness with which the two sisters greeted her.

"You do not seem enough interested to even ask who they are," said Eve, disappointedly. "I suppose you have never heard we have some of the handsomest gentlemen around here to be met with in the whole South—or in the North either, for that matter," said Eve, enthusiastically. "Wait until you have seen some of them."

How little she knew the girl's heart and soul was bound up in Rex, whom she told herself she was never again to see.

"Do you see that large gray, stone house yonder, whose turrets you can just see beyond those trees?" asked Eve, suddenly, a mischievous light dancing in her merry hazel eyes.

"Yes," replied Daisy. "I have a fine view of it from my window upstairs. I have seen a little child swinging to and fro in a hammock beneath the trees. Poor little thing, she uses a crutch. Is she lame?"

"Yes," replied Eve, "that's little Birdie; she's lame. I do not want to talk about her but about her brother. Oh, he is perfectly splendid!" declared Eve, enthusiastically, "and rich, too. Why, he owns I don't know how many cotton plantations and orange groves, and he is—oh—so handsome! You must take care you do not fall in love with him. All the girls do. If you did not, you would be a great exception; you could scarcely help caring for him, he is so winning and so nice," said Eve, blushing furiously.

How poor little Daisy's heart longed for sympathy and consolation! Oh, if she only dared tell Eve the great hidden sorrow that seemed eating her heart away! She felt that she must unburden her heart to some one, or it must surely break.

"Eve," she said, her little hands closing softly over the restless brown one drumming a tattoo on the window-sill, and her golden head drooping so close to Eve's, her curls mingled with her dark locks, "I could never love any one in this world again. I loved once—it was the sweetest, yet the most bitter, experience of my life. The same voice that spoke tender words to me cruelly cast me from him. Yet I love him still with all my heart. Do not talk to me of love, or lovers, Eve, I can not bear it. The world will never hold but one face for me, and that is the face of him who is lost to me forever."

"Oh, how delightfully romantic!" cried Eve. "I said to myself over and over again there was some mystery in your life. I have seen such strange shadows in your eyes, and your voice often had the sound of tears in it. I do wish I could help you in some way," said Eve, thoughtfully. "I'd give the world to set the matter straight for you. What's his name, and where does he live?"

"I can not tell you," said Daisy, shaking her golden curls sadly.

"Oh, dear! then I do not see how I can help you," cried Eve.

"You can not," replied Daisy; "only keep my secret for me."

"I will," she cried, earnestly.

And as they parted, Eve resolved in her own mind to bring this truant lover of Daisy's back to his old allegiance; but the first and most important step was to discover his name.

Eve went directly to her own room, her brain whirling with a new plan, which she meant to put into execution at once, while Daisy strolled on through the grounds, choosing the less frequented paths. She wanted to be all alone by herself to have a good cry. Somehow she felt so much better for having made a partial confidante of Eve.

The sun was beginning to sink in the west; still Daisy walked on, thinking of Rex. A little shrill piping voice falling suddenly upon her ears caused her to stop voluntarily.

"Won't you please reach me my hat and crutch? I have dropped them on your side of the fence."

Daisy glanced around, wondering in which direction the voice came from.

"I am sitting on the high stone wall; come around on the other side of that big tree and you will see me."

The face that looked down into Daisy's almost took her breath away for a single instant, it was so like Rex's.

A bright, winning, childish face, framed in a mass of dark nut-brown curls, and the brownest of large brown eyes.

"Certainly," said Daisy, stooping down with a strange unexplainable thrill at her heart and picking up the wide-brimmed sun-hat and crutch, which was unfortunately broken by the fall.

A low cry burst from the child's lips.

"Oh, my crutch is broken!" she cried, in dismay. "What shall I do? I can not walk back to the house. I am lame!"

"Let me see if I can help you," said Daisy, scaling the stone wall with the grace of a fawn. "Put your arms around my neck," she said, "and cling very tight. I will soon have you down from your high perch; never mind the crutch. I can carry you up to the porch; it is not very far, and you are not heavy."

In a very few moments Daisy had the child down safely upon terra firma.

"Thank you," said the child. "I know you are tired; we will rest a moment, please, on this fallen log."

The touch of the little girl's hands, the glance of the soft brown eyes, and the tone of her voice seemed to recall every word and glance of Rex, and hold a strange fascination for her.

"I shall tell my mother and my brother how good you have been to me, and they will thank you too. My name is Birdie; please tell me yours."

"My name is Daisy Brooks," she answered.

Poor little girl-bride, there had been a time when she had whispered to her heart that her name was Daisy Lyon; but that bright dream was over now; she would never be aught else than—Daisy Brooks.

"Is your name really Daisy?" cried the little girl in a transport of delight, scarcely catching the last name. "Why, that is the name my brother loves best in the world. You have such a sweet face," said the child, earnestly. "I would choose the name of some flower as just suited to you. I should have thought of Lily, Rose, Pansy, or Violet, but I should never have thought of anything one half so pretty as Daisy; it just suits you."

All through her life Daisy felt that to be the sweetest compliment ever paid her. Daisy laughed—the only happy laugh that had passed her lips since she had met Rex that morning under the magnolia-tree.

"Shall I tell you what my brother said about daisies?"

"Yes, you may tell me, if you like," Daisy answered, observing the child delighted to talk of her brother.

"He has been away for a long time," explained Birdie. "He only came home last night, and I cried myself to sleep, I was so glad. You see," said the child, growing more confidential, and nestling closer to Daisy's side, and opening wide her great brown eyes, "I was crying for fear he would bring home a wife, and mamma was crying for fear he wouldn't. I wrote him a letter all by myself once, and begged him not to marry, but come home all alone, and you see he did," cried the child, overjoyed. "When he answered my letter, he inclosed a little pressed flower, with a golden heart and little white leaves around it, saying: 'There is no flower like the daisy for me. I shall always prize them as pearls beyond price.' I planted a whole bed of them beneath his window, and I placed a fresh vase of them in his room, mingled with some forget-me-nots, and when he saw them, he caught me in his arms, and cried as though his heart would break."

If the white fleecy clouds in the blue sky, the murmuring sea, or the silver-throated bobolink swinging in the green leafy bough above her head, had only whispered to Daisy why he loved the flowers so well which bore the name of daisy, how much misery might have been spared two loving hearts! The gray, dusky shadows of twilight were creeping up from the sea.

"Oh, see how late it is growing," cried Birdie, starting up in alarm. "I am afraid you could not carry me up to the porch. If you could only summon a servant, or—or—my brother."

For answer, Daisy raised the slight burden in her arms with a smile.

"I like you more than I can tell," said Birdie, laying her soft, pink, dimpled cheek against Daisy's. "Won't you come often to the angle in the stone wall? That is my favorite nook. I like to sit there and watch the white sails glide by over the white crested waves."

"Yes," said Daisy, "I will come every day."

"Some time I may bring my brother with me; you must love him, too, won't you?"

"I should love any one who had you for a sister," replied Daisy, clasping the little figure she held still closer in her arms; adding, in her heart: "You are so like him."

Birdie gave her such a hearty kiss, that the veil twined round her hat tumbled about her face like a misty cloud.

"You must put me down while you fix your veil," said Birdie. "You can not see with it so. There are huge stones in the path, you would stumble and fall."

"So I shall," assented Daisy, as she placed the child down on the soft, green grass.

At that instant swift, springy footsteps came hurriedly down the path, and a voice, which seemed to pierce her very heart, called: "Birdie, little Birdie, where are you?"

"Here, Brother Rex," called the child, holding out her arms to him with eager delight. "Come here, Rex, and carry me; I have broken my crutch."

For one brief instant the world seemed to stand still around poor, hapless Daisy, the forsaken girl-bride. The wonder was that she did not die, so great was her intense emotion. Rex was standing before her—the handsome, passionate lover, who had married her on the impulse of the moment; the man whom she loved with her whole heart, at whose name she trembled, of whom she had made an idol in her girlish heart, and worshiped—the lover who had vowed so earnestly he would shield her forever from the cold, cruel world, who had sworn eternal constancy, while the faithful gleaming stars watched him from the blue sky overhead.

Yes, it was Rex! She could not see through the thick, misty veil, how pale his face was in the gathering darkness. Oh, Heaven! how her passionate little heart went out to him! How she longed, with a passionate longing words could not tell, to touch his hand, or rest her weary head on his breast.

Her brain whirled; she seemed, to live ages in those few moments. Should she throw herself on her knees, and cry out to him, "Oh, Rex, Rex, my darling! I am not guilty! Listen to me, my love. Hear my pleading—listen to my prayer! I am more sinned against than sinning. My life has been as pure as an angel's—take me back to your heart, or I shall die!"

