"Because he has grown tired of me," she cried, with passion and anger flaming again in her white, worn face. "I did something he thought wrong, and he prayed to Heaven to pardon him for making me his wife."

"What did you do?" asked her father, anxiously.

"Nothing that I thought wrong," she replied. "Ask me no questions, father. I would rather die any death than return to him or see him again. Yet do not think evil of him. It was all a mistake. I could not think his thoughts or live his life—we were quite different, and very unhappy. He never wishes to see me again, and I will suffer anything rather than see him."

The farmer and his wife looked at each other in silent dismay. This proud, angry woman and her passionate words frightened them. Could it be their Dora, who had ever been sunshine and music to them?

"If you do not like to take me home, father," she said, in a hard voice, "I can go elsewhere; nothing can surprise or grieve me now."

But kindly Mrs. Thorne had drawn the tired head to her.

"Do you not know, child," she said, gently, "that a mother's love never fails?"

Ralph had raised the little one in his arms, and was looking with wondering admiration at the proud, beautiful face of the little Beatrice, and the fair loveliness of Lillian. The children looked with frank, fearless eyes into his plain, honest face.

"This one with dark hair has the real Earle face," said Stephen Thorne, proudly; "that is just my lord's look—proud and quiet. And the little Lillian is something like Dora, when she was quite a child."

"Never say that!" cried the young mother. "Let them grow like any one else, but never like me!"

They soothed her with gentle, loving words. Her father said she should share his home with her children, and he would never give her up again. They bade her watch the little ones, who had forgotten their fears, and laughed over the ripe fruit and golden honey. They also drew aside the white curtain, and let her tired eyes fall upon the sweet summer beauty of earth and sky. Was not everything peaceful? The sun sinking in the west, the birds singing their evening song, the flowers closing their bright eyes, the wind whispering "good night" to the shimmering, graceful elms—all was peace, and the hot, angry heart grew calm and still. Bitter tears rose to the burning eyes—tears that fell like rain, and seemed to take away the sharpest sting of her pain.

With wise and tender thought they let Dora weep undisturbed. The bitter sobbing ceased at last. Dora said farewell to her love. She lay white and exhausted, but the anger and passion had died away.

"Let me live with you, father," she said, humbly. "I will serve you, and obey you. I an content, more than content, with my own home. But for my little children, let all be as it was years ago."

When the little ones, like the flowers, had gone to sleep, and Dora had gone into the pretty white room prepared for her, Ralph rose to take his leave.

"Surely," said Thorne, "you are not leaving us. You promised to stay a whole week."

"I know," said the young farmer; "but you have many to think for now, Mr. Thorne. The time will come when the poor, wearied girl sleeping above us will be Lady Earle. Her husband knew I loved her. No shadow even of suspicion must rest upon her. While your daughter remains under your roof, I shall not visit you again."

Dora's father knew the young man was right.

"Let me see the little ones sometimes," continued Ralph; "and if large parcels of toys and books find their way to the Elms, you will know who sent them. But I must not come in Dora's way; she is no loner Dora Thorne."

As Stephen watched the young man walking quickly through the long gray fields, he wished that Dora had never seen Ronald Earle.

Poor Dora's troubles were not yet ended. When the warm August sun peeped into her room on the following morning, she did not see it shine; when the children crept to her side and called for mamma, she was deaf to their little voices. The tired head tossed wearily to and fro, the burning eyes would not close. A raging fever had her in its fierce clutches. When Mrs. Thorne, alarmed by the children's cries, came in, Dora did not know her, but cried out loudly that she was a false woman, who had lured her husband from her.

They sent in all haste for aid; but the battle was long and fierce. During the hours of delirium, Mrs. Thorne gleaned sorrowfully some portions of her daughter's story. She cried out incessantly against a fair woman—one Valentine—whom Ronald loved—cried in scorn and anger. Frequently she was in a garden, behind some trees; then confronting some one with flaming eyes, sobbing that she did not believe it; then hiding her face and crying out:

"He has ceased to love me—let me die!"

But the time came when the fierce fever burned itself out, and Dora lay weak and helpless as a little child. She recovered slowly, but she was never the same again. Her youth, hope, love, and happiness were all dead. No smile or dimple, no pretty blush, came to the changed face; the old coy beauty was all gone.

Calm and quiet, with deep, earnest eyes, and lips that seldom smiled, Dora seemed to have found another self. Even with her children the sad restraint never wore off nor grew less. If they wanted to play, they sought the farmer in the fields, the good-natured nurse, or the indulgent grandmamma—never the sad, pale mother. If they were in trouble then they sought her.

Dora asked for work. She would have been dairy maid, house maid, or anything else, but her father said "No." A pretty little room was given to her, with woodbines and roses peeping in at the window. Here for long hours every day, while the children played in the meadows, she sat and sewed. There, too, Dora, for the first time, learned what Ronald, far away in sunny Italy, failed to teach her—how to think and read. Big boxes of books came from the town of Shorebeach. Stephen Thorne spared no trouble or expense in pleasing his daughter. Dora wondered that she had never cared for books, now that deeper and more solemn thoughts came to her. The pale face took a new beauty; no one could have believed that the thoughtful woman with the sweet voice and refined accent was the daughter of the blunt farmer Thorne and his homely wife.

A few weeks passed, and but for the little ones Dora would have believed the whole to have been but a long, dark dream. She would not think of Ronald; she would not remember his love, his sacrifices for her; she thought only of her wrongs and his cruel words.

The children grew and throve. Dora had no care at present as to their education. From her they learned good English, and between herself and the faithful young nurse they could learn, she thought, tolerable Italian. She would not think of a future that might take these beloved children from her. She ignored Ronald's claim to them—they were hers. He had tired of them when he tired of her. She never felt the days monotonous in that quiet farm house, as others might have done. A dead calm seemed to surround her; but it was destined soon to be broken.



Chapter XV

Ronald did not return in the evening to the pretty villa where he had once been so happy. In the warmth of his anger, he felt that he never could look again upon his wife. To his sensitive, refined nature there was something more repulsive in the dishonorable act she had committed than there would have been in a crime of deeper dye. He was shocked and startled—more so than if he awoke some fair summer morning to find Dora dead by his side. She was indeed dead to him in one sense. The ideal girl, all purity, gentleness, and truth, whom he had loved and married, had, it appeared, never really existed after all. He shrank from the idea of the angry, vehement words and foul calumnies. He shrank from the woman who had forgotten every rule of good breeding, every trace of good manners, in angry, fierce passion.

How was he ever to face Miss Charteris again? She would never mention one word of what had happened, but he could ill brook the shame Dora had brought upon him. He remembered the summer morning in the woods when he told Valentine the story of his love, and had pictured his pretty, artless Dora to her. Could the angry woman who had dared to insult him, and to calumniate the fairest and truest lady in all England, possibly be the same?

Ronald had never before been brought into close contact with dishonor. He had some faint recollection at college of having seen and known a young man, the son of a wealthy nobleman, scorned and despised, driven from all society, and he was told that it was because he had been detected in the act of listening at the principal's door. He remembered how old and young had shunned this young man as though he were plague-stricken; and now his own wife Dora had done the very same thing under circumstances that rendered the dishonor greater. He asked himself, with a cynical smile, what he could expect? He had married for love of a pretty, child-like face, never giving any thought to principle, mind, or intellect. The only wonder was that so wretched and unequal a match had not turned out ten times worse. His father's warning rang in his ears. How blind, how foolish he had been!

Every hope of his own life was wrecked, every hope and plan of his father's disappointed and dead. There seemed to him nothing left to care for. His wife—oh, he would not think of her! The name vexed him. He could not stand in Valentine's presence again, and for the first time he realized what she had been to him. Home, and consequently England, was closed to him; the grand mansion he had once believed his had faded from his mind.

Thinking of all these things, Ronald's love for his young wife seemed changed to dislike. Three days passed before he returned home; then he was somewhat startled to find her really gone. He had anticipated sullen temper, renewed quarrels, and then perhaps a separation, but he was startled to find her actually gone. The servant gave him the cold farewell letter, written without tears, without sorrow. He tore it into shreds and flung it from him.

"The last act in the farce," he said, bitterly. "If I had not been mad, I should have foreseen this."

The silent, deserted rooms did not remind him of the loving young wife parted from him forever. He was too angry, too annoyed, for any gentle thoughts to influence him. She had left him—so much the better; there could never again be peace between them. He thought with regret of the little ones—they were too young for him to undertake charge of them, so that they were best left with their mother for a time. He said to himself that he must make the best use he could of his life; everything seemed at an end. He felt very lonely and unhappy as he sat in his solitary home; and the more sorrow present upon him, the more bitter his thoughts grew, the deeper became his dislike to this unhappy young wife.

Ronald wrote to his mother, but said no word to her of the cause of their quarrel.

"Dora and I," he said, "will never live together again—perhaps never meet. She has gone home to her father; I am going to wander over the wide earth. Will you induce my father to receive my children at Earlescourt? And will you see Mr. Burt, and arrange that half of my small income is settled upon Dora?"

But to all his wife's entreaties Lord Earle turned a deaf ear. He declared that never during his life time should the children of Dora Thorne enter Earlescourt. His resolution was fixed and unalterable. How, he asked, was he to trust the man who had once deceived him? For aught he knew, the separation between Ronald and his wife might be a deeply laid scheme, and, the children once with him, there would be a grand reconciliation between the parents.

"I am not surprised," he said, "that the unhappy boy is weary of his pretty toy. It could not be otherwise; he must bear the consequences of his own folly. He had time for thought, he made his own choice—now let him abide by it. You have disregarded my wish, Lady Helena, in even naming the matter to me. Let all mention of it cease. I have no son. One thing remember—I am not hard upon you—you can go where you like, see whom you like, and spend what money you will, and as you will."

