"At last!" he panted. "I'll have your heart's blood, as I swore I'd have it!"

He lifted the knife. Sir Everard Kingsland tried to gasp one last brief prayer in that supreme moment.

"Help!" he cried, with a last wild struggle—"help! help! murder!"

There was a rustling in the trees and some one sprung out. The last word was lost in the sharp report of a pistol, and with a scream of agony, Dick Darkly dropped his knife and fell backward on the grass.



CHAPTER VIII.

A MYSTERIOUS YOUNG MAN.

The baronet leaped to his feet, and stood face to face with his preserver. The giant trees, towering up until they seemed to pierce the sky, half shut out the moonlight, but yet Sir Everard could see that it was a slender stripling who stood before him, a slouched hat pulled far over his eyes.

"I owe you my life," he cried, grasping the youth's hand. "An instant later, and I would have been in eternity. How shall I ever thank you?"

"Don't make the attempt," replied the lad, coolly. "It was the merest chance-work in the world that sent me here to-night."

"Don't call it chance, my boy. It was Providence sent you to save a life."

"Providence may have wished to save your life, and was not particular as to the means. Let us look to this fellow. I hope my shot has not killed him outright."

They both stooped over the fallen giant. Dick Darkly lay on his face, groaning dismally, the blood pumping from his chest with every breath.

"It's an ugly-looking hole," said Sir Everard. "Two inches lower, and it would have gone straight through his heart. As it is, it will put a stop to his assassinating proclivities for awhile, I fancy. Lie still, you matchless scoundrel, while I try and stop this flow of blood."

He knelt beside the groaning man and endeavored to stanch the red gushing with his handkerchief. The youth stood by, gazing calmly on.

"What do you mean to do with him?" he asked.

"Send some of my people to take him to his home, and as soon as he is sufficiently recovered to stand his trial for attempted murder—"

"For God's sake, Sir Everard!" faintly moaned the wounded man.

"Ah, you audacious villain, you can supplicate now! If I let you off this time, my life would not be worth an hour's purchase."

"What did he call you?" asked the boy, with sudden, sharp anxiety in his tone. "Whose life have I saved?"

"I am Sir Everard Kingsland, of Kingsland Court," the baronet answered. "And you are—who?"

"Sir Everard Kingsland! And I have saved your life!"

"For which Heaven be praised! It is a very pleasant world, this, and I have no desire just yet to leave it. Pray tell me the name of my preserver!"

"Never mind my name; it is of no consequence who I am. I have a long journey before me; I am very weary and footsore, and it is time I was on my way."

"Weary and footsore?" repeated the baronet. "Nay—then all the more need we should not part. Come home with me and rest—to-night, at least. I owe you a heavy debt, and I should like to pay a little of it."

"You owe me nothing!" His eyes gleamed under his hat and his teeth clinched as he spoke. "Nothing, Sir Everard Kingsland! Let us say good-bye. I must reach Worrel by sunrise."

"And so you shall. The fleetest steed in my stables shall carry you. But come to Kingsland and rest for the night. If you will not accept my thanks, accept at least the shelter of my roof."

The boy seemed to hesitate.

The baronet look advantage of that momentary hesitation and drew his arm through his own. There was not a prouder man in wide England, but this unknown lad had saved his life, and Sir Everard was only two-and-twenty, and full of generous impulses.

"Come," he said, "don't be obstinate. You own to being footsore and weary. Kingsland is very near, and a night's rest will do you good."

"Thanks! I accept your kind hospitality, Sir Everard, on two conditions."

"On any conditions you choose, mon ami. What are they?"

"That no one shall know it but yourself, and that I may depart before day-dawn."

"I dislike that last condition very much; but it must be as you say. Sleep in safety, most mysterious youth; no one shall know you are under my roof, and I will come and wake you myself at the first peep of day. Will that do?"

"Admirably. You are very kind to take all this trouble for a nameless tramp, Sir Everard."

"Am I? Even when the nameless tramp saved my life?"—yet Sir Everard winced a little while saying it. "And that reminds me, we must hasten, if yonder fallen villain is to recover from his wound. His condition is not an enviable one at this moment."

"How did it happen?" the boy asked.

And the young baronet repeated the story of Dick Darkly's provocation and vow of revenge.

As he concluded they passed through the stately gates, up the majestic sweep of drive, to the imposing old mansion.

"Home!" Sir Everard said, gayly. "Solitude and darkness reign, you see. The family have long since retired, and we can pass to our respective dormitories unseen and unheard."

The boy looked up with his brilliant, glowing eyes. But he did not speak. In silence he followed Sir Everard in, up the noble marble stair-way, along richly carpeted, softly lighted corridors, and into a stately chamber.

"You will sleep here," Sir Everard said. "My room is near, and I am a light sleeper. To-morrow morning at five I will rouse you. Until then adieu, and pleasant dreams."

He swung out and closed the door, and not once had he seen the face of his guest. That guest stood in the center of the handsome chamber, and gazed around.

"At last!" he hisses between his set white teeth—"at last, after two years' weary waiting! At last, oh! my mother, the time has come for me to keep my vow!"

He raised one arm with a tragic gesture, removed the slouched hat, and stood uncovered in the tranquil half light.

The face was wonderfully handsome, of gypsy darkness, and the eyes shone like black stars; but a scarlet handkerchief was bound tightly around his head, and concealed every vestige of hair. With a slow smile creeping round his mouth, the boy took his handkerchief off.

"To-morrow he will come and call me, but to-morrow I shall not leave Kingsland Court. No, my dear young baronet, I have not saved your life for nothing! I shall have the honor of remaining your guest for some time."



CHAPTER IX.

MISS SYBILLA SILVER

Meantime Sir Everard had aroused his valet and a brace of tall footmen, and dispatched them to the aid of the wounded man in the wood. And then he sought his own chamber, and, after an hour or two of aimless tossing, dropped into an uneasy sleep.

And sleeping, Sir Everard had a singular dream. He was walking through Brithlow Wood with Lady Louise on his arm, the moonlight sifting through the tall trees as he had seen it last. Suddenly, with a rustle and a hiss, a huge green serpent glided out, reared itself up, and glared at them with eyes of deadly menace. And somehow, though he had not yet seen the lad's face, he knew the hissing serpent and the preserver of his life were one and the same. With horrible hisses the monster encircled him. Its fetid breath was in his face, its deadly fangs ready to strike his death-blow, and, with a suffocating cry, Sir Everard a-woke from his nightmare and started up in bed.

"Good heavens! such a night of horrors, waking and sleeping! A most ungrateful dream, truly! It is time I awoke my unknown preserver."

The mysterious youth lay fast asleep upon the bed, dressed as he had left him, with the exception of the slouched hat and the red cotton handkerchief. They lay on the carpet; and over the pillows, and over the coarse velveteen jacket streamed such a wealth of blue-black hair as the baronet in all his life never before beheld.

"Powers above!" Sir Everard gasped, in his utter amaze, "what can this mean?"

He advanced with bated breath, bent over and gazed at the sleeper's face. One look, and his flashing first suspicion was a certainty. This dark, youthful, faultlessly beautiful face was a woman's face. A girl in velveteen shooting-jacket and pantaloons, handsome as some dusky Indian princess, lay asleep before him.

Sir Everard Kingsland, in the last stage of bewilderment and amaze, retreated precipitately and shut the door.

The instant the chamber door closed the mysterious young man raised himself on his elbow, very wide awake, his handsome face lighted with a triumphant smile.

"So," he said, "step the second has been taken, and Sir Everard has discovered the sex of his preserver. As he is too delicate to disturb a slumbering lady in disguise, the slumbering lady must disturb him!"

He—or rather she—leaped lightly off the bed, picked up the scarlet bandanna, twisted scientifically the abundant black hair, bound it up with the handkerchief, and crushed down over all the slouched hat. Then, with the handsome face overshadowed, and all expression screwed out of it, she opened the door, and saw, as she expected, the young baronet in the passage.

He stopped at once at sight of her. He had been walking up and down, with an exceedingly surprised and perplexed face; and now he stood with his great, Saxon-blue eyes piercingly fixed upon the young person in velveteen, whose jacket and trousers told one story, and whose streaming dark hair told quite another.

"It is past sunrise, Sir Everard," his preserver began, with a reproachful glance, "and you have broken your promise. You said you would awake me."

"I beg your pardon," retorted Sir Everard, quietly; "I have broken no promise. I came to your room ten minutes ago to arouse you, as I said I would. I knocked thrice, and received no reply. Then I entered. You must excuse me for doing so. How was I to know I was entertaining angels unaware?"

With a low cry of consternation his hearer's hands flew up and covered his face, to hide the blushes that were not there.

"Your red handkerchief and hat do you good service in your masquerade, mademoiselle. I confess I should never suspect a lady in that suit of velveteen."

With a sudden theatrical abandon the "lady in velveteen" flung herself on her knees at his feet.