"She has been so good to me, Rex," whispered Birdie, clinging to the veil which covered Daisy's face. "I broke my crutch, and she has carried me from the stone wall; won't you please thank her for me, brother?"

Daisy's heart nearly stopped beating; she knew the eventful moment of her life had come, when Rex, her handsome young husband, turned courteously toward her, extending his hand with a winning smile.



CHAPTER XIX.

On the day following Rex's return home, and the morning preceding the events narrated in our last chapter, Mrs. Theodore Lyon sat in her dressing-room eagerly awaiting her son; her eyebrows met in a dark frown and her jeweled hands were locked tightly together in her lap.

"Rex is like his father," she mused; "he will not be coerced in this matter of marriage. He is reckless and willful, yet kind of heart. For long years I have set my heart upon this marriage between Rex and Pluma Hurlhurst. I say again it must be!" Mrs. Lyon idolized her only son. "He would be a fitting mate for a queen," she told herself. The proud, peerless beauty of the haughty young heiress of Whitestone Hall pleased her. "She and no other shall be Rex's wife," she said.

When Rex accepted the invitation to visit Whitestone Hall she smiled complacently.

"It can end in but one way," she told herself; "Rex will bring Pluma home as his bride."

Quite unknown to him, his elegant home had been undergoing repairs for months.

"There will be nothing wanting for the reception of his bride," she said, viewing the magnificent suites of rooms which contained every luxury that taste could suggest or money procure.

Then came Rex's letter like a thunderbolt from a clear sky begging her not to mention the subject again, as he could never marry Pluma Hurlhurst.

"I shall make a flying trip home," he said, "then I am going abroad."

She did not notice how white and worn her boy's handsome face had grown when she greeted him the night before, in the flickering light of the chandelier. She would not speak to him then of the subject uppermost in her mind.

"Retire to your room at once, Rex," she said, "your journey has wearied you. See, it is past midnight already. I will await you to-morrow morning in my boudoir; we will breakfast there together."

She leaned back against the crimson velvet cushions, tapping her satin quilted slipper restlessly on the thick velvet carpet, ever and anon glancing at her jeweled watch, wondering what could possibly detain Rex.

She heard the sound of a quick, familiar footstep in the corridor; a moment later Rex was by her side. As she stooped down to kiss his face she noticed, in the clear morning light, how changed he was. Her jeweled hands lingered on his dark curls and touched his bright, proud face. "What had come over this handsome, impetuous son of hers?" she asked herself.

"You have been ill, Rex," she said, anxiously, "and you have not told me."

"I have not, indeed, mother," he replied.

"Not ill? Why, my dear boy, your face is haggard and worn, and there are lines upon it that ought not to have been there for years. Rex," she said, drawing him down on the sofa beside her, and holding his strong white hands tightly clasped in her own, "I do not want to tease you or bring up an unpleasant subject, but I had so hoped, my boy, you would not come alone. I have hoped and prayed, morning and night, you would bring home a bride, and that bride would be—Pluma Hurlhurst."

Rex staggered from her arms with a groan. He meant to tell her the whole truth, but the words seemed to fail him.

"Mother," he said, turning toward her a face white with anguish, "in Heaven's name, never mention love or marriage to me again or I shall go mad. I shall never bring a bride here."

"He has had a quarrel with Pluma," she thought.

"Rex," she said, placing her hands on his shoulders and looking down into his face, "tell me, has Pluma Hurlhurst refused you? Tell me what is the matter, Rex. I am your mother, and I have the right to know. The one dream of my life has been to see Pluma your wife; I can not give up that hope. If it is a quarrel it can be easily adjusted; 'true love never runs smooth,' you know."

"It is not that, mother," said Rex, wearily bowing his head on his hands.

Then something like the truth seemed to dawn upon her.

"My son," she said, in a slight tone of irritation, "Pluma wrote me of that little occurrence at the lawn fete. Surely you are not in love with that girl you were so foolishly attentive to—the overseer's niece, I believe it was. I can not, I will not, believe a son of mine could so far forget his pride as to indulge in such mad, reckless folly. Remember, Rexford," she cried, in a voice fairly trembling with suppressed rage, "I could never forgive such an act of recklessness. She should never come here, I warn you."

"Mother," said Rex, raising his head proudly, and meeting the flashing scorn of her eyes unflinchingly, "you must not speak so; I—can not listen to it."

"By what right do you forbid me to speak of that girl as I choose?" she demanded, in a voice hard and cold with intense passion.

Once or twice Rex paced the length of the room, his arms folded upon his breast. Suddenly he stopped before her.

"What is this girl to you?" she asked.

With white, quivering lips Rex answered back:

"She is my wife!"

The words were spoken almost in a whisper, but they echoed like thunder through the room, and seemed to repeat themselves, over and over again, during the moment of utter silence that ensued. Rex had told his pitiful secret, and felt better already, as if the worst was over; while his mother stood motionless and dumb, glaring upon him with a baleful light in her eyes. He had dashed down in a single instant the hopes she had built up for long years.

"Let me tell you about it, mother," he said, kneeling at her feet. "The worst and bitterest part is yet to come."

"Yes, tell me," his mother said, hoarsely.

Without lifting up his bowed head, or raising his voice, which was strangely sad and low, Rex told his story—every word of it: how his heart had went out to the sweet-faced, golden-haired little creature whom he found fast asleep under the blossoming magnolia-tree in the morning sunshine; how he protected the shrinking, timid little creature from the cruel insults of Pluma Hurlhurst; how he persuaded her to marry him out in the starlight, and how they had agreed to meet on the morrow—that morrow on which he found the cottage empty and his child-bride gone; of his search for her, and—oh, cruelest and bitterest of all!—where and with whom he found her; how he had left her lying among the clover, loving her too madly to curse her, yet praying Heaven to strike him dead then and there. Daisy—sweet little, blue-eyed Daisy was false; he never cared to look upon a woman's face again. He spoke of Daisy as his wife over and over again, the name lingering tenderly on his lips. He did not see how, at the mention of the words, "My wife," his mother's face grew more stern and rigid, and she clutched her hands so tightly together that the rings she wore bruised her tender flesh, yet she did not seem to feel the pain.

She saw the terrible glance that leaped into his eyes when he mentioned Stanwick's name, and how he ground his teeth, like one silently breathing a terrible curse. Then his voice fell to a whisper.

"I soon repented of my harshness," he said, "and I went back to Elmwood; but, oh, the pity of it—the pity of it—I was too late; little Daisy, my bride, was dead! She had thrown herself down a shaft in a delirium. I would have followed her, but they held me back. I can scarcely realize it, mother," he cried. "The great wonder is that I do not go insane."

Mrs. Lyon had heard but one word—"Dead." This girl who had inveigled her handsome son into a low marriage was dead. Rex was free—free to marry the bride whom she had selected for him. Yet she dare not mention that thought to him now—no, not now; she must wait a little.

No pity lurked in her heart for the poor little girl-bride whom she supposed lying cold and still in death, whom her son so wildly mourned; she only realized her darling Rex was free. What mattered it to her at what bitter a cost Rex was free? She should yet see her darling hopes realized. Pluma should be his wife, just as sure as they both lived.

"I have told you all now, mother," Rex said, in conclusion; "you must comfort me, for Heaven knows I need all of your sympathy. You will forgive me, mother," he said. "You would have loved Daisy, too, if you had seen her; I shall always believe, through some enormous villainy, Stanwick must have tempted her. I shall follow him to the ends of the earth. I shall wring the truth from his lips. I must go away," he cried—"anywhere, everywhere, trying to forget my great sorrow. How am I to bear it? Has Heaven no pity, that I am so sorely tried?"

At that moment little Birdie came hobbling into the room, and for a brief moment Rex forgot his great grief in greeting his little sister.

"Oh, you darling brother Rex," she cried, clinging to him and laughing and crying in one breath, "I told them to wake me up sure, if you came in the night. I dreamed I heard your voice. You see, it must have been real, but I couldn't wake up; and this morning I heard every one saying: 'Rex is here, Rex is here,' and I couldn't wait another moment, but I came straight down to you."

Rex kissed the pretty little dimpled face, and the little chubby hands that stroked his hair so tenderly.

"Why, you have been crying, Rex," she cried out, in childish wonder. "See, there are tear-drops on your eyelashes—one fell on my hand. What is the matter, brother dear, are you not happy?"

Birdie put her two little soft white arms around his neck, laying her cheek close to his in her pretty, childish, caressing way.

He tried to laugh lightly, but the laugh had no mirth in it.