Lady Earle was not long in availing herself of the permission. There was great excitement at the Elms one morning, caused by the receipt of a letter from Lady Earle saying that she would be there on the same day to visit the son's wife and children.

The little ones looked up to her with wondering eyes. To them she was like a vision, with her noble face and distinguished air.

Stephen Thorne and his wife received the great lady not without some trepidation; yet they were in no way to blame. The fatal marriage had been as great a blow to them as to Lord and Lady Earle. With the quiet dignity and graceful ease that never deserted her, Lady Earle soon made them feel at home. She started in utter surprise, when a quiet, grave woman, on whose face sweetness and sullen humor were strangely mingled, entered the room. This could not be pretty, coy, blushing Dora! Where were the dimples and smiles? The large dark eyes raised so sadly to hers were full of strange, pathetic beauty. With sharp pain the thought struck Lady Earle, "What must not Dora have suffered to have changed her so greatly!" The sad eyes and worn face touched her as no beauty could have done. She clasped Dora in her arms and kissed her.

"You are my daughter now," she said, in that rich, musical voice which Dora remembered so well. "We will not mention the past; it is irrevocable. If you sinned against duty and obedience, your face tells me you have suffered. What has come between you and my son I do not seek to know. The shock must have been a great one which parted you, for he gave up all the world for you, Dora, years ago. We will not speak of Ronald. Our care must be the children. Of course you wish them to remain with you?"

"While it is possible," said Dora, wearily. "I shall never leave home again; but I can not hope to keep them here always."

"I should have liked to adopt them," said Lady Earle; "to take them home and educate them, but—"

"Lord Earle will not permit it," interrupted Dora, calmly. "I know—I do not wonder."

"You must let me do all I can for them here," continued Lady Earle; "I have made all plans and arrangements. We will give the children an education befitting their position, without removing them from you. Then we shall see what time will do. Let me see the little ones. I wish you had called one Helena, after me."

Dora remembered why she had not done so, and a flush of shame rose to her face.

They were beautiful children, and Dora brought them proudly to the stately lady waiting for them. Lady Earle took Beatrice in her arms.

"Why, Dora," she said admiringly, "she has the Earle face, with a novel charm all its own. The child will grow up into magnificent woman."

"She has the Earle spirit and pride," said the young mother; "I find it hard to manage her even now."

Then Lady Earle looked at the fair, spirituelle face and golden hair of little Lillian. The shy, dove-like eyes and sweet lips charmed her.

"There is a great contrast between them," she said, thoughtfully. "They will require careful training, Dora; and now we will speak of the matter which brought me here."

Dora noticed that, long as she remained, Lady Earle never let Beatrice leave her arms; occasionally she bent over Lillian and touched her soft golden curls, but the child with the "Earle face" was the one she loved best.

Together with Stephen Thorne and his wife, Lady Earle went over the Elms. The situation delighted her; nothing could be better or more healthy for the children, but the interior of the house must be altered. Then with delicate grace that could only charm, never wound, Lady Earle unfolded her plans. She wished a new suite of rooms to be built for Dora and the children, to be nicely furnished with everything that could be required. She would bear the expense. Immediately on her return she would send an efficient French maid for the little ones, and in the course of a year or two she would engage the services of an accomplished governess, who would undertake the education of Beatrice and Lillian without removing them from their mother's care.

"I shall send a good piano and harp," said Lady Earle, "it will be my pride and pleasure to select books, music, drawings, and everything else my grandchildren require. I should wish them always to be nicely dressed and carefully trained. To you, Dora, I must leave the highest and best training of all. Teach them to be good, and to do their duty. They have learned all when they have learned that."

For the first time in her life, the thought came home to Dora: How was she to teach what she had never learned and had failed to practice? That night, long after Lady Earle had gone away, and the children had fallen to sleep, Dora knelt in the moonlight and prayed that she might learn to teach her children to do their duty.

As Lady Earle wished, the old farm house was left intact, and a new group of buildings added to it. There was a pretty sitting room for Dora, and a larger one to serve as a study for the children, large sleeping rooms, and a bathroom, all replete with comfort. Two years passed before all was completed, and Lady Earle thought it time to send a governess to the Elms.

* * * * *

During those years little or nothing was heard from Ronald. After reading the cold letter Dora left for him, it seemed as though all love, all care, all interest died out of his heart. He sat for many long hours thinking of the blighted life "he could not lay down, yet cared little to hold."

He was only twenty-three—the age at which life opens to most men; yet he was worn, tired, weary of everything—the energies that once seemed boundless, the ambition once so fierce and proud, all gone. His whole nature recoiled from the shock. Had Dora, in the fury of her jealousy and rage, tried to kill him, he would have thought that but a small offense compared with the breach of honor in crouching behind the trees to listen. He thought of the quiet, grand beauty of Valentine's face while Dora was convulsed with passion. He remembered the utter wonder in Valentine's eyes when Dora's flamed upon them. He remembered the sickening sense of shame that had cowed him as he listened to her angry, abusive words. And this untrained, ignorant, ill-bred woman was his wife! For her he had given up home, parents, position, wealth—all he had in life worth caring for. For her, and through her, he stood there alone in the world.

Those thoughts first maddened him, then drove him to despair. What had life left for him? He could not return to England; his father's doors were closed against him. There was no path open to him; without his father's help he could not get into Parliament. He could not work as an artist at home. He could not remain in Florence; never again, he said to himself, would he see Valentine Charteris—Valentine, who had been the witness of his humiliation and disgrace. Sooner anything than that. He would leave the villa and go somewhere—he cared little where. No quiet, no rest came to him. Had his misfortunes been accidental—had they been any other than they were, the result of his boyish folly and disobedience, he would have found them easier to bear; as it was, the recollection that it was all his own fault drove him mad.

Before morning he had written a farewell note to Lady Charteris, saying that he was leaving Florence at once, and would not be able to see her again. He wrote to Valentine, but the few stiff words expressed little of what he felt. He prayed her to forget the miserable scene that would haunt him to his dying day; to pardon the insults that had driven him nearly mad; to pardon the mad jealousy, the dishonor of Dora; to forget him and all belonging to him. When Miss Charteris read the letter she knew that all effort to restore peace would for a time be in vain. She heard the day following that the clever young artist, Mr. Earle, had left.

Countess Rosali loudly lamented Ronald's departure. It was so strange, she said; the dark-eyed little wife and her children had gone home to England, and the husband, after selling off his home, had gone with Mr. Charles Standon into the interior of Africa. What was he going to do there?

She lamented him for two days without ceasing, until Valentine was tired of her many conjectures. He was missed in the brilliant salons of Florence, but by none so much as by Valentine Charteris.

What the pretty, coquettish countess had said was true. After making many plans and forming many resolutions, Ronald met Mr. Standon, who was on the point of joining an exploring expedition in South Africa. He gladly consented to accompany him. There was but little preparation needed. Four days after the never-to-be-forgotten garden scene, Ronald Earle left Italy and became a wanderer upon the face of the earth.



Chapter XVI

Valentine Charteris never told the secret. She listened to the wonder and conjectures of all around her, but not even to her mother did she hint what had passed. She pitied Ronald profoundly. She knew the shock Dora had inflicted on his sensitive, honorable disposition. For Dora herself she felt nothing but compassion. Her calm, serene nature was incapable of such jealousies. Valentine could never be jealous or mean, but she could understand the torture that had made shy, gentle Dora both.

"Jealous of me, poor child!" said Valentine to herself. "Nothing but ignorance can excuse her. As though I, with half Florence at my feet, cared for her husband, except as a dear and true friend."

So the little villa was deserted; the gaunt, silent servant found a fresh place. Ronald's pictures were eagerly bought up; the pretty countess, after looking very sentimental and sad for some days, forgot her sorrow and its cause in the novelty of making the acquaintance of an impassive unimpressionable American. Florence soon forgot one whom she had been proud to know and honor.

Two months afterward, as Miss Charteris sat alone in her favorite nook—the bower of trees where poor Dora's tragedy had been enacted—she was found by the Prince di Borgezi. Every one had said that sooner or later it would come to this. Prince di Borgezi, the most fastidious of men, who had admired many women but loved none, whose verdict was the rule of fashion, loved Valentine Charteris. Her fair English face, with its calm, grand beauty, her graceful dignity, her noble mind and pure soul had captivated him. For many long weeks he hovered round Valentine, longing yet dreading to speak the words which would unite or part them for life.

Lately there had been rumors that Lady Charteris and her daughter intended to leave Florence; then Prince di Borgezi decided upon knowing his fate. He sought Valentine, and found her seated under the shade of her favorite trees.

"Miss Charteris," he said, after a few words of greeting, "I have come to ask you the greatest favor, the sweetest boon, you can confer on any man."

"What is it?" asked Valentine, calmly, anticipating some trifling request.

"Your permission to keep for my own the original 'Queen Guinevere'," he replied; "that picture is more to me than all that I possess. Only one thing is dearer, the original. May I ever hope to make that mine also?"

Valentine opened her magnificent eyes in wonder. It was an offer of marriage then that he was making.

"Have you no word for me, Miss Charteris?" he said. "I lay my life and my love at your feet. Have you no word for me?"

"I really do not know what to say," replied Valentine.

"You do not refuse me?" said her lover.

"Well, no," replied Valentine.

"And you do not accept me?" he continued.

"Decidedly not," she replied, more firmly.

"Then I shall consider there is some ground for hope," he said.