"Forgive me!" she cried, holding up her clasped hands. "Have pity on me! Don't reveal my secret, for Heaven's sake."

"Forgive you!" repeated Sir Everard, hastily. "What have I to forgive? Pray get up; there is no reason you should kneel and supplicate pity from me."

He raised her imperatively. Her head dropped in womanly confusion, and, hiding her face, she sobbed.

"What must you think? How dreadful it must look! But, oh, Sir Everard! if you only knew!"

"I should like to know, I confess. Come here in this window recess and tell me, won't you? Come, look up, and don't cry so. Tell me who you are."

"I am Sybilla Silver, and I have run away from home, and I will die sooner than ever go back!"

She looked up with a passionate outbreak, and Sir Everard saw the splendor of a pair of flashing Spanish eyes.

"I shall not send you back, depend upon it. Why did you run away, Miss Silver?"

"Do you really wish to know?" she asked. "Oh, Sir Everard Kingsland, will you indeed be my friend?"

"Your true and faithful friend, my poor girl!" he answered, moved by the piteous appeal. "Surely I could hardly be less to one who so bravely saved my life."

"Ah! that was nothing. I lay no claim on that. Serve me as you would serve any friendless girl in distress; and you are brave and generous and noble, I know."

"You 'do me proud,' mademoiselle. Suppose you cease complimenting, and begin at the beginning. Who are your friends, and why did you leave them, and where have you run away from?"

"From Yorkshire, Sir Everard—yes, all the way from Yorkshire in this disguise. Ah! it seems very bold and unwomanly, does it not? But my uncle was such a tyrant, and I had no appeal. I am an orphan, Sir Everard. My father and mother have been dead since my earliest recollection, and this uncle, my sole earthly relative, has been my guardian and tormentor. I can not tell you how cruelly he has treated me. I have been immured in a desolate old country-house, without friends or companions of my own age or sex, and left to drag on a useless and aimless life. My poor father left me a scant inheritance; but, such as it is, my uncle set his greedy heart upon adding it to his own. To do this, he determined upon marrying me to his only son. My cousin William was his father over again—meaner, more cruel and crafty and cold-blooded, if possible—and utterly abhorred by me. I would sooner have died ten thousand deaths than marry such a sordid, hateful wretch! But marry him I surely must have done, if I remained in their power. So I fled. With inconceivable trouble and maneuvering. I obtained this suit of clothes. If I fled undisguised, I knew I would certainly be pursued, overtaken, and brought back. In the dead of night I opened my chamber window and made my escape. I took a loaded pistol of my uncle's with me; I knew how to use it, and I felt safe with such a protector. My old nurse lived in Plymouth with her daughter, and to her I meant to go. I had a little money with me, and made good my escape. My disguise saved me from suspicion and insult. Last night, on my way to Worrel, I heard your cry for help, and my pistol stood me in good stead, for the first time. There, Sir Everard, you know all. I hate and despise myself for the dress I wear, but surely there is some excuse to be made for me."

The Spanish eyes, swimming in tears, were raised imploringly to his, and Sir Everard was two-and-twenty, and very susceptible to a beautiful woman's tears.

"Very much excuse, my poor girl," he said, warmly. "I am the last on earth to blame you for flying from a detested marriage. But there is no need to wear this disguise longer, surely?"

"No; no need. But I have had no opportunity of changing it; and if I do not succeed in finding my nurse at Plymouth, I don't know what will become of me."

"Have you not her address?"

"No; neither have I heard from her in a long, long time. She lived in Plymouth years ago with her married daughter, but we never corresponded; and whether she is there now, or whether indeed she is living at all, I do not know. I caught at the hope as the drowning catch at straws."

Sir Everard looked at her in that thoughtful pause. How beautiful she was in her dark, glowing girlhood—how friendless, how desolate in the world.

"It would be the wildest of wild-goose chases, then," he said, "knowing as little of your nurse's whereabouts as you do, to seek her in Plymouth now. Write first, or advertise in the local journals. If she is still resident there, that will fetch her."

"Write! advertise!" Sybilla Silver repeated, with unspeakable mournfulness; "from whence, Sir Everard?"

"From here," answered the baronet, decidedly. "You shall not leave here until you find your friends. And you shall not wear this odious disguise an hour longer. Go back to your chamber and wait."

"What an egregious muff he is!" she said to herself, contemptuously. "There is no cleverness in fooling such an imbecile as that. I am going on velvet so far; I only hope my lady may be as easily dealt with as my lady's only son."

My lady's only son went straight to a door down the corridor, quite at the other extremity, and opened it.

It was a lady's dressing-room evidently. Laid out, all ready for wear, was a lady's morning toilet complete, and without more ado Sir Everard confiscated the whole concern. At the white cashmere robe alone he caviled.

"This is too gay; I must find a more sober garment. All the maid-servants in the house would recognize this immediately."

He went to one of the closets, searched there, and presently reappeared with a black silk dress. Rolling all up in a heap, he started at once with his prize, laughing inwardly at the figure he cut.

"If Lady Louise saw me now, or my lady mother, either, for that matter! What will Mildred and her maid say, I wonder, when they find burglars have been at work, and her matutinal toilet stolen?"

He bore the bundle straight to the chamber of his pretty runaway, and tapped at the door. It was discreetly opened an inch or two.

"Here are some clothes. When you are dressed, come out. I will wait in the passage."

"Thank yon," Miss Silver's soft voice said.

The young person whose adventures were so highly sensational doffed her velveteens and donned the dainty garments of Miss Mildred Kingsland.

All the things were beautifully made and embroidered, marked with the initials "M. K.," and adorned with the Kingsland crest.

"Miss Mildred Kingsland must be tall and slender, since her dress fits me so well. Ah, what a change even a black silk dress makes in one's appearance! He admired me—I saw he did, in jacket and pantiloons—what will be do, then, in this? Will he fall in love with me, I wonder?"

One parting peep in the glass, and she opened the door and stepped out before Sir Everard Kingsland, a dazzling vision of beauty.

He stood and gazed. Could he believe his eyes? Was this superb-looking woman with the flowing curls, the dark, bright beauty and imperial mien, the lad in velveteen who had shot the poacher last night? Why, Cleopatra might have looked like that, in the height of her regal splendor, or Queen Semiramis, in the glorious days that were gone.

"This is indeed a transformation," he said, coming forward. "Your disguise was perfect. I should never have known you for the youth I parted from ten minutes ago."

"I can never thank you sufficiently, Sir Everard. Ah, if you knew how I abhorred myself in that hateful disguise! Nothing earthly will ever induce me to put it on again."

"I trust not," he said, gravely; "let us hope it may never be necessary. You are safe here, Miss Silver, from the tyranny of your uncle and cousin. The friendless and unprotected shall never be turned from Kingsland Court."

She took his hand and lifted it to her lips, and once more the luminous eyes were swimming in tears.

"I would thank you if I could, Sir Everard," the sweet voice murmured: "but you overpower me! Your goodness is beyond thanks."

A footstep on the marble stair made itself unpleasantly audible at this interesting crisis. Miss Silver dropped the baronet's hand with a wild instinct of flight in her great black eyes.

"Return to your room," Sir Everard whispered. "Lock the door, and remain there until I apprise my mother of your presence here and prepare her to receive you. Quick! I don't want these prying prigs of servants to find you here."

She vanished like a flash.

Sir Everard walked down-stairs, and passed his own valet sleepily ascending.

"I beg your parding, Sir Heverard," said the valet; "but we was all very anxious about you. Sir Galahad came galloping home riderless, and—"

"That will do, Edward. You did not disturb Lady Kingsland?"

"No, Sir Heverard."

Sir Everard passed abruptly on and sought the stables at once. Sir Galahad was there, undergoing his morning toilet, and greeted his master with a loud neigh of delight.

The young baronet dawdled away the lagging morning hours, smoking endless cigars under the waving trees, and waiting for the time when my lady should be visible. She rarely rose before noon, but to-day she deigned to get up at nine. Sir Everard flung away his last cigar, and went bounding up the grand stairs three at a time.

Lady Kingsland sat breakfasting in her boudoir with her daughter—a charming little bijou of a room, all filigree work, and fluted walls, delicious little Greuze paintings, and flowers and perfume—and Lady Kingsland, in an exquisitely becoming robe de matin, at five-and-fifty looked fair and handsome, and scarce middle-aged yet. Time, that deals so gallantly with these blonde beauties, had just thinned the fair hair at the parting, and planted dainty crow's-feet about the patrician mouth, but left no thread of silver under the pretty Parisian lace cap.

Mildred Kingsland, opposite her mother, scarcely bore her thirty years so gracefully. She had had her little romance, and it had been incontinently nipped in the bud by imperious mamma, and she had dutifully yielded, with the pain sharp in her heart all the same. But he was poor, and Mildred was weak, and so Lady Kingsland's only daughter glided uncomplainingly into old-maidenhood.