"You must run away and play, Birdie, and not annoy your brother," said Mrs. Lyon, disengaging the child's clinging arms from Rex's neck. "That child is growing altogether too observing of late."

"Child!" cried Birdie. "I am ten years old. I shall soon be a young lady like Bess and Gertie, over at Glengrove."

"And Eve," suggested Rex, the shadow of a smile flickering around his mouth.

"No, not like Eve," cried the child, gathering up her crutch and sun-hat as she limped toward the door; "Eve is not a young lady, she's a Tom-boy; she wears short dresses and chases the hounds around, while the other two wear silk dresses with big, big trains and have beaus to hold their fans and handkerchiefs. I am going to take my new books you sent me down to my old seat on the stone wall and read those pretty stories there. I don't know if I will be back for lunch or not," she called back; "if I don't, will you come for me, Brother Rex?"

"Yes, dear," he made answer, "of course I will."

The lunch hour came and went, still Birdie did not put in an appearance. At last Rex was beginning to feel uneasy about her.

"You need not be the least alarmed," said Mrs. Lyon, laughingly, "the child is quite spoiled; she is like a romping gypsy, more content to live out of doors in a tent than to remain indoors. She is probably waiting down on the stone wall for you to come for her and carry her home as you used to do. You had better go down and see, Rex; it is growing quite dark."

And Rex, all unconscious of the strange, invisible thread which fate was weaving so closely about him, quickly made his way through the fast-gathering darkness down the old familiar path which led through the odorous orange groves to the old stone wall, guided by the shrill treble of Birdie's childish voice, which he heard in the distance, mingled with the plaintive murmur of the sad sea-waves—those waves that seemed ever murmuring in their song the name of Daisy. Even the subtle breeze seemed to whisper of her presence.



CHAPTER XX.

"I am very grateful to you for the service you have rendered my little sister," said Rex, extending his hand to the little veiled figure standing in the shade of the orange-trees. "Allow me to thank you for it."

Poor Daisy! she dared not speak lest the tones of her voice should betray her identity.

"I must for evermore be as one dead to him," she whispered to her wildly beating heart.

Rex wondered why the little, fluttering, cold fingers dropped so quickly from his clasp; he thought he heard a stifled sigh; the slight, delicate form looked strangely familiar, yet he could see it was neither Eve, Gerty, nor Bess. She bowed her head with a few low-murmured words he scarcely caught, and the next instant the little figure was lost to sight in the darkness beyond.

"Who was that, Birdie?" he asked, scarcely knowing what prompted the question.

Alas for the memory of childhood! poor little Birdie had quite forgotten.

"It is so stupid of me to forget, but when I see her again I shall ask her and try and remember it then."

"It is of no consequence," said Rex, raising the little figure in his arms and bearing her quickly up the graveled path to the house.

As he neared the house Rex observed there was great confusion among the servants; there was a low murmur of voices and lights moving to and fro.

"What is the matter, Parker?" cried Rex, anxiously, of the servant who came out to meet him.

"Mrs. Lyon is very ill, sir," he answered, gravely; "it is a paralytic stroke the doctor says. We could not find you, so we went for Doctor Elton at once."

It seemed but a moment since he had parted from his mother in the gathering twilight, to search for Birdie. His mother very ill—dear Heaven! he could scarcely realize it.

"Oh, take me to mother, Rex!" cried Birdie, clinging to him piteously. "Oh, it can not, it cannot be true; take me to her, Rex!"

The sound of hushed weeping fell upon his ears and seemed to bring to him a sense of what was happening. Like one in a dream he hurried along the corridor toward his mother's boudoir. He heard his mother's voice calling for him.

"Where is my son?" she moaned.

He opened the door quietly and went in. Her dark eyes opened feebly as Rex entered, and she held out her arms to him.

"Oh, my son, my son!" she cried; "thank Heaven you are here!"

She clung to him, weeping bitterly. It was the first time he had ever seen tears in his mother's eyes, and he was touched beyond words.

"It may not be as bad as you think, mother," he said; "there is always hope while there is life."

She raised her face to her son's, and he saw there was a curious whiteness upon it.

The large, magnificent room was quite in shadow; soft shadows filled the corners; the white statuettes gleamed in the darkness; one blind was half drawn, and through it came the soft, sweet moonlight. A large night-lamp stood upon the table, but it was carefully shaded. Faint glimmers of light fell upon the bed, with its costly velvet hangings, and on the white, drawn face that lay on the pillows, with the gray shadow of death stealing softly over it—the faint, filmy look that comes only into eyes that death has begun to darken.

His mother had never been demonstrative; she had never cared for many caresses; but now her son's love seemed her only comfort.

"Rex," she said, clinging close to him, "I feel that I am dying. Send them all away—my hours are numbered—a mist rises before my face, Rex. Oh, dear Heaven! I can not see you—I have lost my sight—my eyes grow dim."

A cry came from Rex's lips.

"Mother, dear mother," he cried, "there is no pain in this world I would not undergo for your dear sake!" he cried, kissing the stiffening lips.

She laid her hands on the handsome head bent before her.

"Heaven bless you, my son," she murmured. "Oh, Rex, my hope and my trust are in you!" she wailed. "Comfort me, calm me—I have suffered so much. I have one last dying request to make of you, my son. You will grant my prayer, Rex? Surely Heaven would not let you refuse my last request!"

Rex clasped her in his arms. This was his lady-mother, whose proud, calm, serene manner had always been perfect—whose fair, proud face had never been stained with tears—whose lips had never been parted with sighs or worn with entreaties.

It was so new to him, so terrible in its novelty, he could hardly understand it. He threw his arms around her, and clasped her closely to his breast.

"My dearest mother," he cried, "you know I would die for you if dying would benefit you. Why do you doubt my willingness to obey your wishes, whatever they may be? Whatever I can do to comfort you I will surely do it, mother."

"Heaven bless you, Rex!" she cried, feebly caressing his face and his bands. "You make death a thousand-fold more easy to bear, my darling, only son!"

"My dear sir," said the doctor, bending over him gently, "I must remind you your mother's life hangs on a thread. The least excitement, the least agitation, and she will be dead before you can call for help. No matter what she may say to you, listen and accede."

Rex bent down and kissed the pale, agitated face on the pillow.

"I will be careful of my dearest mother. Surely you may trust me," he said.

"I do," replied the doctor, gravely. "Your mother's life, for the present, lies in your hands."

"Is it true, Rex, that I must die?" she gasped. The look of anguish on his face answered her. "Rex," she whispered, clinging like a child to his strong white hands, "my hope and trust are in you, my only son. I am going to put your love to the test, my boy. I beseech you to say 'Yes' to the last request I shall ever make of you. Heaven knows, Rex, I would not mention it now, but I am dying—yes, dying, Rex."

"You need not doubt it, mother," he replied, earnestly, "I can not refuse anything you may ask! Why should I?"

But, as he spoke, he had not the faintest idea of what he would be asked to do. As he spoke his eyes caught the gleam of the moonlight through the window, and his thoughts traveled for one moment to the beloved face he had seen in the moonlight—how fair and innocent the face was as they parted on the night they were wed! The picture of that lonely young girl-wife, going home by herself, brought tears to his eyes.

"Was there ever a fate so cruel?" he said to himself. "Who ever lost a wife on his wedding-day?"

Surely there had never been a love-dream so sweet, so passionate, or so bright as his. Surely there had never been one so rudely broken.

Poor little Daisy—his wife—lying cold and still in death. Even his mother was to be taken from him.

The feeble pressure of his mother's hands recalled his wandering thoughts.

"Listen, Rex," she whispered, faintly, "my moments are precious."

He felt his mother's arms clasp closely round his neck.

"Go on, mother," he said, gently.

"Rex, my son," she whispered, gaspingly, "I could not die and leave the words unspoken. I want my race to live long generations after me. Your poor little lame sister will go unmarried to the grave; and now all rests with you, my only son. You understand me, Rex; you know the last request I have to ask."

For the first time a cry came to Rex's lips; her words pierced like a sword in his heart.

"Surely, mother, you do not mean—you do not think I could ever—"

The very horror of the thought seemed to completely unman him.

"You will marry again," she interrupted, finishing the sentence he could not utter. "Remember, she whom you loved is dead. I would not have asked this for long years to come, but I am dying—I must speak now."

"My God, mother!" he cried out in agony, "ask anything but that. My heart is torn and bleeding; have pity on me, have pity!"

Great drops of agony started on his brow; his whole frame shook with agitation.

He tried to collect himself, to gather his scattered thoughts, to realize the full import of the words she had spoken.