Valentine had recovered her self-possession. Her lover gazed anxiously at her beautiful face, its proud calm was unbroken.

"I will tell you how it is," resumed Valentine, after a short pause; "I like you better, perhaps, than any man I know, but I do not love you."

"You do not forbid me to try all I can to win your love?" asked the prince.

"No," was the calm reply. "I esteem you very highly, prince. I can not say more."

"But you will in time," he replied. "I would not change your quiet friendly liking, Miss Charteris, for the love of any other woman."

Under the bright sky the handsome Italian told the story of his love in words that were poetry itself—how he worshiped the fair calm girl so unlike the women of his own clime. As she listened, Valentine thought of that summer morning years ago when Ronald had told her the story of his love; and then Valentine owned to her own heart, that, if Ronald were in Prince di Borgezi's place, she would not listen so calmly nor reply so coolly.

"How cold and stately these English girls are!" thought her lover. "They are more like goddesses than women. Would any word of mine ever disturb the proud coldness of that perfect face?"

It did not then, but before morning ended Prince di Borgezi had obtained permission to visit England in the spring and ask again the same question. Valentine liked him. She admired his noble and generous character, his artistic tastes, his fastidious exclusiveness had a charm for her; she did not love him, but it seemed to her more than probable that the day would come when she would do so.

* * * * *

Lady Charteris and her daughter left Florence and returned to Greenoke. Lady Earle paid them a long visit, and heard all they had to tell of her idolized son. Lady Charteris spoke kindly of Dora; and Valentine, believing she could do something to restore peace, sent an affectionate greeting, and asked permission to visit the Elms.

Lady Earle saw she had made a mistake when she repeated Valentine's words to Dora. The young wife's face flushed burning red, and then grew white as death.

"Pray bring me no more messages from Miss Charteris," she replied. "I do not like her—she would only come to triumph over me; I decline to see her. I have no message to send her."

Then, for the first time, an inkling of the truth came to Lady Earle. Evidently Dora was bitterly jealous of Valentine. Had she any cause for it? Could it be that her unhappy son had learned to love Miss Charteris when it was all too late? From that day Lady Earle pitied her son with a deeper and more tender compassion; she translated Dora's curt words into civil English, and then wrote to Miss Charteris. Valentine quite understood upon reading them that she was not yet pardoned by Ronald Earle's wife.

Time passed on without any great changes, until the year came when Lady Earle thought her grandchildren should begin their education. She was long in selecting one to whom she could intrust them. At length she met with Mrs. Vyvian, the widow of an officer who had died in India, a lady qualified in every way for the task, accomplished, a good linguist, speaking French and Italian as fluently as English—an accomplished musician, an artist of no mean skill, and, what Lady Earl valued still more, a woman of sterling principles and earnest religious feeling.

It was not a light task that Mrs. Vyvian undertook. The children had reached their fifth year, and for ten years she bound herself by promise to remain with them night and day, to teach and train them. It is true the reward promised was great. Lady Earle settled a handsome annuity upon her. Mrs. Vyvian was not dismayed by the lonely house, the complete isolation from all society, or the homely appearance of the farmer and his wife. A piano and a harp were sent to the Elms. Every week Lady Earle dispatched a large box of books, and the governess was quite content.

Mrs. Vyvian, to whom Lady Earle intrusted every detail of her son's marriage, was well pleased to find that Dora liked her and began to show some taste for study. Dora, who would dream of other things when Ronald read, now tried to learn herself. She was not ashamed to sit hour after hour at the piano trying to master some simple little air, or to ask questions when anything puzzled her in her reading. Mrs. Vyvian, so calm and wise, so gentle, yet so strong, taught her so cleverly that Dora never felt her own ignorance, nor did she grow disheartened as she had done with Ronald.

The time came when Dora could play pretty simple ballads, singing them in her own bird-like, clear voice, and when she could appreciate great writers, and speak of them without any mistake either as to their names or their works.

It was a simple, pleasant, happy life; the greater part of the day was spent by mother children in study. In the evening came long rambles through the green woods, where Dora seemed to know the name and history of every flower that grew; over the smiling meadows, where the kine stood knee-deep in the long, scented grass; over the rocks, and down by the sea shore, where the waves chanted their grand anthem, and broke in white foam drifts upon the sands.

No wonder the young girls imbibed a deep warm love for all that was beautiful in Nature. Dora never wearied of it—from the smallest blade of grass to the most stately of forest trees, she loved it all.

The little twin sisters grew in beauty both in body and mind; but the contrast between them was great; Beatrice was the more beautiful and brilliant; Lillian the more sweet and lovable. Beatrice was all fire and spirit; her sister was gentle and calm. Beatrice had great faults and great virtues; Lillian was simply good and charming. Yet, withal, Beatrice was the better loved. It was seldom that any one refused to gratify her wishes.

Dora loved both children tenderly; but the warmest love was certainly for the child who had the Earle face. She was imperious and willful, generous to a fault, impatient of all control; but her greatest fault, Mrs. Vyvian said, was a constant craving for excitement; a distaste for and dislike of quiet and retirement. She would ride the most restive horse, she would do anything to break the ennui and monotony of the long days.

Beautiful, daring, and restless, every day running a hundred risks, and loved the better for the dangers she ran, Beatrice was almost worshiped at the Elms. Nothing ever daunted her, nothing ever made her dull or sad. Lillian was gentle and quiet, with more depth of character, but little power of showing it; somewhat timid and diffident—a more charming ideal of an English girl could not have been found—spirituelle, graceful, and refined; so serene and fair that to look at her was a pleasure.

Lady Earle often visited the Elms; no mystery had been made to the girls—they were told their father was abroad and would not return for many years, and that at some distant day they might perhaps live with him in his own home. They did not ask many questions, satisfied to believe what was told them, not seeking to know more.

Lady Earle loved the young girls very dearly. Beatrice, so like her father, was undoubtedly the favorite. Lord Earle never inquired after them; when Lady Earle asked for a larger check than usual, he gave it to her with a smile, perfectly understanding its destination, but never betraying the knowledge.

So eleven years passed like a long tranquil dream. The sun rose and set, the tides ebbed and flowed, spring flowers bloomed, and died, the summer skies smiled, autumn leaves of golden hue withered on the ground; and winter snows fell; yet no change came to the quiet homestead in the Kentish meadows.

Beatrice and Lillian had reached their sixteenth year, and two fairer girls were seldom seen. Mrs. Vyvian's efforts had not been in vain; they were accomplished far beyond the ordinary run of young girls. Lillian inherited her father's talent for drawing. She was an excellent artist. Beatrice excelled in music. She had a magnificent contralto voice that had been carefully trained. Both were cultivated, graceful, elegant girls, and Lady Earle often sighed to think they should be living in such profound obscurity. She could do nothing; seventeen years had not changed Lord Earle's resolution. Time, far from softening, imbittered him the more against his son. Of Ronald Lady Earle heard but little. He was still in Africa; he wrote at rare intervals, but there was little comfort in his letters.

Lady Earle did what she could for her grandchildren, but it was a strange, unnatural life. They knew no other girls; they had never ben twenty miles from Knutsford. All girlish pleasures and enjoyments were a sealed book to them. They had never been to a party, a picnic, or a ball; no life was ever more simple, more quiet, more devoid of all amusement than theirs. Lillian was satisfied and happy; her rich, teeming fancy, her artistic mind, and contented, sweet disposition would have rendered her happy under any circumstances—but it was different with brilliant, beautiful Beatrice. No wild bird in a cage ever pined for liberty or chafed under restraint more than she did. She cried out loudly against the unnatural solitude, the isolation of such a life.

Eleven years had done much for Dora. The coy, girlish beauty that had won Ronald Earle's heart had given place to a sweet, patient womanhood. Constant association with one so elegant and refined as Mrs. Vyvian had done for her what nothing else could have achieved. Dora had caught the refined, high-bred accent, the graceful, cultivated manner, the easy dignity. She had become imbued with Mrs. Vyvian's noble thoughts and ideas.

Dora retained two peculiarities—one was a great dislike for Ronald, the other a sincere dread of all love and lovers for her children. From her they heard nothing but depreciation of men. All men were alike, false, insincere, fickle, cruel; all love was nonsense and folly. Mrs. Vyvian tried her best to counteract these ideas; they had this one evil consequence—that neither Lillian nor Beatrice would ever dream of even naming such subjects to their mother, who should have been their friend and confidante. If in the books Lady Earle sent there was any mention of this love their mother dreaded so, they went to Mrs. Vyvian or puzzled over it themselves. With these two exceptions Dora had become a thoughtful, gentle woman. As her mind became more cultivated she understood better the dishonor of the fault which had robbed her of Ronald's love. Her fair face grew crimson when she remembered what she had done.

It was a fair and tranquil womanhood; the dark eyes retained their wondrous light and beauty; the curling rings of dark hair were luxuriant as ever; the lips wore a patient, sweet expression. The clear, healthy country air had given a delicate bloom to the fair face. Dora looked more like the elder sister of the young girls than their mother.

The quiet, half-dreamy monotony was broken at last. Mrs. Vyvian was suddenly summoned home. Her mother, to whom she was warmly attached, was said to be dying, and she wished her last few days to be spent with her daughter. At the same time Lady Earle wrote to say that her husband was so ill that it was impossible for her to look for any lady to supply Mrs. Vyvian's place. The consequence was that, for the first time in their lives, the young girls were left for a few weeks without a companion and without surveillance.