My lady glanced over her shoulder, and greeted her son with a bright, loving smile. He was her darling and her pride—her earthly idol—the last of the Kingslands.

"Good-morning, Everard! I thought you would have done Mildred and myself the honor of breakfasting with us. Perhaps it is not too late yet. May I offer you a cup of chocolate?"

"Not at all too late, mother mine. I accept your offer and your chocolate on the spot. Milly, good-morning! You are white as your dress! What is the matter?"

"Mildred is fading away to a shadow of late," his mother said. "I must take her to the sea-shore for change."

"When?" asked Sir Everard.

"Let me see. Ah! when you are married, I think. What time did you come home last night, and how is Lady Louise?"

"Lady Louise is very well. My good mother"—half laughing—"are you very anxious for a daughter-in-law at Kingsland to quarrel with?"

"I shall not quarrel with Lady Louise."

"Then, willy-nilly, it must be Lord Carteret's daughter, and no other?"

"Everard," his mother said, earnestly, "you know I have set my heart on seeing Lady Louise your wife; and she loves you, I know. And you, my darling Everard—you will not disappoint me?"

"I should be an ungrateful wretch if I did! Rest easy, ma mere—Lady Louise shall become Lady Kingsland, or the fault shall not be mine. I believed I should have asked the momentous little question last night but for that interloper, George Grosvenor!"

"Ah! jealous, of course. He is always de trop, that great, stupid George," my lady said. "And was the dinner-party agreeable; and what time did you get home?"

"The dinner-party was delightful, and I came home shortly after midnight. What time Sir Galahad arrived I can't say—half an hour before I did, at least."

Lady Kingsland looked inquiringly.

"Did you not ride Sir Galahad?"

"Yes, until I was torn from the saddle! My dear mother, I met with an adventure last night, and you had like never to see your precious son again."

"Everard!"

"Quite true. But for the direct interposition of Providence, in the shape of a handsome lad in velveteen, who shot my assailant, I would be lying now in Brithlow Wood yonder, as dead as any Kingsland in the family vault."

And then, while Lady Kingsland gazed at him breathlessly, Sir Everard related his midnight adventure.

"Good heavens!" my lady cried, clasping him in her arms. "Oh, to think what might have happened! My boy—my boy!"

"Very true, mother; but a miss is as good as a mile, you know. Poetical justice befell my assailant; and here I am safe and sound, sipping chocolate."

"And the preserver of your life, Everard—where is he?"

"Upstairs, waiting like patience on a monument; and by the same token, fasting all this time! But it isn't a he, ma mere; it's a she."

"What?"

Sir Everard laughed.

"Such a mystified face, mother! Oh; it's highly sensational and melodramatic, I promise you! Sit down and hear the sequel."

And then, eloquently and persuasively, Sir Everard repeated Miss Sybilla Silver's extraordinary story, and Lady Kingsland was properly shocked.

"Disguised herself in men's clothes! My dear Everard, what a dreadful creature she must be!"

"Not at all dreadful, mother. She is as sensitive and womanly a young lady as ever I saw in my life. And, she's a very pretty girl, too."

Lady Kingsland looked suspiciously at her son. She highly disapproved of pretty girls where he was concerned; but the handsome face was frank and open as the day.

"Now don't be suspicious, Lady Kingsland. I'm not going to fall in love with Miss Sybilla Silver, I give you my word and honor. She saved my life, remember. May I not fetch her here?"

"What! in men's clothes, and before your sister? Everard, how dare you?"

Sir Everard broke into a peal of boyish laughter that made the room ring.

"I don't believe she's in men's clothes!" exclaimed Mildred, suddenly. "Honorine told me robbers must have been in my dressing-room last night—half my things were stolen. I understand it now—Everard was the robber."

"I am going for her, mother. Remember she is friendless, and that she saved your son's life."

He quitted the room with the last word. That claim, he knew, was one his mother would never repudiate.

"Oh!" she said, lying back in her chair pale and faint, "to think what might have happened!"

As she spoke her son re-entered the room, and by his side a young lady—so stately, so majestic in her dark beauty, that involuntarily the mother and daughter arose.

"My mother, this young lady saved my life. Try and thank her for me. Lady Kingsland, Miss Silver."

Surely some subtle power of fascination invested this dark daughter of the earth. The liquid dark eyes lifted themselves in mute appeal to the great lady's face, and then the proudest woman in England opened her arms with a sudden impulse and took the outcast to her bosom.

"I can never thank you," she murmured. "The service you have rendered me is beyond all words."

An hour later Sybilla went slowly back to her room. She had breakfasted tete-a-tete with my lady and her daughter, while Sir Everard, in scarlet coat and cord and tops, had mounted his bonny bay and ridden off to Lady Louise and the fox-hunt, and to his fate, though he knew it not.

"Really, Mildred," my lady said, "a most delightful young person, truly. Do you know, if she does not succeed in finding her friends I should like to retain her as a companion?"

In her own room Sybilla Silver stood before the glass, and she smiled back at her own image.

"So, my lady," she said, "you walk into the trap with your eyes open, too—you who are old enough to know better? My handsome face and black eyes and smooth tongue stand me in their usual good stead. And I saved Sir Everard Kingsland's life! Poor fools! A thousand times better for you all if I had let that midnight assassin shoot him down like a dog!"



CHAPTER X.

A SHAFT FROM CUPID'S QUIVER.

It was fully ten o'clock, and the hunting-party were ready to start, when Sir Everard Kingsland joined them, looking handsome and happy as a young prince in his very becoming hunting costume.

Of course the young baronet's first look was for Lady Louise—he scarcely glanced at the rest. She was just being assisted into the saddle by the devoted George Grosvenor, but she turned to Sir Everard and graciously held out her gauntleted hand.

"Once more," she said, "almost late. Laggard! I shall quarrel with you one of these days if you do not learn to be more punctual."

"You will never have to reproach me again," he said. "Had I known you would have honored my absence by a thought, you should not have had to reproach me now."

"Very pretty, indeed, Sir Everard. But don't waste your time paying compliments this morning. Thanks, Mr. Grosvenor; that will do. For whom are you looking, Sir Everard? Lady Carteret? Oh, she is going to see as much of the fun as she can from the carriage, with some other ladies. Miss Hunsden and myself are the only ones who intend to ride. By the way, I hope Sir Galahad will uphold his master's reputation to-day. He must do his very best, or Whirlwind will beat him."

At that instant a red-coated young gentleman joined them, in an evident state of excitement.

"I say, Kingsland, who's that girl on the splendid roan? She sits superbly, and is stunningly handsome besides. I beg your pardon, Lady Louise—perhaps you know."

"Lord Ernest Strathmore is excited on the subject. That young lady is Miss Harriet Hunsden. Don't lose your head, my lord. One gentleman possesses that heart, and all the rest of you may sigh in vain."

"Indeed! And who is the fortunate possessor?"

"Captain Hunsden, her father."

At the first mention of her name Sir Everard Kingsland had turned sharply around and beheld—his fate. But he did not know it. He only saw a handsome, spirited-looking girl, sitting a magnificent roan horse as easily as if it had been an arm-chair, and talking animatedly to a stalwart soldierly man with white hair and mustache.

As he glanced away from his prolonged stare he met the piercing gaze of Lady Louise's turquoise-blue eyes.

"Et tu, Brute?" she cried gayly. "Oh, my prophetic soul! Did I not warn you, Sir Everard? Did I not foretell that the dashing damsel in the scarlet habit would play the mischief with your fox-hunting hearts? No, no! never deny the soft impeachment! But I tell you, as I told Lord Ernest, it is of no use. She is but seventeen, and 'ower young to marry yet.'"

Before Sir Everard could retort, the cry of "Here they come!" proclaimed the arrival of the hounds.

The hounds were put into the gorse, and the red-coats began to move out of the field into the lane, Sir Everard and Lady Louise with them.

A loud "Halloo!" rang through the air; the hounds came with a rushing roar over a fence.

"There he is!" cried a chorus of voices, as the fox flew over the ground.

And at the same instant Whirlwind tore by like its namesake, with the handsome girl upright as a dart. Away went Sir Galahad, side by side with the roan. Lady Louise and her sedate nag were left hopelessly behind.

On and on like the wind Whirlwind flew the fences, and Miss Hunsden sat in her saddle like a queen on her throne.

The young baronet, even in the fierce heat of the hunt, could see the beautiful glowing face, the flashing gray eyes, and the lances of light flickering in the gold-brown hair. Side by side Sir Galahad and Whirlwind darted to the end of the fourth inclosure.

Then came a change—a wall of black, heavy thorn rose ahead, which no one was mad enough to face.

The baronet pulled his bay violently to the right and looked to see the dashing huntress follow. But, no; the blood of Miss Hunsden and the "red-roan steed" was up, and straight they went at that awful pace.

"For God's sake, Miss Hunsden!" cried the voice of Lord Ernest Strathmore, "don't try that!"