Marry again! Heaven pity him! How could he harbor such a thought for a single instant, when he thought of the pale, cold face of little Daisy—his fair young bride—whom he so madly loved, lying pale and still in death, like a broken lily, down in the dark, bottomless pit which never yielded up its terrible secrets!

"Rex," wailed his mother, feebly, gazing into his eyes with a suspense heart-breaking to witness, "don't refuse me this the first prayer I had ever made. If you mean to refuse it would be kinder far to plunge a dagger into my heart and let me die at once. You can not refuse." One trembling hand she laid on his breast, and with the other caressed his face. "You are good and gentle of heart, Rex; the prayers of your dying mother will touch you. Answer me, my son; tell me my proud old race shall not die with you, and I will rest calmly in my grave."

The cold night-wind fanned his pallid brow, and the blood coursed through his veins like molten lead. He saw the tears coursing down her pale, withered cheeks. Ah, God! was it brave to speak the words which must bring despair and death to her? Was it filial to send his mother to her grave with sorrow and sadness in her heart? Could he thrust aside his mother's loving arms and resist her dying prayer? Heaven direct him, he was so sorely tried.

"Comfort me, Rex," she whispered, "think of how I have loved you since you were a little child, how I used to kiss your rosy little face and dream what your future would be like. It comes back to me now while I plead to you with my fast-fleeting breath. Oh, answer me, Rex."

All the love and tenderness of the young man's impulsive heart was stirred by the words. Never was a man so fearfully tried. Rex's handsome face had grown white with emotion; deep shadows came into his eyes. Ah, what could it matter now? His hopes were dead, his heart crushed, yet how could he consent?

"Oh, Heaven, Rex!" she cried, "what does that look on your face mean? What is it?"

The look of terror on her face seemed to force the mad words from his lips, the magnetic gaze seemed to hold him spellbound. He bent over hie mother and laid his fresh, brave young face on the cold, white face of his dying mother.

"Promise me, Rex," she whispered.

"I promise, mother!" he cried. "God help me; if it will make your last moments happier, I consent."

"Heaven bless you, my noble son!" whispered the quivering voice. "You have taken the bitter sting from death, and filled my heart with gratitude. Some day you will thank me for it, Rex."

They were uttered! Oh, fatal words! Poor Rex, wedded and parted, his love-dream broken, how little he knew of the bitter grief which was to accrue from that promise wrung from his white lips.

Like one in a dream he heard her murmur the name of Pluma Hurlhurst. The power of speech seemed denied him; he knew what she meant. He bowed his head on her cold hands.

"I have no heart to give her," he said, brokenly. "My heart is with Daisy, my sweet little lost love."

Poor Rex! how little he knew Daisy was at that self-same moment watching with beating heart the faint light of his window through the branches of the trees—Daisy, whom he mourned as dead, alas! dead to him forever, shut out from his life by the rash words of that fatally cruel promise.



CHAPTER XXI.

One thought only was uppermost in Daisy's mind as she sped swiftly down the flower-bordered path in the moonlight, away from the husband who was still so dear to her.

"He did not recognize me," she panted, in a little quivering voice. "Would he have cursed me, I wonder, had he known it was I?"

Down went the little figure on her knees in the dew-spangled grass with a sharp little cry.

"Oh, dear, what shall I do?" she cried out in sudden fright. "How could I know she was his sister when I told her my name?" A twig fell from the bough above her head brushed by some night-bird's wing. "He is coming to search for me," she whispered to herself.

A tremor ran over her frame; the color flashed into her cheek and parted lips, and a startled, wistful brightness crept into the blue eyes.

Ah! there never could have been a love so sweetly trustful and child-like as little Daisy's for handsome Rex, her husband in name only.

Poor, little, innocent Daisy! if she had walked straight back to him, crying out, "Rex, Rex, see, I am Daisy, your wife!" how much untold sorrow might have been spared her.

Poor, little, lonely, heart-broken child-bride! how was she to know Rex had bitterly repented and come back to claim her, alas! too late; and how he mourned her, refusing to be comforted, and how they forced him back from the edge of the treacherous shaft lest he should plunge headlong down the terrible depths. Oh, if she had but known all this!

If Rex had dropped down from the clouds she could not have been more startled and amazed at finding him in such close proximity away down in Florida.

She remembered he had spoken to her of his mother, as he clasped her to his heart out in the starlight of that never-to-be-forgotten night, whispering to her of the marriage which had been the dearest wish of his mother's heart.

She remembered how she had hid her happy, rosy, blushing face on his breast, and asked him if he was quite sure he loved her better than Pluma Hurlhurst, the haughty, beautiful heiress.

"Yes, my pretty little sweetheart, a thousand times better," he had replied, emphatically, holding her off at arm's-length, watching the heightened color that surged over the dainty, dimpled face so plainly discernible in the white, radiant starlight.

Daisy rested her head on one soft, childish hand, and gazed thoughtfully up at the cold, brilliant stars that gemmed the heavens above her.

"Oh, if you had only warned me, little stars!" she said. "I was so happy then; and now life is so bitter!"

A sudden impulse seized her, strong as her very life, to look upon his face again.

"I would be content to live my weary life out uncomplainingly then," she said.

Without intent or purpose she walked hurriedly back through the pansy-bordered path she had so lately traversed.

The grand old trees seemed to stretch their giant arms protectingly over her, as if to ward off all harm.

The night-wind fanned her flushed cheeks and tossed her golden curls against her wistful, tear-stained face. Noiselessly she crept up the wide, graveled path that led to his home—the home which should have been hers.

Was it fancy? She thought she heard Rex's voice crying out: "Daisy, my darling!" How pitifully her heart thrilled! Dear Heaven! if it had only been true. It was only the restless murmur of the waves sighing among the orange-trees.

A light burned dimly in an upper window. Suddenly a shadow fell across the pale, silken curtains. She knew but too well whose shadow it was; the proud, graceful poise of the handsome head, and the line of the dark curls waving over the broad brow, could belong to no one but Rex. There was no one but the pitying moonlight out there to see how passionately the poor little child-bride kissed the pale roses on which that shadow had fallen, and how she broke it from the stem and placed it close to her beating heart—that lonely, starved little heart, chilled under the withering frost of neglect, when life, love and happiness should have been just bursting into bloom for her.

"He said I had spoiled his life," she sighed, leaning her pale face wearily against the dark-green ivy vines. "He must have meant I had come between him and Pluma. Will he go back to her, now that he believes me dead?"

One question alone puzzled her: Had Birdie mentioned her name, and would he know it was she, whom every one believed lying so cold and still in the bottomless pit? She could not tell.

"If I could but see Birdie for a moment," she thought, "and beseech her to keep my secret!"

Birdie had said her brother was soon going away again.

"How could I bear it?" she asked herself, piteously.

It was not in human nature to see the young husband whom she loved so well drifting so completely away from her and still remain silent. "I will watch over him from afar; I will be his guardian angel; I must remain as one dead to him forever," she told herself.

Afar off, over the dancing, moonlighted waters she saw a pleasure-boat gliding swiftly over the rippling waves. She could hear their merry laughter and gay, happy voices, and snatches of mirthful songs. Suddenly the band struck up an old, familiar strain. Poor little Daisy leaned her head against the iron railing of the porch and listened to those cruel words—the piece that they played was "Love's Young Dream."

Love's young dream! Ah! how cruelly hers had ended! She looked up at the white, fleecy clouds above her, vaguely wondering why the love of one person made the earth a very paradise, or a wilderness. As the gay, joyous music floated up to her the words of the poet found echo in her heart in a passionate appeal:

"No one could tell, for nobody knew, Why love was made to gladden a few; And hearts that would forever be true, Go lone and starved the whole way through,"

Oh, it was such a blessed relief to her to watch that shadow. Rex was pacing up and down the room now, his arms folded and his head bent on his breast. Poor, patient little Daisy, watching alone out in the starlight, was wondering if he was thinking of her.

No thought occurred to her of being discovered there with her arms clasped around that marble pillar watching so intently the shadow of that graceful, manly figure pacing to and fro.

No thought occurred to her that a strange event was at that moment transpiring within those walls, or that something unusual was about to happen.

How she longed to look upon his face for just one brief moment! Estrangement had not chilled her trusting love, it had increased it, rather, tenfold.

Surely it was not wrong to gaze upon that shadow—he was her husband.

In that one moment a wild, bitter thought swept across her heart.

Did Rex regret their marriage because she was poor, friendless, and an orphan? Would it have been different if she had been the heiress of Whitestone Hall?