Chapter XVII

One beautiful morning in May, Lillian went out alone to sketch. The beauty of the sky and sea tempted her; fleecy-white clouds floated gently over the blue heavens; the sun shone upon the water until, at times, it resembled a huge sea of rippling gold. Far off in the distance were the shining white sails of two boats; they looked in the golden haze like the brilliant wings of some bright bird. The sun upon the white sails struck her fancy, and she wanted to sketch the effect.

It was the kind of morning that makes life seem all beauty and gladness, even if the heart is weighed down with care. It was a luxury merely to live and breathe. The leaves were all springing in the woods; the meadows were green; wild flowers blossomed by the hedge-rows; the birds sang gayly of the coming summer; the white hawthorn threw its rich fragrance all around, and the yellow broom bloomed on the cliffs.

As she sat there, Lillian was indeed a fair picture herself on that May morning; the sweet, spirituelle face; the noble head with its crown of golden hair; the violet eyes, so full of thought; the sensitive lips, sweet yet firm; the white forehead, the throne of intellect. The little fingers that moved rapidly and gracefully over the drawing were white and shapely; there was a delicate rose-leaf flush in the pretty hand. She looked fair and tranquil as the morning itself.

The pure, sweet face had no touch of fire or passion; its serenity was all unmoved; the world had never breathed on the innocent, child-like mind. A white lily was not more pure and stainless than the young girl who sat amid the purple heather, sketching the white, far-off sails.

So intent was Lillian upon her drawing that she did not hear light, rapid steps coming near; she was not aroused until a rich musical voice called, "Lillian, if you have not changed into stone or statue, do speak." Then, looking up, she saw Beatrice by her side.

"Lay down your pencils and talk to me," said Beatrice, imperiously. "How unkind of you, the only human being in this place who can talk, to come here all by yourself! What do you think was to become of me?"

"I thought you were reading to mamma," said Lillian, quietly.

"Reading!" exclaimed Beatrice. "You know I am tired of reading, tired of writing, tired of sewing, tired of everything I have to do."

Lillian looked up in wonder at the beautiful, restless face.

"Do not look 'good' at me," said Beatrice, impatiently. "I am tired to death of it all. I want some change. Do you think any girls in the world lead such lives as we do—shut up in a rambling old farm house, studying from morn to night; shut in on one side by that tiresome sea, imprisoned on the other by fields and woods? How can you take it so quietly, Lillian? I am wearied to death."

"Something has disturbed you this morning," said Lillian, gently.

"That is like mamma," cried Beatrice; "just her very tone and words. She does not understand, you do not understand; mamma's life satisfies her, your life contents you; mine does not content me—it is all vague and empty. I should welcome anything that changed this monotony; even sorrow would be better than this dead level—one day so like another, I can never distinguish them."

"My dear Beatrice, think of what you are saying," said Lillian.

"I am tired of thinking," said Beatrice; "for the last ten years I have been told to 'think' and 'reflect.' I have thought all I can; I want a fresh subject."

"Think how beautiful those far-off white sails look," said Lillian—"how they gleam in the sunshine. See, that one looks like a mysterious hand raised to beckon us away."

"Such ideas are very well for you, Lillian," retorted Beatrice. "I see nothing in them. Look at the stories we read; how different those girls are from us! They have fathers, brothers, and friends; they have jewels and dresses; they have handsome admirers, who pay them homage; they dance, ride, and enjoy themselves. Now look at us, shut up here with old and serious people."

"Hush, Beatrice," said Lillian; "mamma is not old."

"Not in years, perhaps," replied Beatrice; "but she seems to me old in sorrow. She is never gay nor light-hearted. Mrs. Vyvian is very kind, but she never laughs. Is every one sad and unhappy, I wonder? Oh, Lillian, I long to see the world—the bright, gay world—over the sea there. I long for it as an imprisoned bird longs for fresh air and green woods."

"You would not find it all happiness," said Lillian, sagely.

"Spare me all truism," cried Beatrice. "Ah, sister, I am tired of all this; for eleven years the sea has been singing the same songs; those waves rise and fall as they did a hundred years since; the birds sing the same story; the sun shines the same; even the shadow of the great elms fall over the meadow just as it did when we first played there. I long to away from the sound of the sea and the rustling of the elm trees. I want to be where there are girls of my own age, and do as they do. It seems to me we shall go on reading and writing, sewing and drawing, and taking what mamma calls instructive rambles until our heads grow gray."

"It is not so bad as that, Beatrice," laughed Lillian. "Lady Earle says papa must return some day; then we shall all go to him."

"I never believe one word of it," said Beatrice, undauntedly. "At times I could almost declare papa himself was a myth. Why do we not live with him? Why does he never write? We never hear of or from him, save through Lady Earle; besides, Lillian, what do you think I heard Mrs. Vyvian say once to grandmamma? It was that we might not go to Earlescourt at all—that if papa did not return, or died young, all would go to a Mr. Lionel Dacre, and we should remain here. Imagine that fate—living a long life and dying at the Elms!"

"It is all conjecture," said her sister. "Try to be more contented, Beatrice. We do not make our own lives, we have not the control of our own destiny."

"I should like to control mine," sighed Beatrice.

"Try to be contented, darling," continued the sweet, pleading voice. "We all love and admire you. No one was ever loved more dearly or better than you are. The days are rather long at times, but there are all the wonders and beauties of Nature and art."

"Nature and Art are all very well," cried Beatrice; "but give me life."

She turned her beautiful, restless face from the smiling sea; the south wind dancing over the yellow gorse caught up the words uttered in that clear, musical voice and carried them over the cliff to one who was lying with half-closed eyes under the shade of a large tree—a young man with a dark, half-Spanish face handsome with a coarse kind of beauty. He was lying there, resting upon the turf, enjoying the beauty of the morning. As the musical voice reached him, and the strange words fell upon his ear, he smiled and raised his head to see who uttered them. He saw the young girls, but their faces were turned from him; those words range in his ears—"Nature and Art are all very well, but give me life."

Who was it longed for life? He understood the longing; he resolved to wait there until the girls went away. Again he heard the same voice.

"I shall leave you to your sails, Lillian. I wish those same boats would come to carry us away—I wish I had wings and could fly over the sea and see the bright, grand world that lies beyond it. Goodbye; I am tired of the never-ending wash of those long, low waves."

He saw a young girl rise from the fragrant heather and turn to descend the cliff. Quick as thought he rushed down by another path, and, turning back, contrived to meet her half-way. Beatrice came singing down the cliff. Her humor, never the same ten minutes together, had suddenly changed. She remembered a new and beautiful song that Lady Earle had sent, and determined to go home and try it. There came no warning to her that bright summer morning. The south wind lifted the hair from her brow and wafted the fragrance of hawthorn buds and spring flowers to greet her, but it brought no warning message; the birds singing gayly, the sun shining so brightly could not tell her that the first link in a terrible chain was to be forged that morning.

Half-way down the cliff, where the path was steep and narrow, Beatrice suddenly met the stranger. A stranger was a rarity at the Elms. Only at rare intervals did an artist or a tourist seek shelter and hospitality at the old farm house. The stranger seemed to be a gentleman. For one moment both stood still; then, with a low bow, the gentleman stepped aside to let the young girl pass. As he did so, he noted the rare beauty of that brilliant face—he remembered the longing words.

"No wonder," he thought; "it is a sin for such a face as that to be hidden here."

The beauty of those magnificent eyes startled him. Who was she? What could she be doing here? Beatrice turning again, saw the stranger looking eagerly after her, with profound admiration expressed in every feature of his face; and that admiring gaze, the first she had ever received in her life, sank deep into the vain, girlish heart.

He watched the graceful, slender figure until the turn of the road hid Beatrice from his view. He followed her at a safe distance, and saw her cross the long meadows that led to the Elms. Then Hugh Fernely waited with patience until one of the farm laborers came by. By judicious questioning he discovered much of the history of the beautiful young girl who longed for life. Her face haunted him—its brilliant, queenly beauty, the dark, radiant eyes. Come what might, Hugh Fernely said to himself, he must see her again.

On the following morning he saw the girls return to the cliff. Lillian finished her picture. Ever and anon he heard Beatrice singing, in a low, rich voice, a song that had charmed her with its weird beauty:

"For men must work, and women must weep; And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep And goodbye to the bar and its moaning."

"I like those words, Lillian," he heard her say. "I wonder how soon it will be 'over' for me. Shall I ever weep, as the song says? I have never wept yet."

This morning the golden-haired sister left the cliff first, and Beatrice sat reading until the noonday sun shone upon the sea. Her book charmed her; it was a story telling of the life she loved and longed for—of the gay, glad world. Unfortunately all the people in the book were noble, heroic, and ideal. The young girl, in her simplicity, believed that they who lived in the world she longed for were all like the people in her book.

When she left the path that led to the meadows, she saw by her side the stranger who had met her the day before. Again he bowed profoundly, and, with many well-expressed apologies, asked some trifling question about the road.

Beatrice replied briefly, but she could not help seeing the wonder of admiration in his face. Her own grew crimson under his gaze—he saw it, and his heart beat high with triumph. As Beatrice went through the meadows he walked by her side. She never quite remembered how it happened, but in a few minutes he was telling her how many years had passed since he had seen the spring in England. She forgot all restraint, all prudence, and raised her beautiful eyes to his.

"Ah, then," she cried, "you have seen the great world that lies over the wide sea."

"Yes," he replied, "I have seen it. I have been in strange, bright lands, so different from England that they seemed to belong to another world. I have seen many climes, bright skies, and glittering seas, where the spice islands lie."

As he spoke, in words that were full of wild, untutored eloquence, he saw the young girl's eyes riveted upon him. Sure of having roused her attention, he bowed, apologized for his intrusion, and left her.