But he might as well have spoken to the cataract of Niagara. With a tremendous rush Whirlwind charged the place. There was a horrible crash—another—and a plunge downward.

Sir Everard turned sick with horror; but Whirlwind settled into his stride, and the girl recovered her balance in the very instant, and away again like the wind.

"Splendidly done, by Jove!" cried Lord Ernest. "I never saw a lady ride before like that in all my life."

Sir Everard dashed on. His horse was on his mettle; but, do what he would, the slender, girlish figure, and superb roan kept ahead. Whirlwind took hedges and ditches before him, disdaining to turn to the right or left, and after a sharp run of an hour, Miss Hunsden had the glory and happiness of being one of the few up at the finish in time to see the fox, quite dead, held over the huntsman's head, with the hounds hanging expectant around.

Every eye turned upon the heroine of the hour, and loud were the canticles chanted in her honor. The master of the hounds himself rode up, all aglow with admiration.

"Miss Hunsden," he said, "I never in all my life saw a lady ride as you rode to-day. There are not half a dozen men in Devonshire who would have faced those fences as you did. I sincerely hope you will frequently honor our field by your presence and matchless riding."

Miss Hunsden bowed easily and smiled.

And then her father came up, his soldierly old face aglow.

"Harrie, my dear, I am proud of you! You led us all to-day. I wouldn't have taken that nasty place myself, and I didn't believe even Whirlwind could do it."

Then George Grosvenor and Lord Ernest and the rest of the men crowded around, and compliments poured in in a deluge.

Sir Everard held himself aloof—disgusted, nauseated—or so he told himself.

"Such an unwomanly exhibition! Such a daring, masculine leap! And see how she sits and smiles on those empty-headed fox-hunters, like an Amazonian queen in her court! How different from Lady Louise! And yet! good heavens! how royally beautiful she is!"

"Alone, Kingsland?" exclaimed a voice at his elbow; and glancing around he saw Lord Carteret. "What do you think of our pretty Di Vernon? You don't often see a lady ride like that. Why don't you pay your respects? Don't know her, eh? Come alone; I'll present you."

Sir Everard's heart gave a sudden plunge, quite unaccountably. Without a word he rode up to where the gray-eyed enchantress held her magic circle.

"Harrie, my dear," said the elderly nobleman, "I bring a worshiper who hovers aloof and gazes in speechless admiration. Let me present my young friend, Sir Everard Kingsland, Miss Hunsden."

Sir Everard took off his hat, and bent to his saddle-bow.

"Sir Everard Kingsland!" cried Captain Hunsden, cordially. "Son of my old friend, Sir Jasper, I'll be sworn! My dear boy, how are you? I knew your father well. We were at Rugby together, and sworn companions. Harrie, this is the son of my oldest friend."

"Papa's friends are all mine!"

The voice was clear and sweet as the beaming eyes. She held out her hand with a frank grace, and Sir Everard took it, its light touch thrilling to the core of his heart.

Sir Everard Kingsland rode back to Carteret Park beside the Indian officer and his daughter as a man might ride in a trance. Surely within an hour the whole world had been changed! He rode on air instead of solid soil, and the sunshine of heaven was not half so brilliant as Harriet Hunsden's smile.

"Confess now, Sir Everard," she said, "you were shocked and scandalized. I saw it in your face. Oh, don't deny it, and don't tell polite fibs! I always shock people, and rather enjoy it than otherwise."

"Harriet!" her father said, reprovingly. "She is a spoiled madcap, Sir Everard, and I am afraid the fault is mine. She has been everywhere with me in her seventeen years of life—freezing amid the snows of Canada and grilling alive under the broiling sun of India. And the result is—what you see."

"The result is—perfection!"

"Papa," Miss Hunsden said, turning her sparkling face to her father, "for Sir Everard's sake, pray change the subject. If you talk of me, he will feel in duty bound to pay compliments; and really, after such a fast run, it is too much to expect of any man. There! I see Lady Louise across the brook yonder. I will leave you gentlemen to cultivate one another. Allons, messieurs!"

One fleeting, backward glance of the bewitching face, a saucy smile and a wave of the hand, and Whirlwind had leaped across the brook and ambled on beside the sober charger of Lady Louise.

"Every one has been talking of your riding, Miss Hunsden," Lady Louise said. "I am nearly beside myself with envy. Lord Ernest Strathmore says you are the most graceful equestrienne he ever saw."

"His lordship is very good. I wish I could return the compliment, but his chestnut balked shamefully, and came home dead beat!"

Lord Ernest was within hearing distance of the clear, girlish voice, but he only laughed good-naturedly.

"As you are strong, be merciful, Miss Hunsden. We can't all perform miracles on horseback, you know. I came an awful cropper at that ugly hedge, to be sure, and your red horse went over me like a blaze of lightning! You owe me some atonement, and—of course you are going to the ball to-night?"

"Of course! I like balls even better than hunting."

"And she dances better than she rides," put in her father, coming up.

"She is perfection in everything she undertakes, I am certain," Lord Ernest said, "and for that atonement I speak of, Miss Hunsden, I claim the first waltz."

They rode together to Carteret Park. Sir Everard had the privilege of assisting her to dismount.

"You must be fatigued, Miss Hunsden," he said. "With a ball in prospective, after your hard gallop, I should recommend a long rest."

"Sir Everard, I don't know the meaning of that word 'fatigue.' I never was tired in my life, and I am ready for the ball to-night, and a steeple-chase to-morrow."

She tripped off as she spoke, with a mischievous glance. She wanted to shock him, and she succeeded.

"Poor girl!" he thought, as he slowly turned homeward, "she is really dreadful. She never had a mother, I suppose, and wandering over the world with her father has made her a perfect savage. She is truly to be pitied—so exceedingly beautiful as she is, too!"

Sir Everard certainly was very sorry for that hoidenish Miss Hunsden. He thought of her while dressing for dinner, and he talked of her all through that meal "more in sorrow than in anger."

Sybilla Silver, quite like one of the family already, listened with greedy ears and eager black eyes.

"You ought to call, mother," the baronet said, "you and Mildred. Common politeness requires it, Captain Hunsden was my father's most intimate friend, and this wild girl stands sadly in need of some matronly adviser."

"I remember Captain Hunsden," Lady Kingsland said, thoughtfully, "and I remember this girl, too, when she was a child of three or four years. He was a very handsome man, I recollect, and he married away in Canada or the United States. There was some mystery about that marriage—something vague and unpleasant—no one knew what. She ought to be pretty, this daughter."

"Pretty!" Sir Everard exclaimed; "she is beautiful as an angel! I never saw such eyes or such a smile in the whole course of my life."

"Indeed!" his mother said, coldly—"indeed! Not even excepting Lady Louise's?"

"Oh, Lady Louise is altogether different! I didn't mean any comparison. But you will see her to-night at Lady Carteret's ball, and can judge for yourself. She is a mere child—sixteen or seventeen, I believe."

"And Lady Louise is five-and-twenty," said Mildred, with awful accuracy.

"She does not look twenty!" exclaimed my lady, sharply. "There are few young ladies nowadays half so elegant and graceful as Lady Louise."

Miss Silver's large black eyes glided from one to the other with a sinister smile in their shining depths. Her soft voice broke in at this jarring juncture and sweetly turned the disturbed current of conversation, and Sir Everard understood, and gave her a grateful glance.

The young baronet had gone to many balls in his lifetime, but never had he been so painfully particular before. He drove Edward, his valet, to the verge of madness with his whims, and left off at last in sheer desperation and altogether dissatisfied with the result.

"I look like a guy, I know," he muttered, angrily, "and that pert little Hunsden is just the sort of girl to make satirical comments on a man if his neck-tie is awry or his hair unbecoming. Not that I care what she says; but one hates to feel he is a laughing-stock."

The ball-room was brilliant with lights, and music, and flowers, and diamonds, and beautiful faces, and magnificent toilets when the Kingsland party entered.

Lady Carteret, in velvet robes, stood receiving her guests. Lady Louise, with white azaleas in her hair and dress, stood stately and graceful, looking from tip to toe what she was the descendant of a race of "highly-wed, highly-fed, highly-bred" aristocrats.

But at neither of them Sir Everard glanced twice. His eyes wandered around and lighted at last on a divinity in a cloud of misty white, crowned with dark-green ivy leaves aglitter with diamond drops.

While he gazed, Lord Ernest Strathmore came up, said something, and whirled her off in the waltz. Away they flew. Lord Ernest waltzed to perfection, and she—a French woman or a fairy only could float like that.

A fierce, jealous pang griped his heart; a second, and they were out of sight. Sir Everard roused himself from his trance and went up to his hostess to pay his respects.

"Ah!" Lady Carteret said, a little spitefully, "the spell is broken at last! There was no mistaking that look, Sir Everard! My dear Lady Kingsland"—laughing, but malicious still—"take care of your son. I'm afraid he's going to fall in love."