She pitied herself for her utter loneliness. There was no one to whom she could say one word of all that filled her heart and mind, no face to kiss, no heart to lean on; she was so completely alone. And this was the hour her fate was being decided for her. There was no sympathy for her, her isolation was bitter. She thought of all the heroines she had ever read of. Ah, no one could picture such a sad fate as was hers.

A bright thought flashed across her lonely little heart.

"His mother is there," she sighed. "Ah, if I were to go to her and cry out: 'Love me, love me! I am your son's wife!' would she cast me from her? Ah, no, surely not; a woman's gentle heart beats in her breast, a woman's tender pity. I will plead with her on my knees—to comfort me—to show me some path out of the pitiful darkness; I can love her because she is his mother."

Daisy drew her breath quickly; the color glowed warmly on her cheek and lips; she wondered she had not thought of it before. Poor child! she meant to tell her all, and throw herself upon her mercy.

Her pretty, soft blue eyes, tender with the light of love, were swimming with tears. A vain hope was struggling in her heart—Rex's mother might love her, because she worshiped her only son so dearly.

Would she send her forth from that home that should have sheltered her, or would she clasp those little cold fingers in Rex's strong white ones, as she explained to him, as only a mother can, how sadly he had misjudged poor little Daisy—his wife?

No wonder her heart throbbed pitifully as she stole silently across the wide, shadowy porch, and, quivering from head to foot, touched the bell that echoed with a resounding sound through the long entrance-hall.

"I would like to see Mrs. Lyon," she said, hesitatingly, to the servant who answered her summons. "Please do not refuse me," she said, clasping her little white hands pleadingly. "I must see her at once. It is a question of life or death with me. Oh, sir, please do not refuse me. I must see her at once—and—all alone!"



CHAPTER XXII.

In the beautiful drawing-room at Whitestone Hall sat Pluma Hurlhurst, running her white, jeweled fingers lightly over the keyboard of a grand piano, but the music evidently failed to charm her. She arose listlessly and walked toward the window, which opened out upon the wide, cool, rose-embowered porch.

The sunshine glimmered on her amber satin robe, and the white frost-work of lace at her throat, and upon the dark, rich beauty of her southern face.

"Miss Pluma," called Mrs. Corliss, the housekeeper, entering the room, "there is a person down-stairs who wishes to see you. I have told her repeatedly it is an utter impossibility—you would not see her; but she declares she will not go away until she does see you."

Pluma turns from the window with cold disdain.

"You should know better than to deliver a message of this kind to me. How dare the impertinent, presuming beggar insist upon seeing me! Order the servants to put her out of the house at once."

"She is not young," said the venerable housekeeper, "and I thought, if you only would—"

"Your opinion was not called for, Mrs. Corliss," returned the heiress, pointing toward the door haughtily.

"I beg your pardon," the housekeeper made answer, "but the poor creature begged so hard to see you I did feel a little sorry for her."

"This does not interest me, Mrs. Corliss," said Pluma, turning toward the window, indicating the conversation was at an end—"not in the least."

"The Lord pity you, you stony-hearted creature!" murmured the sympathetic old lady to herself as the door closed between them. "One word wouldn't have cost you much, Heaven knows, it's mightly little comfort poor old master takes with you! You are no more like the bonny race of Hurlhursts than a raven is like a white dove!" And the poor old lady walked slowly back to the dark-robed figure in the hall, so eagerly awaiting her.

"There was no use in my going to my young mistress; I knew she would not see you. But I suppose you are more satisfied now."

"She utterly refuses to see me, does she," asked the woman, in an agitated voice, "when you told her I wished to see her particularly?"

The housekeeper shook her head.

"When Miss Pluma once makes up her mind to a thing, no power on earth could change her mind," she said; "and she is determined she won't see you, so you may as well consider that the end of it."

Without another word the stranger turned and walked slowly down the path and away from Whitestone Hall.

"Fool that I was!" she muttered through her clinched teeth. "I might have foreseen this. But I will haunt the place day and night until I see you, proud heiress of Whitestone Hall. We shall see—time will tell."

Meanwhile Mrs. Corliss, the housekeeper, was staring after her with wondering eyes.

"I have heard that voice and seen that face somewhere," she ruminated, thoughtfully; "but where—where? There seems to be strange leaks in this brain of mine—I can not remember."

A heavy, halting step passed the door, and stopped there.

"What did that woman want, Mrs. Corliss?"

She started abruptly from her reverie, replying, hesitatingly.

"She wanted to see Miss Pluma, sir."

"Was Pluma so busily engaged she could not spare that poor creature a moment or so?" he inquired, irritably. "Where is she?"

"In the parlor, sir."

With slow, feeble steps, more from weakness than age, Basil Hurlhurst walked slowly down the corridor to the parlor.

It was seldom he left his own apartments of late, yet Pluma never raised her superb eyes from the book of engravings which lay in her lap as he entered the room.

A weary smile broke under his silver-white mustache.

"You do not seem in a hurry to bid me welcome, Pluma," he said, grimly, throwing himself down into an easy-chair opposite her. "I congratulate myself upon having such an affectionate daughter."

Pluma tossed aside her book with a yawn.

"Of course I am glad to see you," she replied, carelessly; "but you can not expect me to go into ecstasies over the event like a child in pinafores might. You ought to take it for granted that I'm glad you are beginning to see what utter folly it is to make such a recluse of yourself."

He bit his lip in chagrin. As is usually the case with invalids, he was at times inclined to be decidedly irritable, as was the case just now.

"It is you who have driven me to seek the seclusion of my own apartments, to be out of sight and hearing of the household of simpering idiots you insist upon keeping about you," he cried, angrily. "I came back to Whitestone Hall for peace and rest. Do I get it? No."

"That is not my fault," she answered, serenely. "You do not mingle with the guests. I had no idea they could annoy you."

"Well, don't you suppose I have eyes and ears, even if I do not mingle with the chattering magpies you fill the house up with? Why, I can never take a ramble in the grounds of an evening without stumbling upon a dozen or more pair of simpering lovers at every turn. I like darkness and quiet. Night after night I find the grounds strung up with these Chinese lanterns, and I can not even sleep in my bed for the eternal brass bands at night; and in the daytime not a moment's quiet do I get for these infernal sonatas and screeching trills of the piano. I tell you plainly, I shall not stand this thing a day longer. I am master of Whitestone Hall yet, and while I live I shall have things my own way. After I die you can turn it into a pandemonium, for all I care."

Pluma flashed her large dark eyes upon him surprisedly, beginning to lose her temper, spurred on by opposition.

"I am sure I do not mean to make a hermit of myself because you are too old to enjoy the brightness of youth," she flashed out, defiantly; "and you ought not to expect it—it is mean and contemptible of you."

"Pluma!" echoed Basil Hurlhurst, in astonishment, his noble face growing white and stern with suppressed excitement, "not another word."

Pluma tossed her head contemptuously. When once her temper arose it was quite as impossible to check it as it was when she was a willful, revengeful, spoiled child.

"Another man as rich as you are would have taken their daughter to Washington for a season, and in the summer to Long Branch or Newport—somewhere, anywhere, away from the detestable waving cotton-fields. When you die I shall have it all set on fire."

"Pluma!" he cried, hoarsely, rising to his feet and drawing his stately, commanding figure to its full height, "I will not brook such language from a child who should at least yield me obedience, if not love. You are not the heiress of Whitestone Hall yet, and you never may be. If I thought you really contemplated laying waste these waving fields that have been my pride for long years—and my father's before me—I would will it to an utter stranger, so help me Heaven!"

Were his words prophetic? How little she knew the echo of these words were doomed to ring for all time down the corridors of her life! How little we know what is in store for us!

"I am your only child," said Pluma, haughtily; "you would not rob me of my birthright. I shall be forced to submit to your pleasure—while you are here—but, thank Heaven, the time is not far distant when I shall be able to do as I please. 'The mills of the gods grind slowly, but they grind exceeding fine,'" she quoted, saucily.

"Thank Heaven the time is not far distant when I shall be able to do as I please." He repeated the words slowly after her, each one sinking into his heart like a poisoned arrow. "So you would thank Heaven for my death, would you?" he cried, with passion rising to a white heat. "Well, this is no better than I could expect from the daughter—of such a mother."

He had never intended speaking those words; but she goaded him on to it with her taunting, scornful smile, reminding him so bitterly of the one great error of his past life.

He was little like the kind, courteous master of Whitestone Hall, whom none named but to praise, as he stood there watching the immovable face of his daughter. All the bitterness of his nature was by passion rocked. No look of pain or anguish touched the dark beauty of that southern face at the mention of her mother's name.