Had Dora been like other mothers, Beatrice would have related this little adventure and told of the handsome young traveler who had been in strange climes. As it was, knowing her mother's utter dread of all men—her fear lest her children should ever love and marry—Beatrice never named the subject. She thought much of Hugh Fernely—not of him himself, but of the world he had spoken about—and she hoped it might happen to her to meet him again.

"If we had some one here who could talk in that way," she said to herself, "the Elms would not be quite so insupportable."

Two days afterward, Beatrice, wandering on the sands, met Hugh Fernely. She saw the startled look of delight on his face, and smiled at his pleasure.

"Pray forgive me," he said. "I—I can not pass you without one word. Time has seemed to me like one long night since I saw you last."

He held in his hand some beautiful lilies of the valley—every little white warm bell was perfect. He offered them to her with a low bow.

"This is the most beautiful flower I have seen for many years," he said. "May I be forgiven for begging permission to offer it to the most beautiful lady I have ever seen?"

Beatrice took it from him, blushing at his words. He walked by her side along the yellow sands, the waves rolling in and breaking at their feet. Again his eloquence charmed her. He told her his name, and how he was captain of a trading vessel. Instinctively he seemed to understand her character—her romantic, ideal way of looking at everything. He talked to her of the deep seas and their many wonders; of the ocean said to be fathomless; of the coral islands and of waters in whose depths the oyster containing the pale, gleaming pearl is found; of the quiet nights spent at sea, where the stars shine as they never seem to shine on land; of the strange hush that falls upon the heaving waters before a storm. He told of long days when they were becalmed upon the green deep, when the vessel seemed

"A painted ship upon a painted ocean."

With her marvelous fancy and quick imagination she followed him to the wondrous depth of silent waters where strange shapes, never seen by human eye, abound. She hung upon his words; he saw it, and rejoiced in his success. He did not startle her by any further compliment, but when their walk was ended he told her that morning would live in his memory as the happiest time of his life.

After a few days it seemed to become a settled thing that Beatrice should meet Hugh Fernely. Lillian wondered that her sister so often preferred lonely rambles, but she saw the beautiful face she loved so dearly grow brighter and happier, never dreaming the cause.

For many long days little thought of Hugh Fernely came to Beatrice. Her mind ran always upon what he had told her—upon his description of what he had seen and heard. He noted this, and waited with a patience born of love for the time when she should take an interest in him.

Words were weak in which to express the passionate love he felt for this beautiful and stately young girl. It seemed to him like a fairy tale. On the morning he first saw Beatrice he had been walking a long distance, and had lain down to rest on the cliffs. There the beautiful vision had dawned upon him. The first moment he gazed into that peerless face he loved Beatrice with a passion that frightened himself. He determined to win her at any cost.

At last and by slow degrees he began to speak of her and himself, slowly and carefully, his keen eyes noting every change upon her face; he began to offer her delicate compliments and flattery so well disguised that it did not seem to her flattery at all. He made her understand that he believed her to be the most beautiful girl he had ever beheld. He treated her always as though she were a queen, and he her humblest slave.

Slowly but surely the sweet poison worked its way; the day came when that graceful, subtle flattery was necessary to the very existence of Beatrice Earle. There was much to excuse her; the clever, artful man into whose hands she had fallen was her first admirer—the first who seemed to remember she was no longer a child, and to treat her with deferential attention. Had she been, as other girls are, surrounded by friends, accustomed to society, properly trained, prepared by the tender wisdom of a loving mother, she would never have cast her proud eyes upon Hugh Fernely; she would never have courted the danger or run the risk.

As it was, while Dora preferred solitude, and nourished a keen dislike to her husband in her heart—while Ronald yielded to obstinate pride, and neglected every duty—while both preferred the indulgence of their own tempers, and neglected the children the Almighty intrusted to them, Beatrice went on to her fate.

It was so sad a story, the details so simple yet so pitiful. Every element of that impulsive, idealistic nature helped on the tragedy. Hugh Fernely understood Beatrice as perhaps no one else ever did. He idealized himself. To her at length he became a hero who had met with numberless adventures—a hero who had traveled and fought, brave and generous. After a time he spoke to her of love, at first never appearing to suppose that she could care for him, but telling her of his own passionate worship how her face haunted him, filled his dreams at night, and shone before him all day—how the very ground she stood upon was sacred to him—how he envied the flowers she touched—how he would give up everything to be the rose that died in her hands. It was all very pretty and poetical, and he knew how to find pretty, picturesque spots in the woods where the birds and the flowers helped him to tell his story.

Beatrice found it very pleasant to be worshiped like a queen; there was no more monotony for her. Every morning she looked forward to seeing Hugh—to learning more of those words that seemed to her like sweetest music. She knew that at some time or other during the day she would see him; he never tired of admiring her beauty. Blameworthy was the sad mother with her stern doctrines, blameworthy the proud, neglectful father, that she knew not how wrong all this was. He loved her; in a thousand eloquent ways he told her so. She was his loadstar, beautiful and peerless. It was far more pleasant to sit on the sea shore, or under the greenwood trees, listening to such words than to pass long, dreary hours indoors. And none of those intrusted with the care of the young girl ever dreamed of her danger.

So this was the love her mother dreaded so much. This was the love poets sung of and novelists wrote about. It was pleasant; but in after days, when Beatrice herself came to love, she knew that this had been but child's play.

It was the romance of the stolen meeting that charmed Beatrice. If Hugh had been admitted to the Elms she would have wearied of him in a week; but the concealment gave her something to think of. There was something to occupy her mind; every day she must arrange for a long ramble, so that she might meet Hugh. So, while the corn grew ripe in the fields, and the blossoms died away—while warm, luxurious summer ruled with his golden wand Ronald Earle's daughter went on to her fate.



Chapter XVIII

At length there came an interruption to Hugh Fernely's love dream. The time drew near when he must leave Seabay. The vessel he commanded was bound for China, and was to sail in a few days. The thought that he must leave the beautiful girl he loved so dearly and so deeply struck him with unendurable pain; he seemed only to have lived since he had met her, and he knew that life without her would be a burden too great for him to bear. He asked himself a hundred times over: "Does she love me?" He could not tell. He resolved to try. He dared not look that future in the face which should take her from him.

The time drew near; the day was settled on which the "Seagull" was to set sail, and yet Hugh Fernely had won no promise from Beatrice Earle.

One morning Hugh met her at the stile leading from the field into the meadow lane—the prettiest spot in Knutsford. The ground was a perfectly beautiful carpet of flowers—wild hyacinths, purple foxgloves, pretty, pale strawberry blossoms all grew there. The hedges were one mass of wild roses and woodbine; the tall elm trees that ran along the lane met shadily overhead; the banks on either side were radiant in different colored mosses; huge ferns surrounded the roots of the trees.

Beatrice liked the quiet, pretty, green meadow lane. She often walked there, and on this eventful morning Hugh saw her sitting in the midst of the fern leaves. He was by her side in a minute, and his dark, handsome face lighted up with joy.

"How the sun shines!" he said. "I wonder the birds begin to sing and the flowers to bloom before you are out, Miss Earle."

"But I am not their sun," replied Beatrice with a smile.

"But you are mine," cried Hugh; and before she could reply he was kneeling at her feet, her hands clasped in his, while he told her of the love that was wearing his life away.

No one could listen to such words unmoved; they were true and eloquent, full of strange pathos. He told her how dark without her the future would be to him, how sad and weary his life; whereas if she would only love him, and let him claim her when he returned, he would make her as happy as a queen. He would take her to the bright sunny lands—would show her all the beauties and wonders she longed to see—would buy her jewels and dresses such as her beauty deserved—would be her humble, devoted slave, if she would only love him.

It was very pleasant—the bright morning, the picturesque glade, the warmth and brightness of summer all around. Beatrice looked at the handsome, pale face with emotion, she felt Hugh's warm lips pressed to her hand, she felt hot tears rain upon her fingers, and wondered at such love. Yes, this was the love she had read of and thought about.

"Beatrice," cried Hugh, "do not undo me with one word. Say you love me, my darling—say I may return and claim you as my own. Your whole life shall be like one long, bright summer's day."

She was carried away by the burning torrent of passionate words. With all her spirit and pride she felt weak and powerless before the mighty love of this strong man. Almost unconscious of what she did, Beatrice laid her white hands upon the dark, handsome head of her lover.

"Hush, Hugh," she said, "you frighten me. I do love you; see, you tears wet my hand."

It was not a very enthusiastic response, but it satisfied him. He clasped the young girl in his arms, and she did not resist; he kissed the proud lips and the flushed cheek. Beatrice Earle said no word; he was half frightened, half touched, and wholly subdued.

"Now you are mine," cried Hugh—"mine, my own peerless one; nothing shall part us but death!"

"Hush!" cried Beatrice, again shuddering as with cold fear. "That is a word I dislike and dread so much, Hugh—do not use it."

"I will not," he replied; and then Beatrice forgot her fears. He was so happy—he loved her so dearly—he was so proud of winning her. She listened through the long hours of that sunny morning. It was the fifteenth of July—he made her note the day and in two years he would return to take her forever from the quiet house where her beauty and grace alike were buried.

That was the view of the matter that had seized upon the girl's imagination. It was not so much love for Hugh—she liked him. His flattery—the excitement of meeting him—his love, had become necessary to her; but had any other means of escape from the monotony she hated presented itself, she would have availed herself of it quite as eagerly. Hugh was not so much a lover to her as a medium of escape from a life that daily became more and more unendurable.

She listened with bright smiles when he told her that in two years he should return to fetch her; and she, thinking much of the romance, and little of the dishonor of concealment, told him how her sad young mother hated and dreaded all mention of love and lovers.