CHAPTER XI.

"FOR LOVE WILL STILL BE LORD OF ALL."

My Lady Carteret's ball was a brilliant success, and, fairest where all were fair, Harrie Hunsden shone down all competitors. As she floated down the long ball-room on the arm of Lord Ernest, light as a swimming-sprite, a hundred admiring male eyes followed, and a hundred fair patrician bosoms throbbed with bitterest envy.

"The little Hunsden is in full feather to-night," lisped George Grosvenor, coming up with his adored Lady Louise on his arm. "There is nothing half so beautiful in the room, with one exception. And only look at Kingsland! Oh, he's done for, to a dead certainty!"

Sir Everard started up rather confusedly. He had been leaning against a pillar, gazing after the divinity in the ivy crown, with his heart in his eyes, and Lady Louise was the last person in the universe he had been thinking of.

"We are losing our waltz, Mr. Grosvenor," she said, frigidly, "and we are disturbing Sir Everard Kingsland. The 'Guards' Waltz' is a great deal too delightful to be missed."

"I fancied the first waltz was to be mine, Lady Louise," Sir Everard said, with an awful sense of guilt.

Lady Louise's blue eyes flashed fire.

"With Miss Hunsden, perhaps—certainly not with me. Come, Mr. Grosvenor."

It was the first spiteful shaft Lady Louise had ever condescended to launch, and she bit her lip angrily an instant after, as George whirled her away.

"Idiot that I am," she thought, "to show him I can stoop to be piqued—to show him I can be jealous—to show him I care for him like this! He will get to fancy I love him next, and he—he has had neither eyes nor ears for any one else since he saw Harrie Hunsden this morning."

A sharp, quick pain pierced the proud breast of the earl's daughter, for she did love him, and she knew it—as much as it was in her lymphatic nature to love at all.

"I will never forgive him—never!" her white teeth clinched. "The dastard—to play the devoted to me, and then desert me at the first sight of a madcap on horseback. I will never stoop to say one civil word to him again."

Lady Louise kept her vow. Sir Everard, penitent and remorseful, strove to make his peace in vain.

Lord Carteret's daughter listened icily, sent barbed shafts tipped with poison from her tongue in reply, danced with him once, and steadily refused to dance again.

Sir Everard gave it up and went in search of Miss Hunsden, and was accepted by that young lady for a redowa.

"I thought you would have asked me ages ago," said Harrie, with delicious frankness. "I saw you were a good dancer, and that is more than I can say for any other gentleman present, except Lord Ernest. Ah, Lord Ernest can waltz! It is the height of ball-room bliss to be his partner. But you stayed away to quarrel with Lady Louise, I suppose?"

"I have not been quarreling with Lady Louise," replied, Sir Everard, feeling guiltily conscious all the same.

"No? It looked like it, then. She snubs you in the most merciless manner, and you—oh, what a penitent face you wore the last time you approached her! I thought she was a great deal too uplifted for flirting, but what do you call that with George Grosvenor?"

"George Grosvenor is a very old friend. Here is our redowa, Miss Hunsden. Never mind Lady Louise."

His arm encircled her waist, and away they flew. Sir Everard could dance as well as Lord Ernest, and quite as many admiring eyes followed him and the bright little belle of the ball. Mr. Grosvenor pulled his tawny mustache with inward delight.

"Handsome couple, eh, Carteret?" he said to his host; "it is an evident case of spoons there. Well, the boy is only two-and-twenty, and at that age we all lost our heads easily."

Two angry red spots, quite foreign to her usual complexion, burned on Lady Louise's fair cheeks. She turned abruptly away and left the gentlemen.

"Little Harrie is pretty enough to excuse an older man losing his head," Lord Carteret answered; "but it would not suit Lady Kingsland's book at all. The Hunsden is poorer than a church-mouse, and though of one of our best old-country families, the pedigree bears no proportion to my lady's pride. A duke's daughter, in her estimation, would be none too good for her darling son."

Mr. Grosvenor smiled satirically.

"She is a wonderful woman—my lady—but I fancy she is matched at last. If Kingsland sets his heart on this latest fancy, all the powers of earth and Hades will not move him. Do you recollect that little affair of Miss Kingsland and poor Douglas of the —th? My lady put a stop to that, and he was shot, poor fellow, before Balaklava. But the son and heir is quite another story. Apropos, I must ask little Mildred to dance. Adio, Carteret!"

The ball whirled on—the hours went by like bright, swift flashes, and, from the moment of the redowa, to Sir Everard Kingsland it was one brief, intoxicating dream of delirium. My Lady Kingsland's maternal frowns, my Lady Louise's imperial scorn—all were forgotten. She was a madcap and a hoiden—a wild, hare-brained, fox-hunting Amazon—all that was shocking and unwomanly, but, at the same time, all that was bright, beautiful, entrancing, irresistible. His golden-haired ideal, with the azure eyes and seraphic smile was forgotten, and this gray-eyed enchantress, robed in white, crowned with ivy, dancing desperately the whole night long, set brain and heart reeling in the mad tarantella of love.

It was over at last. The gray and dismal dawn of the November morning stole chilly through the curtained casements. A half-blown rose from Miss Hunsden's bouquet bloomed in Sir Everard's button-hole, and it was Sir Everard's blissful privilege to fold Miss Hunsden's furred mantle around those pearly shoulders.

The bleak morning breeze blew her perfumed hair across his eyes, as she leaned on his arm and he handed her into the carriage.

"We shall expect to see you at Hunsden Hall," the Indian officer said, heartily. "Your father's son, Sir Everard, will ever be a most welcome guest."

"Yes," said Harrie, coquettishly; "come and inquire how my health is after dancing all night. Etiquette demands that much, and I'm a great stickler for etiquette."

"Sir Everard would never have discovered it, I am certain, my dear, if you had not told him."

"A thousand thanks! I shall only be too delighted to avail myself of both invitations."

Sir Everard went home to Kingsland Court as he never had gone home before. The whole world was couleur de rose—the bleak November morning and the desolate high-road—sweeter, brighter than the Elysian Fields.

How beautiful she was! how the starry eyes had flashed! how the rosy lips had smiled! Half the men at the ball were in love with her, he knew; and she—she had danced twice with him, all night, for once with any one else.

It was a very silent drive. Lady Kingsland sat back among her wraps in displeased silence; Mildred never talked much, and the young baronet was lost in blissful ecstasy a great deal too deep for words. He could not even see his mother was angry—he never gave one poor thought to Lady Louise. The whole world was bounded by Harriet Hunsden.

Sybilla Silver was up and waiting. A bright fire, a cheery cup of tea, and a smiling face greeted her ladyship.

"Really, Miss Silver," she said, languidly, "this is very thoughtful of you. Where is my maid?"

"Asleep, my lady. Pray let me fulfill her duties this once. I hope you enjoyed the ball?"

"I never enjoyed a ball less in my life. Pray make haste—I am in no mood for talking."

Sybilla's swift, deft fingers disrobed the moody lady, loosened the elaborate structure of hair, brushed it out, and all the while she sat frowning angrily at the fire.

"There was a young lady at the hall—a Miss Hunsden," she said, at last, breaking out in spite of herself—"and the exhibition she made was perfectly disgraceful. Miss Silver, if you see my son before I get up to-day, tell him I wish particularly for his company at breakfast."

"Yes, my lady," Miss Silver said, docilely; and my lady did not see the smile that faded with the words.

She understood it perfectly. Sir Everard had broken from the maternal apron-string, deserted the standard of Lady Louise, and gone over to "bold, odious" Miss Hunsden.

Sybilla dutifully delivered the message the first time she met the baronet. A groom was holding Sir Galahad, and his master was just vaulting into the saddle. He turned away from the dark face and sweet voice.

"It is impossible this morning," he said. "Tell Lady Kingsland I shall meet her at dinner."

He rode away as he spoke, with the sudden consciousness that it was the first time he and that devoted mother had ever clashed. Thinking of her, he thought of her favorite.

"She wants to read me a tirade, I suppose, about her pet, Lady Louise," he said to himself. "They would badger me into marrying her if they could. I never cared two straws for the daughter of Earl Carteret; she is frightfully passee, and she's three years older than I am. I am glad I did not commit myself to please my mother."

Sir Everard reached Hunsden Hall in time for luncheon. The old place looked deserted and ruined. The half-pay Indian officer's poverty was visible everywhere—in the time-worn furniture, the neglected grounds, the empty stables, and the meager staff of old-time servants.

"Captain Hunsden is so poor that he will be glad to marry his daughter to the first rich man who asks her. The Hunsden estate is strictly entailed to the next male heir; he has only his pay, and she will be left literally a beggar at his death."

His eyes flashed triumphantly at the thought. Harrie Hunsden stood in the sunshine on the lawn, with half a score of dogs, big and little, bouncing around her, more lovely, it seemed to the infatuated young baronet, in her simple home-dress, than ever. No trace of yesterday's fatiguing hunt, or last night's fatiguing dancing, was visible in that radiant face.