"You have spoken well," she said. "I am her child. You speak of love," she cried, contemptuously. "Have you not told me, a thousand times, you never cared for my mother? How, then, could I expect you to care for me? Have you not cried out unceasingly for the golden-haired young wife and the babe you lost, and that you wished Heaven had taken you too? Did I ever hear my mother's name upon your lips except with a sneer? Do you expect these things made that mother's child more fond of you, were you twenty times my father?"

She stood up before him, proudly defiant, like a beautiful tragedy queen, the sunlight slanting on the golden vines of her amber satin robe, on the long, dark, silken curls fastened with a ruby star, and on the deep crimson-hearted passion-roses that quivered on her heaving breast. There was not one feature of that gloriously dark face that resembled the proud, cold man sitting opposite her.

He knew all she had said was quite true. He had tried so hard to love this beautiful queenly girl from her infancy up. He was tender of heart, honest and true; but an insurmountable barrier seemed ever between them; each year found them further apart.

Basil Hurlhurst lived over again in those few moments the terrible folly that had cursed his youth, as he watched the passion-rocked face before him.

"Youth is blind and will not see," had been too bitterly true with him. It was in his college days, when the world seemed all gayety, youth and sunshine to him, he first met the beautiful face that was to darken all of his after life. He was young and impulsive; he thought it was love that filled his heart for the beautiful stranger who appeared alone and friendless in that little college town.

He never once asked who or what she was, or from whence she came, this beautiful creature with the large, dark, dreamy eyes that thrilled his heart into love. She carried the town by storm; every young man at the college was deeply, desperately in love. But Basil, the handsomest and wealthiest of them all, thought what a lark it would be to steal a march on them all by marrying the dark-eyed beauty then and there. He not only thought it, but executed it, but it was not the lark that he thought it was going to be. For one short happy week he lived in a fool's paradise, then a change came over the spirit of his dreams. In that one week she had spent his year's income and all the money he could borrow, then petulantly left him in anger.

For two long years he never looked upon her face again. One stormy night she returned quite unexpectedly at Whitestone Hall, bringing with her their little child Pluma, and, placing her in her father's arms, bitter recriminations followed. Bitterly Basil Hurlhurst repented that terrible mistake of his youth, that hasty marriage.

When the morning light dawned he took his wife and child from Whitestone Hall—took them abroad. What did it matter to him where they went? Life was the same to him in one part of the world as another. For a year they led a weary life of it. Heaven only knew how weary he was of the woman the law called his wife!

One night, in a desperate fit of anger, she threw herself into the sea; her body was never recovered. Then the master of Whitestone Hall returned with his child, a sadder and wiser man.

But the bitterest drop in his cup had been added last. The golden-haired young wife, the one sweet love whom he had married last, was taken from him; even her little child, tiny image of that fair young mother, had not been spared him.

How strange it was such a passionate yearning always came over him when he thought of his child!

When he saw a fair, golden-haired young girl, with eyes of blue, the pain in his heart almost stifled him. Some strange unaccountable fate urged him to ever seek for that one face even in the midst of crowds. It was a mad, foolish fancy, yet it was the one consolation of Basil Hurlhurst's weary, tempest tossed life.

No wonder he set his teeth hard together as he listened to the cold words of the proud, peerless beauty before him, who bore every lineament of her mother's dark, fatal beauty—this daughter who scornfully spoke of the hour when he should die as of some happy, long-looked-for event.

Those waving cotton-fields that stretched out on all sides as far as the eye could reach, like a waving field of snow, laid waste beneath the fire fiend's scorching breath! Never—never!

Then and there the proud, self-conscious young heiress lost all chances of reigning a regal queen, by fair means, of Whitestone Hall.



CHAPTER XXIII.

The servant who opened the door for Daisy looked earnestly at the fair, pleading young face, framed in rings of golden hair, so pure and spiritual that it looked like an angel's with the soft white moonlight falling over it.

"You will not refuse me," she repeated, timidly. "I must speak to Mrs. Lyon."

"You have come too late," he replied, gently; "Mrs. Lyon is dead."

The man never forgot the despairing look of horror that deepened in the childish blue eyes raised to his.

"Rex's mother dead!" she repeated, slowly, wondering if she had heard aright. "Oh, my poor Rex, my poor Rex!"

How she longed to go to him and comfort him in that terrible hour, but she dared not intrude upon him.

"If there is any message you would like to leave," said the kind-hearted Parker, "I will take it to Mr. Rex."

"No," said Daisy, shaking her head, "I have no message to leave; perhaps I will come again—after this is all over," she made answer, hesitatingly; her brain was in a whirl; she wanted to get away all by herself to think. "Please don't say any one was here," she said, quickly; "I—I don't want any one to know."

The sweet, plaintive voice, as sweet as the silvery note of a forest bird, went straight to his heart.

Whatever the mission of this beautiful, mysterious visitor, he would certainly respect her wishes.

"I shall not mention it if you do not wish it," he said.

"Thank you," she replied, simply; "you are very kind. My life seems made up of disappointments," she continued, as she walked slowly home under the restless, sighing green branches.

It seemed so indeed. She was so young and inexperienced to be thrown so entirely upon the cold, pitiless world—cut off so entirely from all human sympathy. She entered the house quite unobserved. Eve—bright, merry, dashing Eve—was singing like a lark in the drawing-room, making the old house echo with her bright young voice.

"How happy she is!" thought Daisy, wistfully. "She has home, friends, and love, while I have nothing that makes life worth the living."

Like a shadow, she flitted on through the dim, shadowy hall, toward her own little room. She saw Gertie's door was ajar as she passed it, and the sound of her own name caused her to pause voluntarily.

It was very natural for Daisy to pause. How many are there who would have passed on quietly, with no desire to know what was being said of themselves, when they heard their own names mentioned in such a sneering manner? Daisy certainly meant no harm by it; she paused, thoughtfully and curiously, as any one would have done.

"I am sure I don't like it," Gertie was saying, spitefully. "It is an actual shame allowing Daisy Brooks to remain here. Uncle Jet was a mean old thing to send her here, where there were three marriageable young ladies. I tell you he did it out of pure spite."

"I believe it," answered Bess, spiritedly. "Every one of my beaus either hints for an introduction or asks for it outright."

"What do you tell them?" questions Gertie, eagerly.

"Tell them! Why, I look exceedingly surprised, replying: 'I do not know to whom you refer. We have no company at the house just now.' 'I mean that beautiful, golden-haired little fairy, with the rosy cheeks and large blue eyes. If not your guest, may I ask who she is?' I am certainly compelled to answer so direct a thrust," continued Bess, angrily; "and I ask in well-feigned wonder: 'Surely you do not mean Daisy Brooks, my mother's paid companion?'"

"What do they say to that?" asked Gertie, laughing heartily at her elder sister's ingenuity, and tossing her curl papers until every curl threatened to tumble down. "That settles it, doesn't it?"

"Mercy, no!" cried Bess, raising her eyebrows; "not a bit of it. The more I say against her—in a sweet way, of course—the more they are determined to form her acquaintance."

"I don't see what every one can see in that little pink-and-white baby-face of hers to rave over so!" cried Gertie, hotly. "I can't imagine where in the world people see her. I have as much as told her she was not expected to come into the parlor or drawing-room when strangers were there, and what do you suppose she said?"

"Cried, perhaps," said Bess, yawning with ennui.

"She did nothing of the kind," retorted Gertie. "She seized my hand, and said: 'Oh, Miss Gertrude, that is very kind of you, indeed! I thank you ever so much!'"

"Pshaw!" cried Bess, contemptuously. "That was a trick to make you believe she did not want to be observed by our guests. She is a sly, designing little creature, with her pretty face and soft, childish ways."

"But there is one point that seriously troubles me," said Gertie, fastening the pink satin bow on her tiny slipper more securely, and breaking off the thread with a nervous twitch. "I am seriously afraid, if Rex were to see her, that would be the end of our castle in the air. Daisy Brooks has just the face to attract a handsome, debonair young fellow like Rex."

"You can depend upon it he shall never see her," said Bess, decidedly. "Where there's a will there's a way."

"I have never been actually jealous of anyone before," said Gertie, flushing furiously, as she acknowledged the fact; "but that Daisy has such a way of attracting people toward her they quite forget your presence when she is around. 'When one rival leaves the field, another one is sure to come to the fore.' That's a true saying," said Gertie, meditatively. "You see, he did not marry the heiress of Whitestone Hall. So he is still in the market, to be captured by some lucky girl."

"Well, if I am the lucky one, you must forgive me, Gertie. All is fair in love and war, you know. Besides, his wealth is too tempting to see slip quietly by without a struggle."

Before she could reply Eve popped in through the long French window that opened out on the porch.