"Then you must never tell her," he said—"leave that for me until I return. I shall have money then, and perhaps the command of a fine vessel. She will not refuse me when she knows how dearly I love you, and even should your father—the father you tell of—come home, you will be true to me, Beatrice, will you not?"

"Yes, I will be true," she replied—and, to do her justice, she meant it at the time. Her father's return seemed vague and uncertain; it might take place in ten or twenty years—it might never be. Hugh offered her freedom and liberty in two years.

"If others should seek your love," he said, "should praise your beauty, and offer you rank or wealth, you will say to yourself that you will be true to Hugh?"

"Yes," she said, firmly, "I will do so."

"Two years will soon pass away," said he. "Ah, Beatrice," he continued, "I shall leave you next Thursday; give me all the hours you can. Once away from you, all time will seem to me a long, dark night."

It so happened that the farmer and his men were at work in a field quite on the other side of Knutsford. Dora and Lillian were intent, the one upon a box of books newly arrived, the other upon a picture; so Beatrice had every day many hours at her disposal. She spent them all with Hugh, whose love seemed to increase with every moment.

Hugh was to leave Seabay on Thursday, and on Wednesday evening he lingered by her side as though he could not part with her. To do Hugh Fernely justice, he loved Beatrice for herself. Had she been a penniless beggar he would have loved her just the same. The only dark cloud in his sky was the knowledge that she was far above him. Still, he argued to himself, the story she told of her father was an impossible one. He did not believe that Ronald Earle would ever take his daughters home—he did not quite know what to think, but he had no fear on that score.

On the Wednesday evening they wandered down the cliff and sat upon the shore, watching the sun set over the waters. Hugh took from his pocket a little morocco case and placed it in Beatrice's hands. She opened it, and cried out with admiration; there lay the most exquisite ring she had ever seen, of pure pale gold, delicately and elaborately chased, and set with three gleaming opals of rare beauty.

"Look at the motto inside," said Hugh.

She held the ring in her dainty white fingers, and read: "Until death parts us."

"Oh, Hugh," she cried, "that word again? I dread it; why is it always coming before me?"

He smiled at her fears, and asked her to let him place the ring upon her finger.

"In two years," he said, "I shall place a plain gold ring on this beautiful hand. Until then wear this, Beatrice, for my sake; it is our betrothal ring."

"It shall not leave my finger," she said. "Mamma will not notice it, and every one else will think she has given it to me herself."

"And now," said Hugh, "promise me once more, Beatrice, you will be true to me—you will wait for me—that when I return you will let me claim you as my own?"

"I do promise," she said, looking at the sun shining on the opals.

Beatrice never forgot the hour that followed. Proud, impetuous, and imperial as she was, the young man's love and sorrow touched her as nothing had ever done. The sunbeams died away in the west, the glorious mass of tinted clouds fell like a veil over the evening sky, the waves came in rapidly, breaking into sheets of white, creamy foam in the gathering darkness, but still he could not leave her.

"I must go, Hugh," said Beatrice, at length; "mamma will miss me."

She never forgot the wistful eyes lingering upon her face.

"Once more, only once more," he said. "Beatrice, my love, when I return you will be my wife?"

"Yes," she replied, startled alike by his grief and his love.

"Never be false to me," he continued. "If you were—"

"What then?" she asked, with a smile, as he paused.

"I should either kill myself or you," he replied, "perhaps both. Do not make me say such terrible things. It could not be. The sun may fall from the heavens, the sea rolling there may become dry land. Nature—everything may prove false, but not you, the noblest, the truest of women. Say 'I love you, Hugh,' and let those be your last words to me. They will go with me over the wide ocean, and be my rest and stay."

"I love you, Hugh," she said, as he wished her.

Something like a deep, bitter sob came from his white lips. Death itself would have been far easier than leaving her. He raised her beautiful face to his—his tears and kisses seemed to burn it—and then he was gone.

Gone! The romance of the past few weeks, the engrossing interest, all suddenly collapsed. Tomorrow the old monotonous life must begin again, without flattery, praise, or love. He had gone; the whole romance was ended; nothing of it remained save the memory of his love and the ring upon her finger.

At first there fell upon Beatrice a dreadful blank. The monotony, the quiet, the simple occupations, were more unendurable than ever; but in a few days that feeling wore off, and then she began to wonder at what she had done. The glamour fell from before her eyes; the novelty and excitement, the romance of the stolen meetings, the pleasant homage of love and worship no longer blinded her. Ah, and before Hugh Fernely had been many days and nights upon the wide ocean, she ended by growing rather ashamed of the matter, and trying to think of it as little as she could! Once she half tried to tell Lillian; but the look of horror on the sweet, pure face startled her, and she turned the subject by some merry jest.

Then there came a letter from Mrs. Vyvian announcing her return. The girls were warmly attached to the lady, who had certainly devoted the ten best years of her life to them. She brought with her many novelties, new books, new music, amusing intelligence from the outer world. For some days there was no lack of excitement and amusement; then all fell again into the old routine.

Mrs. Vyvian saw a great change in Beatrice. Some of the old impetuosity had died away; she was as brilliant as ever, full of life and gayety, but in some way there was an indescribable change. At times a strange calm would come over the beautiful face, a far-off, dreamy expression steal into the dark, bright eyes. She had lost her old frankness. Time was when Mrs. Vyvian could read all her thoughts, and very rebellious thoughts they often were. But now there seemed to be a sealed chamber in the girl's heart. She never spoke of the future, and for the first time her watchful friend saw in her a nervous fear that distressed her. Carefully and cautiously the governess tried to ascertain the cause; she felt sure at last that, young as she was, carefully as she had been watched, Beatrice Earle had a secret in her life that she shared with no one else.



Chapter XIX

There were confusion and dismay in the stately home of the Earles. One sultry morning in August Lord Earle went out into the garden, paying no heed to the excessive heat. As he did not return to luncheon, the butler went in search of him and found his master lying as one dead on the ground. He was carried to his own room, doctors were summoned in hot haste from far and near; everything that science or love, skill or wisdom could suggest was done for him, but all in vain. The hour had come when he must leave home, rank, wealth, position—whatever he valued most—when he must answer for his life and what he had done with it—when he must account for wealth, talent, for the son given to him—when human likings, human passions, would seem so infinitely little.

But while Lord Earle lay upon the bed, pale and unconscious, Lady Earle, who knelt by him and never left him, felt sure that his mind and heart were both active. He could not speak; he did not seem to understand. Who knows what passes in those dread moments of silence, when the light of eternity shows so clearly all that we have done in the past? It may be that while he lay there, hovering as it were between two worlds, the remembrance of his son struck him like a two-edged sword—his son, his only child given to him to train, not only for earth but for heaven—the boy he had loved and idolized, then cast off, and allowed to become a wanderer on the face of the earth. It may be that his stern, sullen pride, his imperious self-will, his resolute trampling upon the voice of nature and duty, confronted him in the new light shining upon him. Perhaps his own words returned to him, that until he lay dead Ronald should never see Earlescourt again; for suddenly the voice they thought hushed forever sounded strangely in the silence of that death chamber.

"My son!" cried the dying man, clasping his hands—"my son!"

Those who saw it never forgot the blank, awful terror that came upon the dying face as he uttered his last words.

They bore the weeping wife from the room. Lady Earle, strong, and resolute though she was, could not drive that scene from her mind. She was ill for many days, and so it happened that the lord of Earlescourt was laid in the family vault long ere the family at the Elms knew of the change awaiting them.

Ronald was summoned home in all haste; but months passed ere letters reached him, and many more before he returned to England.

Lord Earle's will was brief, there was no mention of his son's name. There was a handsome provision for Lady Earle, the pretty little estate of Roslyn was settled upon her; the servants received numerous legacies; Sir Harry Laurence and Sir Hugh Charteris were each to receive a magnificent mourning ring; but there was no mention of the once-loved son and heir.

As the heir at law, everything was Ronald's—the large amount of money the late lord had saved, title, estates, everything reverted to him. But Ronald would have exchanged all for one line of forgiveness, one word of pardon from the father he had never ceased to love.

It was arranged that until Ronald's return his mother should continue to reside at Earlescourt, and the management of the estates was intrusted to Mr. Burt, the family solicitor.

Lady Earle resolved to go to the Elms herself; great changes must be made there. Ronald's wife and children must take their places in the world; and she felt a proud satisfaction in thinking that, thanks to her sensible and judicious management, Dora would fill her future position with credit. She anticipated Ronald's delight when he should see his beautiful and accomplished daughters. Despite her great sorrow, the lady of Earlescourt felt some degree of hope for the future. She wrote to the Elms, telling Dora of her husband's death, and announcing her own coming; then the little household understood that their quiet and solitude had ended forever.

The first thing was to provide handsome mourning. Dora was strangely quiet and sad through it all. The girls asked a hundred questions about their father, whom they longed to see. They knew he had left home in consequence of some quarrel with his father—so much Lady Earle told them—but they never dreamed that his marriage had caused the fatal disagreement; they never knew that, for their mother's sake, Lady Earle carefully concealed all knowledge of it from them.

Lady Earle reached the Elms one evening in the beginning of September. She asked first to see Dora alone.

During the long years Dora had grown to love the stately, gentle lady who was Ronald's mother. She could not resist her sweet, gracious dignity and winning manners. So, when Lady Earle, before seeing her granddaughters, went to Dora's room, wishing for a long consultation with her, Dora received her with gentle, reverential affection.

"I wish to see you first," said Lady Helena Earle, "so that we may arrange our plans before the children know anything of them. Ronald will return to England in a few months. Dora, what course shall you adopt?"