But just at that instant Captain Hunsden advanced to meet him, with Lord Ernest Strathmore by his side.

"What brings that idiot here?" Sir Everard thought. "How absurdly early he must have ridden over!"

He turned to Miss Hunsden and uttered the polite common-place proper for the occasion.

"I told you I never was fatigued," the young lady said, playing with her dogs, and sublimely at her ease. "I am ready for a second hunt to-day, and a ball to-night, and a picnic the day after. I should have been a boy. It's perfectly absurd, my being a ridiculous girl, when I feel as if I could lead a forlorn hope, or, like Alexander, conquer a world. Come to luncheon."

"Conquer a world—come to luncheon? A pretty brace of subjects!" said her father.

"Miss Hunsden is quite capable of conquering a world without having been born anything so horrid as a boy," said Lord Ernest. "There are bloodless conquests, wherein the conquerors of the world are conquered themselves."

The baronet scowled. Miss Hunsden retorted saucily. She and Lord Ernest kept up a brilliant wordy war.

He sat like a silent fool—like an imbecile, he said to himself, glowering malignantly. He was madly in love, and he was furiously jealous. What business had this ginger-whiskered young lordling interloping here? And how disgustingly self-assured and at home he was! He tried to talk to the captain, but it was a miserable failure.

It was a relief when a servant entered with the mailbag.

"The mail reaches us late," Captain Hunsden said, as he opened it. "I like my letters with my breakfast."

"Any for me, papa?" Harriet asked.

"One—from your governess in Paris, I think—and half a dozen for me."

He glanced carelessly at the superscriptions as he laid them down. But as he took the last he uttered a low cry; his face turned livid: he stared at it as if it had turned into a death's-head in his hand.

"Oh, papa—"

She stopped in a sort of breathless affright.

Captain Hunsden rose up. He made no apology. He walked to a window and tore open his letter with passionate haste.

His daughter still stood—pale, breathless.

Suddenly, with a hoarse, dreadful cry, he flung the letter from him, staggered blindly, and fell down in a fit.

A girl's shrill scream pierced the air. She sprung forward, thrust the letter into her bosom, knelt beside her father, and lifted his head. His face was dark purple, the blood oozed in trickling streams from his mouth and nostrils.

All was confusion. They bore him to his room; a servant was dispatched in mad haste for a doctor. Harriet bent over him, white as death. The two young men waited, pale, alarmed, confounded.

It was an hour before the doctor came—another before he left the sick man's room. As he departed, Harriet Hunsden glided into the apartment where the young men waited, white as a spirit.

"He is out of danger; he is asleep. Pray leave us now. To-morrow he will be himself again."

It was quite evident that she was used to these attacks. The young men bowed respectfully and departed.

Sir Everard was in little humor, as he went slowly and moodily homeward, for his mother's lecture.

"There is some secret in Captain Hunsden's life," he thought, "and his daughter shares it. Some secret, perhaps, of shame and disgrace—some bar sinister in their shield; and, good heavens! I am mad enough to love her—I, a Kingsland, of Kingsland, whose name and escutcheon are without a blot! What do I know of her antecedents or his? My mother spoke of some mystery in his past life; and there is a look of settled gloom in his face that nothing seems able to remove. Lord Ernest Strathmore, too—he must come to complicate matters. She is the most glorious creature the sun shines on; and if I don't ask her to be my wife, she will be my Lady Strathmore before the moon wanes!"



CHAPTER XII.

MISS HUNSDEN SAYS "NO."

Sir Everard found his mother primed and loaded; but she nursed her wrath throughout dinner, and it was not until they were in the drawing-room alone that she went off. He was so moodily distrait all through the meal that he never saw the volcano smoldering, and the Vesuvian eruption took him altogether by surprise.

"Your conduct has been disgraceful!" Lady Kingsland passionately cried—"unworthy of a man of honor! You pay Lady Louise every attention; you make love to her in the most prononce manner, and at the eleventh hour you desert her for this forward little barbarian."

Sir Everard opened his eyes in cool surprise.

"My dear mother, you mistake," he said, with perfect sang froid. "Lady Louise made love to me!"

"Everard!"

Her voice absolutely choked with rage.

"It sounds conceited and foppish, I know," pursued the young gentleman; "but you force me to it in self-defense. I never made love to Lady Louise, as Lady Louise can tell you, if you choose to ask."

"You never asked her in so many words, perhaps, to be your wife. Short of that, you have left nothing undone."

Sir Everard thought of the dinner-party, of the moonlit balcony, of George Grosvenor, and was guiltily silent.

"Providence must have sent him," he thought, "to save me in the last supreme moment. Pledged to Lady Louise, and madly in love with Harriet Hunsden, I should blow out my brains before sunset!"

"You are silent," pursued his mother. "Your guilty conscience will not let you answer. You told me yourself, only two days ago, that but for George Grosvenor you would have asked her to be your wife."

"Quite true," responded her son: "but who knows what a day may bring forth? Two days ago I was willing to marry Lady Louise—to ask her, at least. Now, not all the wealth of the Indies, not the crown of the world could tempt me."

"Good heavens!" cried my lady, goaded to the end of her patience; "only hear him! Do you mean to tell me, you absurd, mad-headed boy, that in one day you have fallen hopelessly in love with this hare-brained, masculine Harriet Hunsden?"

"I tell you nothing of the sort, madame; the inference is your own. But this I will say—I would rather marry Harriet Hunsden than any other woman under heaven! Let Lady Louise take George Grosvenor. He is in love with her, which I never was; and he has an earl's coronet in prospective, which I have not. As for me, I have done with this subject at once and forever. Even to you, my mother, I can not delegate my choice of a wife."

"I will never receive Harriet Hunsden!" Lady Kingsland passionately cried.

"Perhaps you will never have the opportunity. She may prefer to become mistress of Strathmore Castle. Lord Ernest is her most devoted adorer. I have not asked her yet. The chances are a thousand to one she will refuse when I do."

His mother laughed scornfully, but her eyes were ablaze.

"You mean to ask her, then?"

"Most assuredly."

She laughed again—a bitter, mirthless laugh.

"We go fast, my friend! And you have hardly known this divinity four-and-twenty hours."

"Love is not a plant of slow growth. Like Jonah's gourd, it springs up, fully matured, in an hour."

"Does it? My son is better versed in amatory floriculture than I am. But before you ask Miss Hunsden to become Lady Kingsland, had you not better inquire who her mother was?"

The baronet thought of the letter, and turned very pale.

"Her mother? I do not understand. What of her mother?"

"Only this"—Lady Kingsland arose as she spoke, her face deathly white, her pale eyes glittering—"the mother is a myth and a mystery. Report says Captain Hunsden was married in America—no one knows where—and America is a wide place. No one ever saw the wife; no one ever heard Miss Hunsden speak of her mother; no one ever heard of that mother's death. I leave Sir Everard Kingsland to draw his own inferences."

She swept from the room with a mighty rustle of silk. A dark figure crouching on the rug, with its ear to the keyhole, barely had time to whisk behind a tall Indian cabinet as the door opened.

It was Miss Sybilla Silver, who was already asserting her prerogative as amateur lady's-maid.

My lady shut herself up in her own room for the remainder of the evening, too angry and mortified for words to tell. It was the first quarrel she and her idolized son ever had, and the disappointment of all her ambitious hopes left her miserable enough.

But scarcely so miserable as Sir Everard. To be hopelessly in love on such short notice was bad enough; to have the dread of a rejection hanging over him was worse; but to have this dark mystery looming horribly in the horizon was worst of all.

His mother's insinuations alone would not have disturbed him; but those insinuations, taken in unison with Captain Hunsden's mysterious illness of the morning, drove him nearly wild.

"And I dare not even ask," he thought, "or set my doubts at rest. Any inquiry from me, before proposing, would be impertinent; and after proposing they would be too late. But one thing I am certain of—if I lose Harrie Hunsden, I shall go mad!"

While he tore up and down like a caged tiger, the door softly opened and his sister looked in.

"Alone, Everard?" she said, timidly, "I thought mamma was with you."

"Mamma has just gone to her room in a blessed temper," answered her brother, savagely. "Come in Milly, and help me in this horrible scrape, if you can."

"Is it something about—Miss Hunsden?" hesitatingly. "I thought mamma looked displeased at dinner."

"Displeased!" exclaimed the young man, with a short laugh; "that is a mild way of putting it. Mamma is inclined to play the Grand Mogul in my case as she did with you and poor Fred Douglas."

"Oh, brother!"

"Forgive me, Milly. I'm a brute and you're an angel, if there ever was one on earth! But I've been hectored and lectured, and badgered and bothered until I'm fairly beside myself. She wants me to marry Lady Louise, and I won't marry Lady Louise if she was the last woman alive. Milly, who was Miss Hunsden's mother?"