"Oh, I'm so tired of hearing you two talk of lovers and riches!" she cried, throwing herself down on the sofa. "I do hate to hear love weighed against riches, as if it were a purchasable article. According to your ideas, if a fellow was worth a hundred thousand, you would love him moderately; but if he was worth half a million, you could afford to love him immensely."

"You have got a sensible idea of the matter," said Bess, coolly.

"For shame!" cried Eve, in a hot fury. "It's an actual sin to talk in that way. If a handsome young man loves you, and you love him, why, you ought to marry him if he hadn't a dollar in the world!"

Gertie and the worldly-wise Bess laughed at their younger sister's enthusiasm.

"Now, there's Rex Lyon, for instance," persisted Eve, absolutely refusing to be silenced. "I would wager a box of the best kid gloves either one of you would marry him to-morrow, if he were to ask you, if he hadn't a penny in his pocket."

"Pshaw!" reiterated Gertie, and Bess murmured something about absurd ideas; but nevertheless both sisters were blushing furiously to the very roots of their hair. They well knew in their hearts what she said was perfectly true.

"Eve," said Bess, laying her hand coaxingly on the young rebel's arm, "Gertie and I want you to promise us something. Come, now, consent that you will do as we wish, that's a good girl."

"How can I promise before I know what you want?" said Eve, petulantly. "You might want the man in the moon, after you've tried and failed to get his earthly brethren, for all I know!"

"Eve, you are actually absurd!" cried Bess, sharply. "This is merely a slight favor we wish you to do."

"If you warn her not to do a thing, that is just what she will set her heart upon doing," said Gertie, significantly.

By this time Eve's curiosity was well up.

"You may as well tell me anyhow," she said; "for if you don't, and I ever find out what it is, I'll do my very worst, because you kept it from me."

"Well," said Gertie, eagerly, "we want you to promise us not to give Daisy Brooks an introduction to Rex Lyon."

A defiant look stole over Eve's mischievous face.

"If he asks me, I'm to turn and walk off, or I'm to say, 'No, sir, I am under strict orders from my marriageable sisters not to.' Is that what you mean?"

"Eve," they both cried in chorus, "don't be unsisterly; don't put a stumbling-block in our path; rather remove it!"

"I shall not bind myself to such a promise!" cried Eve. "You are trying to spoil my pet scheme. I believe you two are actually witches and guessed it. What put it into your heads that I had any such intentions anyhow?"

"Then you were actually thinking of going against our interest in that way," cried Gertie, white to the very lips, "you insolent little minx!"

"I don't choose to remain in such polite society," said Eve, with a mocking courtesy, skipping toward the door. "I may take a notion to write a little note to Mr. Rex, inviting him over here to see our household fairy, just as the spirit moves me."

This was really more than Gertie's warm, southern temper could bear. She actually flew at the offending Eve in her rage; but Eve was nimble of foot and disappeared up the stairway, three steps at a bound.

"What a vixen our Gertie is growing to be!" she cried, pantingly, as she reached the top step.

She saw a light in Daisy's room, and tapped quietly on the door.

"Is that you, Eve?" cried a smothered voice from the pillows.

"Yes," replied Eve; "I'd like very much to come in. May I?"

For answer, Daisy opened the door, but Eve stood quite still on the threshold.

"What's the matter, Daisy, have you been crying?" she demanded. "Why, your eyelids are red and swollen, and your eyes glow like the stars. Has Gertie or Bess said anything cross to you?" she inquired, smoothing back the soft golden curls that clustered round the white brow.

"No," said Daisy, choking down a hard sob; "only I am very unhappy, Eve, and I feel just—just as if every one in the world hated me."

"How long have you been up here in your room?" asked Eve, suspiciously, fearing Daisy had by chance overheard the late conversation down-stairs.

"Quite an hour," answered Daisy, truthfully.

"Then you did not hear what I was talking about down-stairs, did you?" she inquired, anxiously.

"No," said Daisy, "you were playing over a new waltz when I came upstairs."

"Oh," said Eve, breathing freer, thinking to herself, "She has not heard what we said. I am thankful for that."

"You must not talk like that, Daisy," she said, gayly, clasping her arms caressingly around the slender figure leaning against the casement; "I predict great things in store for you—wonderful things. Do not start and look at me so curiously, for I shall not tell you anything else, for it is getting dangerously near a certain forbidden subject. You know you warned me not to talk to you of love or lovers. I intend to have a great surprise for you. That is all I'm going to tell you now."

Eve was almost frightened at the rapture that lighted up the beautiful face raised to her own.

"Has any one called for me, Eve?" she asked, piteously. "Oh, Eve, tell me quickly. I have hoped against hope, almost afraid to indulge so sweet a dream. Has any one inquired for me?"

Eve shook her head, sorely puzzled.

"Were you expecting any one to call?" she asked. She saw the light die quickly out of the blue eyes and the rich peachlike bloom from the delicate, dimpled cheeks. "I know something is troubling you greatly, little Daisy," she said, "and I sympathize with you even if I may not share your secret."

"Every one is so cold and so cruel to me, I think I should die if I were to lose your friendship, Eve," she said.

Eve held the girl's soft white hand in hers. "You will never die, then, if you wait for that event to happen. When I like a person, I like them for all time. I never could pretend a friendship I did not feel. And I said to myself the first moment I saw you: 'What a sweet littly fairy! I shall love her, I'm sure.'"

"And do you love me?" asked Daisy.

"Yes," said Eve; "my friendship is a lasting one. I could do almost anything for you."

She wondered why Daisy took her face between her soft little palms and looked so earnestly down into her eyes, and kissed her lips so repeatedly.

Poor Daisy! if she had only confided in Eve—reckless, impulsive, warm-hearted, sympathetic Eve—it might have been better for her. "No matter what you might hear of me in the future, no matter what fate might tempt me to do, promise me, Eve, that you, of all the world, will believe in me, you will not lose your faith in me." The sweet voice sounded hollow and unnatural. "There are dark, pitiful secrets in many lives," she said, "that drive one to the very verge of madness in their woe. If you love me, pray for me, Eve. My feet are on the edge of a terrible precipice."

In after years Eve never forgot the haunted look of despair that crossed the fair face of Daisy Brooks, as the words broke from her lips in a piteous cry.



CHAPTER XXIV.

The announcement of Mrs. Lyon's sudden and unexpected death caused great excitement and consternation the next morning at Glengrove.

"Oh, dear!" cried Gertie, "how provokingly unfortunate for her to die just now! Why couldn't she have waited until after our birthday party? Of course Rex wouldn't be expected to come now; and this whole matter was arranged especially for him; and my beautiful lilac silk is all made, and so bewitchingly lovely, too!"

"What can't be cured must be endured, you know," said Bess; "and now the best thing to be done is to send a note of condolence to him, extending our deepest sympathy, and offering him any assistance in our power; and be sure to add: 'We would be very pleased to have Birdie come over here until you can make other arrangements for her.'"

"Have Birdie here!" flashed Gertie, angrily. "I actually think you have gone crazy!"

"Well, there is certainly a method in my madness," remarked Bess. "Aren't you quick-witted enough to understand that would be a sure way of bringing Rex over here every day?—he would come to see his sister—and that is quite a point gained."

"You are rather clever, Bess; I never thought of that."

And straightway the perfumed little note was dispatched, bearing Gertie's monogram and tender-worded sympathy to the handsome young heir, who sat all alone in that darkened chamber, wondering why Heaven had been so unkind to him.

An hour later Bess and Gertie were in the library arranging some new volumes on the shelves. Mrs. Glenn sat in a large easy-chair superintending the affair, while Daisy stood at an open window, holding the book from which she had been reading aloud in her restless fingers, her blue eyes gazing earnestly on the distant curling smoke that rose up lazily from the chimneys of Rex's home, and upon the brilliant sunshine that lighted up the eastern windows with a blaze of glory—as if there was no such thing as death or sorrow within those palatial walls—when Rex's answer was received.

"It is from Rex!" cried Gertie, all in a flutter. "Shall I read it aloud, mamma?" she asked, glancing furtively at Daisy, who stood at the window, her pale, death-like face half buried in the lace curtains.

"It is certainly not a personal letter," said Bess, maliciously glancing at the superscription. "Don't you see it is addressed to 'Mrs. Glenn and daughters.'"

"In a time like that people don't think much of letters," commented Mrs. Glenn, apologetically. "Read the letter aloud, of course, my dear."