"None," she replied. "Your son's return has nothing whatever to do with me."

"But, surely," said lady Helena, "for the children's sake you will not refuse at least an outward show of reconciliation?"

"Mr. Earle has not asked it," said Dora—"he never will do so, Lady Helena. It is as far from his thoughts as from mine."

Lady Earle sat for some moments too much astounded for speech.

"I never inquired the cause of your separation, Dora," she said, gently, "and I never wish to know it. My son told me you could live together no longer. I loved my own husband; I was a devoted and affectionate wife to him. I bore with his faults and loved his virtues, so that I can not imagine what I should do were I in your place. I say to you what I should say to Ronald—they are solemn words—'What therefore God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.' Now let me tell you my opinion. It is this, that nothing can justify such a separation as yours—nothing but the most outrageous offenses or the most barbarous cruelty. Take the right course, Dora; submit to your husband. Believe me, woman's rights are all fancy and nonsense; loving, gentle submission is the fairest ornament of woman. Even should Ronald be in the wrong, trample upon all pride and temper, and make the first advances to him."

"I can not," said Dora gravely.

"Ronald was always generous and chivalrous," continued Lady Earle. "Oh, Dora, have you forgotten how my son gave up all the world for you?"

"No," she replied, bitterly; "nor has he forgotten it, Lady Earle."

The remembrance of what she thought her wrongs rose visibly before her. She saw again the magnificent face of Valentine Charteris, with its calm, high-bred wonder. She saw her husband's white, angry, indignant countenance—gestures full of unutterable contempt. Ah, no, never again! Nothing could heal that quarrel.

"You must take your place in the world," continued Lady Earle. "You are no longer simply Mrs. Earle of the Elms; you are Lady Earle, of Earlescourt, wife of its lord, the mother of his children. You have duties too numerous for me to mention, and you must not shrink from them."

"I refuse all," she replied, calmly; "I refuse to share your son's titles, his wealth, his position, his duties; I refuse to make any advances toward a reconciliation; I refuse to be reconciled."

"And why?" asked Lady Helena, gravely.

A proud flush rose to Dora's face—hot anger stirred in her heart.

"Because your son said words to me that I never can and never will forget," she cried. "I did wrong—Lady Helena, I was mad, jealous, blind—I did wrong—I did what I now know to be dishonorable and degrading. I knew no better, and he might have pardoned me, remembering that. But before the woman I believe to be my rival he bitterly regretted having made me his wife."

"They were hard words," said Lady Earle.

"Very hard," replied Dora; "they broke my heart—they slew me in my youth; I have never lived since then."

"Can you never forgive and forget them, Dora?" asked Lady Helena.

"Never," she replied; "they are burned into my heart and on my brain. I shall never forget them; your son and I must be strangers, Lady Earle, while we live."

"I can say no more," sighed Lady Earle. "Perhaps a mightier voice will call to you, Dora, and then you will obey."

A deep silence fell upon them. Lady Helena was more grieved and disconcerted than she cared to own. She had thought of taking her son's wife and children home in triumph, but it was not to be.

"Shall we speak of the children now?" she asked at length. "Some arrangements must be made for them."

"Yes," said Dora, "their father has claims upon them. I am ready to yield to them. I do not believe he will ever love them or care for them, because they are mine. At the same time, I give them up to him and to you, Lady Earle. The sweetest and best years of their lives have been spent with me; I must therefore not repine. I have but one stipulation to make, and it is that my children shall never hear one word against me."

"You know little of me," said Lady Helena, "if you think such a thing is possible. You would rather part with your children than accompany them?"

"Far rather," she replied. "I know you will allow them to visit me, Lady Earle. I have known for many years that such a time must come, and I am prepared for it."

"But, my dear Dora," said Lady Earle, warmly, "have you considered what parting with your children implies—the solitude, the desolation?"

"I know it all," replied Dora. "It will be hard, but not so hard nor so bitter as living under the same roof with their father."

Carefully and quietly Dora listened to Lady Earle's plans and arrangements—how her children were to go to Earlescourt and take the position belonging to them. Mrs. Vyvian was to go with them and remain until Lord Earle returned. Until then they were not to be introduced into society; it would take some time to accustom them to so great a change. When Lord Earl returned he could pursue what course he would.

"He will be so proud of them!" said Lady Earle. "I have never seen a girl so spirited and beautiful as Beatrice, nor one so fair and gentle as Lillian. Oh, Dora, I should be happy if you were going with us."

Never once during the few days of busy preparation did Dora's proud courage give way. The girls at first refused to leave her; they exhausted themselves in conjectures as to her continued residence at the Elms, and were forced to be satisfied with Lady Earle's off-hand declaration that their mother could not endure any but a private life.

"Mamma has a title now," said Beatrice, wonderingly; "why will she not assume it?"

"Your mother's tastes are simple and plain," replied Lady Earle. "Her wishes must be treated with respect."

Dora did not give way until the two fair faces that had brightened her house vanished. When they were gone, and a strange, hushed silence fell upon the place, pride and courage gave way. In that hour the very bitterness of death seemed to be upon her.



Chapter XX

It was a proud moment for Lady Earle when she led the two young girls through the long line of servants assembled to receive them. They were both silent from sheer wonder. They had left Florence at so early an age that they had not the faintest remembrance of the pretty villa on the banks of the Arno. All their ideas were centered in the Elms—they had never seen any other home.

Lady Earle watched the different effect produced upon them by the glimpse of Earlescourt. Lillian grew pale; she trembled, and her wondering eyes filled with tears. Beatrice, on the contrary, seemed instantly to take in the spirit of the place. Her face flushed; a proud light came into her glorious eyes; her haughty head was carried more regally than ever. There was no timidity, no shyly expressed wonder, no sensitive shrinking from new and unaccustomed splendor.

They were deeply impressed with the magnificence of their new home. For many long days Lady Earle employed herself in showing the numerous treasures of art and vertu the house contained. The picture gallery pleased Beatrice most; she gloried in the portraits of the grand old ancestors, "each with a story to his name." One morning she stood before Lady Helena's portrait, admiring the striking likeness. Suddenly turning to the stately lady by her side, she said: "All the Ladies Earle are here; where is my own mamma? Her face is sweet and fair as any of these. Why is there no portrait of her?"

"There will be one some day," said Lady Helena. "When your father returns all these things will be seen to."

"We have no brother," continued Beatrice. "Every baron here seems to have been succeeded by his son—who will succeed my father?"

"His next of kin," replied Lady Earle, sadly—"Lionel Dacre; he is a third cousin of Lord Earle. He will have both title and estate."

She signed deeply; it was a real trouble to Lady Helena that she should never see her son's son, never love and nurse, never bless the heir of Earlescourt.

Lillian delighted most in the magnificent gardens, the thickly wild wooded park, where every dell was filled with flowers and ferns, every knoll crowned with noble trees. The lake, with white lilies sleeping on its tranquil bosom and weeping willows touching its clear surface, pleased her most of all. As they stood on its banks, Beatrice, looking into the transparent depths, shuddered, and turned quickly away.

"I am tired of water," she said; "nothing wearied me so much at Knutsford as the wide, restless sea. I must have been born with a natural antipathy to water."

Many days passed before they were familiar with Earlescourt. Every day brought its new wonders.

A pretty suite of rooms had been prepared for each sister; they were in the western wing, and communicated with each other. The Italian nurse who had come with them from Florence had preferred remaining with Dora. Lady Earle had engaged two fashionable ladies' maids, had also ordered for each a wardrobe suitable to the daughters of Lord Earle.

Mrs. Vyvian had two rooms near her charges. Knowing that some months might elapse before Ronald returned, Lady Helena settled upon a course of action. The young girls were to be kept in seclusion, and not to be introduced to the gay world, seeing only a few old friends of the family; they were to continue to study for a few hours every morning, to drive or walk with Lady Earle after luncheon, to join her at the seven o'clock dinner, and to pass the evening in the drawing room.

It was a new and delightful life. Beatrice reveled in the luxury and grandeur that surrounded her. She amused Lady Earle by her vivacious description of the quiet home at the Elms.

"I feel at home here," she said, "and I never did there. At times I wake up, half dreading to hear the rustling of the tall elm trees, and old Mrs. Thorne's voice asking about the cows. Poor mamma! I can not understand her taste."

When they became more accustomed to the new life, the strange incongruity in their family struck them both. On one side a grand old race, intermarried with some of the noblest families in England—a stately house, title, wealth, rank, and position; on the other a simple farmer and his homely wife, the plain old homestead, and complete isolation from all they considered society.

How could it be? How came it that their father was lord of Earlescourt and their mother the daughter of a plain country farmer? For the first time it struck them both that there was some mystery in the life of their parents. Both grew more shy of speaking of the Elms, feeling with the keen instinct peculiar to youth that there was something unnatural in their position.

Visitors came occasionally to Earlescourt. Sir Harry and Lady Laurence of Holtham often called; Lady Charteris came from Greenoke, and all warmly admired the lovely daughters of Lord Earle.

Beatrice, with her brilliant beauty, her magnificent voice, and gay, graceful manner, was certainly the favorite. Sir Harry declared she was the finest rider in the county.

There was an unusual stir of preparation once when Lady Earle told them that the daughter of her devoted friend, Lady Charteris, was coming to spend a few days at Earlescourt. Then, for the first time, they saw the beautiful and stately lady whose fate was so strangely interwoven with theirs.