"Her mother? I'm sure I don't know. I was quite a little girl when Captain Hunsden was here before, and Harrie was a pretty little curly-haired fairy of three years. I remember her so well. Captain Hunsden dined here once or twice, and I recollect perfectly how gloomy and morose his manner was. I was quite frightened at him. You were at Eton then, you know."

"I know!" impatiently. "I wish to Heaven I had not been. Boy as I was, I should have learned something. Did you never hear the cause of the captain's gloom?"

"No; papa and mamma knew nothing, and Captain Hunsden kept his own secrets. They had heard of his marriage some four or five years before—a low marriage, it was rumored—an actress, or something equally objectionable. Little Harrie knew nothing—at three years it was hardly likely; but she never prattled of her mother as children of that age usually do. There is some mystery about Captain Hunsden's wife, and—pardon me—if you like Miss Hunsden, you ought to have it cleared up."

Everard laughed—a harsh, strident laugh.

"If I like Miss Hunsden, my dear little non-committal Milly. Am I to go to Hunsden Hall and say to its master, 'Look here, Captain Hunsden, give me proofs of your marriage—tell me all about your mysterious wife. You have a very handsome, high-spirited daughter, but before I commit myself by falling in love with her, I want to make sure there was no tarnish on the late Mrs. Hunsden's wedding-ring.' Captain Harold Hunsden is a proud man. How do you think he will like the style of that?"

Mildred stood silent, looking distressed.

"I wish I had married Lady Louise a month ago, and gone out of the country!" he burst out, vehemently. "I wish I had never seen this girl. She is everything that is objectionable—a half-civilized madcap—shrouded in mystery and poverty—danced over the world in a baggage-wagon. I have quarreled with my mother for the first time on her account. But I love her—I love her with all my heart—and I shall go mad or shoot myself if I don't make her my wife!"

He flung himself impetuously, face downward, on the sofa. Mildred stood pallid and scared in the middle of the floor. Once he lifted his head and looked at her.

"Go away, Milly!" he said, hoarsely. "I'm a savage to frighten you so! Leave me; I shall be better alone."

And Mildred, not knowing what else to do, went.

Next morning, hours before Lady Kingsland was out of bed, Lady Kingsland's son was galloping over the breezy hills and golden downs. An hour's hard run, and he made straight for Hunsden Hall.

Miss Hunsden was taking a constitutional up and down the terrace overlooking the sea, with three big dogs. She turned round at Sir Everard's approach and greeted him quite cordially.

"Papa is so much better this morning," she said, "that he is coming down to breakfast. He is subject to these attacks, and they never last long. Any exciting news overthrows him altogether."

"That letter contained exciting news, then?" Sir Everard could not help saying.

"I presume so—I did not read it. How placid the sea looks this morning, aglitter in the sunlight. And yet I have been in the middle of the Atlantic when the waves ran mountains high."

"You are quite a heroine, Miss Hunsden, and a wonderful traveler for a seventeen-year-old young lady. You see, I know your age; but at seventeen a young lady does not mind, I believe. How long have you been in England this time?"

He spoke with careless adroitness; Miss Hunsden answered, frankly enough:

"Five months. You were abroad, I think, at the time."

"Yes. And now you have come for good, I hope—as if Miss Hunsden could come for anything else."

"It all depends on papa's health," replied Harriet, quietly ignoring the compliment. "I should like to stay, I confess. I am very, very fond of England."

"Of course—as you should be of your native place." He was firing nearer the target.

"England is not my native place," said Harriet, calmly. "I was born at Gibraltar."

"At Gibraltar! You surprise me. Of course your mother was not a native of Gibraltar?"

"Of course not. My mother was an American—born and bred and married in New York."

"I suppose you scarcely remember her?"

"Scarcely," the young lady repeated, dryly; "since I never saw her."

"Indeed! She died then—"

"At my birth—yes. And now, Sir Everard"—the bright, clear eyes flashed suddenly full upon him—"is the catechism almost at an end?"

He absolutely recoiled. If ever guilt was written on a human face, it was readily written on his.

"Ah!" Miss Hunsden said, scornfully, "you thought I couldn't find you out—you thought I couldn't see your drift. Have a better opinion of my powers of penetration next time, Sir Everard. My poor father, impoverished in purse, broken in health, sensitive in spirit, chooses to hide his wounds—chooses not to wear his heart on his sleeve for the Devonshire daws to peck at—chooses never to speak of his lost wife—and, lo! all the gossips of the country are agape for the news. She was an actress, was she not, Sir Everard? And when I ride across the country, at the heels of the hounds, it is only the spangles, and glitter, and theater glare breaking out again. I could despise it in others, but I did think better things of the son of my father's oldest friend! Good-morning, Sir Everard."

She turned proudly away.

"Stay, Harriet—Miss Hunsden! Stop—for pity's sake, stop and hear me! I have been presuming—impertinent. I have deserved your rebuke."

"You have," she said, haughtily.

"But I asked those questions because the nameless insinuations I heard drove me mad—because I love you, I worship you, with all my heart and soul."

Like an impetuous torrent the words burst out. He actually flung himself on his knees before her.

"My beautiful, queenly, glorious Harriet! I love you as man never loved woman before!"

Miss Hunsden stood aghast, staring, absolutely confounded. For one instant she stood thus; then all was forgotten in her sense of the ludicrous. She leaned against a tree, and set up a shout of laughter long and clear.

"Oh, good gracious!" cried Miss Hunsden, as soon as she was able to speak; "who ever heard the like of this? Sir Everard Kingsland, get up. I forgive you everything for this superhuman joke. I haven't had such a laugh for a month. For goodness' sake get up, and don't be a goose!"

The young baronet sprung to his feet, furious with mortification and rage.

"Miss Hunsden—"

"Oh, don't!" cried Harriet, in a second paroxysm. "Don't make me rupture an artery. Love me?—worship me? Why, you ridiculous thing! you haven't known me two days altogether!"

He turned away without speaking a word.

"And then you're engaged to Lady Louise! Every one says so, and I am sure it looks like it."

"I am not engaged to Lady Louise."

He said those words huskily, and he could say no more.

Miss Hunsden tried to look grave, but her mouth twitched. The sense of the ludicrous overcame her sense of decorum, and again she laughed until the tears stood in her eyes.

"Oh, I shall die!" in a faint whisper. "My sides ache. I beg your pardon, Sir Everard; but indeed I can not help it. It is so funny!"

"So I perceive. Good-morning, Miss Hunsden."

"And now you are angry. Why, Sir Everard!" catching for the first time a glimpse of his deathly white face, "I didn't think you felt like this. Oh! I beg your pardon with all my heart for laughing. I believe I should laugh on the scaffold. It's dreadfully vulgar, but it was born with me, I'm afraid. Did I gallop right into your heart's best affections at the fox-hunt? Why, I thought I shocked you dreadfully. I know I tried to. Won't you shake hands, Sir Everard, and part friends?"

"Miss Hunsden will always find me her friend if she ever needs one. Farewell!"

Again he was turning away. He would not touch the proffered palm. He was so deathly white, and his voice shook so, that the hot tears rushed into the impetuous Harrie's eyes.

"I am so sorry," she said, with the simple humility of a little child. "Please forgive me, Sir Everard. I know it was horrid of me to laugh; but you don't really care for me, you know. You only think you do; and I—oh! I'm only a flighty little girl of seventeen, and I don't love anybody in the world but papa, and I never mean to be married—at least, not for ages to come. Do forgive me."

He bowed low, but he would neither answer nor take her hand. He was far too deeply hurt.

Before she could speak again he was gone.

"And he's as mad as a hatter!" said Harrie, ruefully. "Oh, dear, dear! what torments men are, and what a bore falling in love is! And I liked him, too, better than any of them, and thought we were going to be brothers in arms—Damon and—what's his name?—and all that sort of thing! It's of no use my ever hoping for a friend. I shall never have one in this lower world, for just so sure as I get to like a person, that person must go and fall in love with me, and then we quarrel and part. It's hard."

Miss Hunsden sighed deeply, and went into the house. And Sir Everard rode home as if the fiend was after him—like a man gone mad—flung the reins of the foaming horse to the astounded groom, rushed up to his room and locked himself in, and declined his luncheon and his dinner.

When he came down to breakfast next morning, with a white, wild face, and livid rings round his eyes, he electrified the family by his abrupt announcement:

"I start for Constantinople to-morrow. From thence I shall make a tour of the East. I will not return to England for the next three years."



CHAPTER XIII.

LYING IN BRITHLOW WOOD.

A thunderbolt falling at your feet from a cloudless summer sky must be rather astounding in its unexpectedness, but no thunderbolt ever created half the consternation Sir Everard's fierce announcement did.

"Going away!" his mother murmured—"going to Constantinople. My dear Everard, you don't mean it?"

"Don't I?" he said, fiercely. "Don't I look as if I meant it?"

"But what has happened? Oh, Everard, what does all this mean?"