It read:

"DEAR LADIES,—I thank you more than I can express for your kind sympathy in my present sad bereavement. I would gladly have accepted your offer of bringing my dear little orphan sister to you, had I not received a telegram this morning from Miss Pluma Hurlhurst, of Whitestone Hall, West Virginia, announcing her intention of coming on at once, accompanied by Mrs. Corliss, to take charge of little Birdie.

"Again thanking you for the courtesy and kindness shown me, I am

"Yours very truly, "REXFORD LYON."

There was a low, gasping, piteous cry; and the little figure at the window slipped down among the soft, billowy curtains in a deadly swoon; but the three, so deeply engrossed in discussing the contents of the note, did not notice it. At last Daisy opened her eyes, and the blue eyes were dazed with pain. She could hear them coupling the names of Rex and Pluma Hurlhurst. Rex—her husband!

Daisy was blind and stupefied. She groped rather than walked from the library—away from the three, who scarcely noticed her absence.

Who cared that her heart was broken? Who cared that the cruel stab had gone home to her tender, bleeding heart; that the sweet young face was whiter than the petals of the star-bells tossing their white plumes against the casement?

Slowly, blindly, with one hand grasping the balusters, she went up the broad staircase to her own room.

She tried to think of everything on the way except the one thing that had taken place. She thought of the story she had read, of a girl who was slain by having a dagger plunged into her breast. The girl ran a short distance, and when the dagger was drawn from the wound, she fell down dead. In some way she fancied she was like that girl—that, when she should reach her own room and stand face to face with her own pain, she should drop down dead.

The door was closed, and she stood motionless, trying to understand and realize what she had heard.

"Have my senses deceived me?" She said the words over and over to herself. "Did I dream it? Can it even be possible Pluma Hurlhurst is coming here, coming to the home where I should have been? God help me. Coming to comfort Rex—my husband!"

She could fancy the darkly beautiful face bending over him; her white jeweled hands upon his shoulder, or, perhaps, smoothing back the bonny brown clustering curls from his white brow.

"My place should have been by his side," she continued.

It hurt and pained her to hear the name of the man she loved dearer than life mentioned with the name of Pluma Hurlhurst.

"Oh, Rex, my love, my love!" she cried out, "I can not bear it any longer. The sun of my life has gone down in gloom and chill. Oh, Rex, my husband, I have not the strength nor the courage to bear it. I am a coward. I can not give you up. We are living apart under the blue, smiling sky and the golden sun. Yet in the sight of the angels, I am your wife."

Suddenly, the solemn bells from Rex's home commenced tolling, and through the leafy branches of the trees she caught a glimpse of a white face and bowed head, and of a proud, cold face bending caressingly over it, just as she had pictured it in her imagination.

Dear Heaven! it was Rex and Pluma! She did not moan. She did not cry out, nor utter even a sigh. Like one turned to marble she, the poor little misguided child-wife, stood watching them with an intentness verging almost into madness.

She saw him lift his head wearily from his white hands, rise slowly, and then, side by side, both disappeared from the window.

After that Daisy never knew how the moments passed. She remembered the tidy little waiting-maid coming to her and asking if she would please come down to tea. She shook her head but no sound issued from the white lips, and the maid went softly away, closing the door behind her.

Slowly the sun sunk in the west in a great red ball of fire. The light died out of the sky, and the song birds trilled their plaintive good-night songs in the soft gloaming. Still Daisy sat with her hands crossed in her lap, gazing intently at the window, where she had seen Pluma standing with Rex, her husband.

A hand turned the knob of her door.

"Oh, dear me," cried Gertie, "you are all in the dark. I do not see you. Are you here, Daisy Brooks?"

"Yes," said Daisy, controlling her voice by a violent effort. "Won't you sit down? I will light the gas."

"Oh, no, indeed!" cried Gertie. "I came up to ask you if you would please sew a little on my ball dress to-night. I can not use it just now; still, there is no need of putting it away half finished."

Sew on a ball dress while her heart was breaking! Oh, how could she do it? Quietly she followed Gertie to her pretty little blue and gold boudoir, making no remonstrance. She was to sew on a ball dress while the heiress of Whitestone Hall was consoling her young husband in his bitter sorrow?

The shimmering billows of silk seemed swimming before her eyes, and the frost-work of seed-pearls to waver through the blinding tears that would force themselves to her eyes. Eve was not there. How pitifully lonely poor Daisy felt! The face, bent so patiently over the lilac silk, had a strange story written upon it. But the two girls, discussing the events of the day, did not glance once in her direction; their thoughts and conversation were of the handsome young heiress and Rex.

"For once in your life you were wrong," said Bess. "The way affairs appear now does not look much like a broken-off marriage, I can assure you."

"Those who have seen her say she is peculiarly beautiful and fascinating, though cold, reserved, and as haughty as a queen," said Gertie.

"Cold and reserved," sneered Bess. "I guess you would not have thought so if you had been at the drawing-room window to-day and seen her bending over Rex so lovingly. I declare I expected every moment to see her kiss him."

The box which held the seed-pearls dropped to the floor with a crash, and the white, glistening beads were scattered about in all directions.

"Why, what a careless creature you are, Daisy Brooks!" cried Gertie, in dismay. "Just see what you have done! Half of them will be lost, and what is not lost will be smashed, and I had just enough to finish that lily on the front breadth and twine among the blossoms for my hair. What do you suppose I'm going to do now, you provoking girl? It is actually enough to make one cry."

"I am so sorry," sighed Daisy, piteously.

"Sorry! Will that bring back my seed-pearls? I have half a mind to make mamma deduct the amount from your salary."

"You may have it all if it will only replace them," said Daisy, earnestly. "I think, though, I have gathered them all up."

A great, round tear rolled off from her long, silky eyelashes and into the very heart of the frosted lily over which she bent, but the lily's petals seemed to close about it, leaving no trace of its presence.

Bessie and Gertie openly discussed their chagrin and keen disappointment, yet admitting what a handsome couple Rex and Pluma made—he so courteous and noble, she so royal and queenly.

"Of course we must call upon her if she is to be Rex's wife," said Gertie, spitefully. "I foresee she will be exceedingly popular."

"We must also invite her to Glengrove," said Bess, thoughtfully. "It is the least we can do, and it is expected of us. I quite forgot to mention one of their servants was telling Jim both Rex and little Birdie intend to accompany Miss Hurlhurst back to Whitestone Hall as soon after the funeral as matters can be arranged."

"Why, that is startling news indeed! Why, then, they will probably leave some time this week!" cried Gertie.

"Most probably," said Bess. "You ought certainly to send over your note this evening—it is very early yet."

"There is no one to send," said Gertie. "Jim has driven over to Natchez, and there is no one else to go."

"Perhaps Daisy will go for you," suggested Bess.

There was no need of being jealous now of Daisy's beauty in that direction. Gertie gladly availed herself of the suggestion.

"Daisy," she said, turning abruptly to the quivering little figure, whose face drooped over the lilac silk, "never mind finishing that dress to-night. I wish you to take a note over to the large gray stone house yonder, and be sure to deliver it to Mr. Rex Lyon himself."



CHAPTER XXV.

Gertie Glenn never forgot the despairing cry that broke from Daisy's white lips as she repeated her command:

"I wish you to deliver this note to Mr. Rex Lyon himself."

"Oh, Miss Gertie," she cried, clasping her hands together in an agony of entreaty, "I can not—oh, indeed I can not! Ask anything of me but that and I will gladly do it!"

Both girls looked at her in sheer astonishment.

"What is the reason you can not?" cried Gertie, in utter amazement. "I do not comprehend you."

"I—I can not take the note," she said, in a frightened whisper. "I do not—I—"

She stopped short in utter confusion.

"I choose you shall do just as I bid you," replied Gertie, in her imperious, scornful anger. "It really seems to me you forget your position here, Miss Brooks. How dare you refuse me?"

Opposition always strengthened Gertie's decision, and she determined Daisy should take her note to Rex Lyon at all hazards.

The eloquent, mute appeal in the blue eyes raised to her own was utterly lost on her.

"The pride of these dependent companions is something ridiculous," she went on, angrily. "You consider yourself too fine, I suppose, to be made a messenger of." Gertie laughed aloud, a scornful, mocking laugh. "Pride and poverty do not work very well together. You may go to your room now and get your hat and shawl. I shall have the letter written in a very few minutes. There will be no use appealing to mamma. You ought to know by this time we overrule her objections always."

It was too true, Mrs. Glenn never had much voice in a matter where Bess or Gertie had decided the case.

Like one in a dream Daisy turned from them. She never remembered how she gained her own room. With cold, tremulous fingers she fastened her hat, tucking the bright golden hair carefully beneath her veil, and threw her shawl over her shoulders, just as Gertie approached, letter in hand.