Valentine Charteris was no longer "the queen of the county." Prince di Bergezi had won the beautiful English woman. He had followed her to Greenoke and repeated his question. There was neither coquetry nor affectation in Valentine—she had thought the matter over, and decided that she was never likely to meet with any one else she liked and respected so much as her Italian lover. He had the virtues, without the faults, of the children of the South; a lavishly generous, princely disposition; well-cultivated artistic tastes; good principles and a chivalrous sense of honor. Perhaps the thing that touched her most was his great love for her. In many respects he resembled Ronald Earle more nearly than any one else she had ever met.

To the intense delight of both parents, Miss Charteris accepted him. For her sake the prince consented to spend every alternate year in England.

Three times had the whole country side welcomed the stately Italian and his beautiful wife. This was their fourth visit to England, and, when the princess heard from Lady Charteris that Ronald's two daughters, whom she remembered as little babes, were at Earlescourt, nothing would satisfy her but a visit there.

The young girls looked in admiring wonder at the lady. They had never seen any one so dazzling or so bright. The calm, grand, Grecian face had gained in beauty; the magnificent head, with its wealth of golden hair, the tall, stately figure, charmed them. And when Valentine took them in her arms and kissed them her thoughts went back to the white, wild face in the garden and the dark eyes that had flamed in hot anger upon her.

"I knew your mother years ago," she said; "has she never mentioned my name? I used to nurse you both in the little villa at Florence. I was one of your father's oldest friends."

No, they had never heard her name; and Beatrice wondered that her mother could have known and forgotten one so beautiful as the princess.

The week she remained passed like a long, bright dream. Beatrice almost worshiped Valentine; this was what she had dreamed of long ago; this was one of the ideal ladies living in the bright, gay world she was learning to understand.

When the prince and princess left Earlescourt they made Lady Helena promise that Beatrice and Lillian should visit them at Florence. They spoke of the fair and coquettish Countess Rosali, still a reigning belle, and said how warmly she would welcome them for their father's sake.

"You talk so much of Italy," said Valentine to Beatrice. "It is just the land for the romance you love. You shall see blue skies and sunny seas, vines, and myrtles, and orange trees in bloom; you shall see such luxuriance and beauty that you will never wish to return to this cold, dreary England."

It was thus arranged that, when Lord Earle returned, the visit should be paid. The evening after their guests' departure seemed long and triste.

"I will write to mamma," said Beatrice; "it is strange she never told us anything of her friend. I must tell her all about the visit."

Not daring to ask the girls to keep any secret from Dora, Lady Earle was obliged to let the letter go. The passionate, lonely heart brooded over every word. Beatrice dwelt with loving admiration on the calm, grand beauty of the princess, her sweet and gracious manner, her kindly recollection of Dora, and her urgent invitation to them. Dora read it through calmly, each word stabbing her with cruel pain. The old, fierce jealousy rose in her heart, crushing every gentle thought. She tore the letter, so full of Valentine, into a thousand shreds.

"She drew my husband from me," she cried, "with the miserable beauty of her fair face, and now she will win my children."

Then across the fierce tempest of jealous anger came one thought like a ray of light. Valentine was married; she had married the wealthy, powerful prince who had been Ronald's patron; so that, after all, even if she had lured Ronald from her, he had not cared for her, or she had soon ceased to care for him.

Beatrice thought it still more strange when her mother's reply to that long, enthusiastic letter came. Dora said simply that she had never named the Princess di Borgesi because she was a person whom she did not care to remember.

Fifteen months passed, and at length came a letter from Lord Earle, saying that he hoped to reach England before Christmas, and in any case would be with them by Christmas day. It was a short letter, written in the hurry of traveling; the words that touched his children most, were "I am glad you have the girls at Earlescourt; I am anxious to see what they are like. Make them happy, mother; let hem have all they want; and, if it be possible, after my long neglect, teach them to love me."

The letter contained no mention of their mother; no allusion was made to her. The girls marked the weeks go by in some little trepidation. What if, after all, this father, whom they did not remember, should not like them: Beatrice did not think such a thing very probable, but Lillian passed many an hour in nervous, fanciful alarm.

It was strange how completely all the old life had died away. Both had felt a kind of affection for the homely farmer and his wife—they sent many presents to them—but Beatrice would curl her proud lip in scorn when she read aloud that "Mr. And Mrs. Thorne desired their humble duty to Lady Earle."

Lady Earle felt no anxiety about her son's return; looking at his daughters, she saw no fault in them. Beautiful, accomplished, and graceful, what more could he desire? She inwardly thanked Providence that neither of them bore the least resemblance to the Thornes. Beatrice looked like one of the Ladies Earle just stepped out from a picture; Lillian, in her fair, dove-like loveliness, was quite as charming. What would Lady Earle—so truthful, so honorable—have thought or said had she known that their bright favorite with the Earle face had plighted her troth, unknown to any one, to the captain of a trading vessel, who was to claim her in two years for his wife?

Lady Earl had formed her own plans for Beatrice; she hoped the time would come when she would be Lady Earle of Earlescourt. Nothing could be more delightful, nothing easier, provided Beatrice would marry the young heir, Lionel Dacre.

One morning, as the sisters sat in Lillian's room, Lady Earle entered with an unusual expression of emotion on her fair, high-bred face. She held an open letter in her hand.

"My dear children," she said, "you must each look your very best this evening. I have a note here—your father will be home tonight."

The calm, proud voice faltered then, and the stately mistress of Earlescourt wept at the thought of her son's return as she had never wept since he left her.



Chapter XXI

Once more Ronald Earle stood upon English shores; once again he heard his mother tongue spoken all around him, once again he felt the charm of quiet, sweet English scenery. Seventeen years had passed since he had taken Dora's hand in his and told her he cared nothing for all he was leaving behind him, nothing for any one in the world save herself—seventeen years, and his love-dream had lasted but two! Then came the cruel shock that blinded him with anger and shame; then came the rude awakening from his dream when, looking his life bravely in the face, he found it nothing but a burden—hope and ambition gone—the grand political mission he had once believed to be his own impossible nothing left to him of his glorious dreams but existence—and all for what? For the mad, foolish love of a pretty face. He hated himself for his weakness and folly. For that—for the fair, foolish woman who had shamed him so sorely—he had half broken his mother's heart, and had imbittered his father's life. For that he had made himself an exile, old in his youth, worn and weary, when life should have been all smiling around him.

These thoughts flashed through his mind as the express train whirled through the quiet English landscape. Winter snows had fallen, the great bare branches of the tall trees were gaunt and snow-laden, the fields were one vast expanse of snow, the frost had hardened the icicles hanging from hedges and trees. The scene seemed strange to him after so many years of the tropical sun. Yet every breath of the sharp, frosty air invigorated him and brought him new life and energy.

At length the little station was reached, and he saw the carriage with his liveried servants awaiting him. A warm flush rose to Lord Earle's face; for a moment he felt almost ashamed of meeting his old domestics. They must all know now why he had left home. His own valet, Morton, was there. Lord Earle had kept him, and the man had asked permission to go and meet his old master.

Ronald was pleased to see him; there were a few words of courteous greeting from Lord Earle to all around, and a few still kinder words to Morton.

Once again Ronald saw the old trees of which he had dreamed so often, the stately cedars, the grand spreading oaks, the tall aspens, the lady beeches, the groves of poplars—every spot was familiar to him. In the distance he saw the lake shining through the trees; he drove past the extensive gardens, the orchards now bare and empty. He was not ashamed of the tears that rushed warmly to his eyes when the towers and turrets of Earlescourt came in sight.

A sharp sense of pain filled his heart—keen regret, bitter remorse, a longing for power to undo all that was done, to recall the lost miserable years—the best of his life. He might return; he might do his best to atone for his error; but neither repentance nor atonement would give him back the father whose pride he had humbled in the dust.

As the carriage rolled up the broad drive, a hundred instances of his father's love and indulgence flashed across him—he had never refused any request save one. He wisely and tenderly tried to dissuade him from the false step that could never be retraced but all in vain.

He remembered his father's face on that morning when, with outstretched hands, he bade him leave his presence and never seek it more—when he told him that whenever he looked upon his dead face he was to remember that death itself was less bitter than the hour in which he had been deceived.

Sad, bitter memories filled his heart when the carriage stopped at the door and Ronald caught sight of the old familiar faces, some in smiles, some in tears.

The library door was thrown open. Hardly knowing whither he went, Lord Earle entered, and it was closed behind him. His eyes, dimmed with tears, saw a tall, stately lady, who advanced to meet him with open arms.

The face he remembered so fair and calm bore deep marks of sorrow; the proud, tender eyes were shadowed; the glossy hair was threaded with silver; but it was his mother's voice that cried to him, "My son, my son, thank Heaven you have returned!"

He never remembered how long his mother held him clasped in her arms. Earth has no love like a mother's love—none so tender, so true, so full of sweet wisdom, so replete with pity and pardon. It was her own son whom Lady Earle held in her arms. She forgot that he was a man who had incurred just displeasure. He was her boy, her own treasure, and so it was that her words of greeting were all of loving welcome.

"How changed you are," she said, drawing him nearer to the fast-fading light. "Your face is quite bronzed, and you look so many years older—so sad, so worn! Oh, Ronald, I must teach you to grow young and happy again!"

He sighed deeply, and his mother's heart grew sad as she watched his restless face.

"Old-fashioned copy-books say, mother, that 'to be happy one must be good.' I have not been good," he said with a slight smile, "and I shall never be happy."

In the faint waning light, through which the snow gleamed strangely, mother and son sat talking. Lady Earle told Ronald of his father's death—of the last yearning cry when all the pent-up love of years seemed to rush forth and overpower him with its force. It was some comfort to him, after all, that his father's last thoughts and last words had been of him.