"It means, mother, that I am a mad, desperate and reckless man; that I don't care whether I ever return to England again or not."

Lady Kingsland's own imperious spirit began to rise. Her cheeks flushed and her eyes flashed.

"It means you are a headstrong, selfish, cruel boy! You don't care an iota what pain you inflict on others, if you are thwarted ever so slightly yourself. I have indulged you from your childhood. You have never known one unsatisfied wish it was in my power to gratify, and this is my reward!"

He sat in sullen silence. He felt the reproach keenly in its simple truth; but his heart was too sore, the pain too bitter, to let him yield.

"You promise me obedience in the dearest wish of my heart," her ladyship went on, heedless of the presence of Mildred and Sybilla, "and you break that promise at the first sight of a wild young hoiden in a hunting-field. It is on her account you frighten me to death in this heartless manner, because I refuse my consent to your consummating your own disgrace."

"My disgrace? Take care, mother!"

"Do you dare speak in that tone to me?" She rose up from the table, livid with passion. "I repeat it, Sir Everard Kingsland—your disgrace! Mystery shrouds this girl's birth and her father's marriage—if he ever was married—and where there is mystery there is guilt."

"A sweeping assertion!" the baronet said, with concentrated scorn; "but in the present instance, my good mother, a little out of place. The mystery is of your own making. The late Mrs. Harold Hunsden was a native of New York. There she was married—there she died at her daughter's birth. Captain Hunsden cherishes her memory all too deeply to make it the town talk, hence all the county is up agape inventing slander. I hope you are satisfied?"

Lady Kingsland stood still, gazing at him in surprise.

"Who told you all this?" she asked.

"She who had the best right to know—the slandered woman's daughter."

"Indeed—indeed!" slowly and searchingly. "You have been talking to her, then? And your whole heart is really set on this matter, Everard?"

She came a step nearer; her voice softened; she laid one slender hand, with infinite tenderness, on his shoulder.

"What does it matter?" he retorted, impatiently. "For Heaven's sake, let me alone, mother!"

"My boy, if you really love this wild girl so much, if your whole heart is set on her, I must withdraw my objections. I can refuse my darling nothing. Woo Harriet Hunsden, wed her, and bring her here. I will try and receive her kindly for your sake."

Sir Everard Kingsland shook off the fair, white, caressing hand, and rose to his feet, with a harsh, strident laugh. "You are very good, my mother, but it is a little too late. Miss Hunsden did me the honor to refuse me yesterday."

"Refuse you?"

"Even so—incredible as it sounds! You see this little barbarian is not so keenly alive to the magnificent honor of an alliance with the house of Kingsland as some others are, and she said No plumply when I asked her to be my wife."

Again that harsh, jarring laugh rang out, and with the last word he strode from the room, closing the door with an emphatic bang.

Lady Kingsland sunk down in the nearest chair, perfectly overcome. Sybilla Silver raised her tea-cup, and hid a malicious smile there.

"Refused him!" my lady murmured, helplessly. "Mildred, did you hear what he said?"

"Yes, mamma," Mildred replied, in distress. "She is a very proud girl—Harriet Hunsden."

"Proud! Good heavens!" my lady sprung to her feet, goaded by the word. "The wretched little pauper! the uneducated, uncivilized, horrible little wretch! What business has she with pride—with nothing under the sun to be proud of? Refuse my son! Oh, she must be mad, or a fool, or both! I will never forgive her as long as I live; nor him, either, for asking her!"

With which my lady flung out of the apartment, in a towering rage, and went up to her room and fell into hysterics and the arms of her maid on the spot.

It was a day of distress at Kingsland Court—gloom and despair reigned. Lady Kingsland, shut up in her own apartments, would not be comforted—and Sir Everard, busied with his preparations, was doggedly determined to carry out his designs. Sybilla was the only one who enjoyed the situation.

As she stood in the front portico, early in the afternoon, humming an opera tune, a servant wearing the Hunsden livery rode up to her and delivered a twisted note.

"For Sir Everard," said the man, and rode away.

Miss Silver took it, looked at it with one of her curious little smiles, thought a moment, turned, and carried it straight to my lady. My lady examined it with angry eyes.

"From Miss Hunsden," she said, contemptuously. "She repents her hasty decision, no doubt, and sends to tell him so. Bold, designing creature! Find Sir Everard's valet, Miss Silver, and give it to him."

Sir Everard was in his dressing-room, and his pale face flushed deep red as he received the note. He tore it open and literally devoured the contents.

DEAR SIR EVERARD,—Please, please, please forgive me! Oh, I am so sorry I laughed and made you angry! But indeed I thought you only meant it as a joke. Two days is such a little while to be acquainted before proposing, you know. Won't you come to see us again? Papa has asked for you several times. Pray pardon me. You would if you knew how penitent I am.

Yours remorsefully, HARRIE HUNSDEN.

Hunsden Hall, Nov. 15th, 18—.

He read the piteous, childish little letter over and over again until his face glowed. Hope planted her shining foot once more on the baronet's heart.

"I will go at once," he said, hiding the little note very near his heart. "Common courtesy requires me to say farewell before I start for Constantinople. And the captain likes me, and his influence is all-powerful with her, and who knows—"

He did not finish the mental sentence. He rapidly completed his toilet, ordered his horse, and set off hot foot.

Of course, all the short cuts came in requisition. The path through Brithlow Wood was the path he took, going at full gallop. Lost in a deliciously hopeful reverie, he was half-way through, when a hollow groan from the wayside smote his ear.

"For God's sake, help a dying man!"

The baronet stared around aghast. Right before him, under the trees, lay the prostrate figure of a fallen man. To leap off his horse, to bend over him, was but the work of an instant. Judge of his dismay when he beheld the livid, discolored face of Captain Hunsden.

"Great Heaven! Captain Hunsden! What horrible accident is this?"

"Sir Everard," he murmured, in a thick, choking tone, "go—tell Harrie—poor Harrie—"

His voice died away.

"Were you thrown from your horse? Were you waylaid?" asked the young man, thinking of his own recent adventure.

"One of those apoplectic attacks. I was thrown. Tell Harrie—"

Again the thick, guttural accents failed.

Sir Everard raised his head, and knelt for a moment bewildered. How should he leave him here alone while he went in search of a conveyance?

Just then, as if sent by Providence, the Reverend Cyrus Green, in his chaise, drove into the woodland path.

"Heaven be praised!" cried the baronet. "I was wondering what I should do. A dreadful accident has happened, Mr. Green. Captain Hunsden has had a fall, and is very ill."

The rector got out, in consternation, and bent above the prostrate man. The captain's face had turned a dull, livid hue, his eyes had closed, his breathing came hoarse and thick.

"Very ill, indeed," said the clergyman,—"so ill that I fear he will never be better. Let us place him in the chaise, Sir Everard. I will drive slowly, and do you ride on to Hunsden Hall to prepare his daughter for the shock."

The Indian officer was a stalwart, powerful man. It was the utmost their united strength could do to lift him into the chaise.

"Ride—ride for your life!" the rector said, "and dispatch a servant for the family doctor. I fear the result of this fall will be fatal."

He needed no second bidding; he was off like the wind. Sir Galahad sprung over the ground, and reached Hunsden in an incredibly short time. A flying figure, in wild alarm, came down the avenue to meet him.

"Oh, Sir Everard!" Harrie panted, in affright, "where is papa? He left to go to Kingsland Court, and Starlight has come galloping back riderless. Something awful has happened, I know!"

His man's heart burned within him. He wanted to catch her in his arms, to hold her there forever—to shield her from all the world and all worldly sorrow.

Something of what he felt must have shone in his ardent eyes. Hers dropped, and a bright, virginal blush dyed for the first time cheek and brow. He vaulted off his horse and stood uncovered before her.

"Dear Miss Hunsden," he said, gently, "there has been an accident. I am sorry to be the bearer of ill news, but don't be alarmed—all may yet be well."

"Papa," she barely gasped.

"He has met with an accident—a second apoplectic fit. I found him lying in Brithlow Wood. He had fallen from his horse. Mr. Green is fetching him here in his chaise. They will arrive presently. You had better have his room prepared, and I—will I ride for your physician myself?"

She leaned against a tree, sick and faint. He made a step toward her, but she rallied and motioned him off.

"No," she said, "let me be! Don't go, Sir Everard—remain here. I will send a servant for the doctor. Oh, I dreaded this! I warned him when he left this afternoon, but he wanted to see you so much."

She left him and hurried into the house, dispatched a man for the doctor, and prepared her father's room.

In fifteen minutes the doctor's pony-chaise drove up. He and the baronet and the butler assisted the stricken and insensible man up to his room, and laid him upon the bed from which he was never more to rise.



CHAPTER XIV.

THE CAPTAIN'S LAST NIGHT.

A young crescent moon rose in the bleak sky; on the shore the flood-tide beat its hoarse refrain, and in his chamber Harold Godfrey Hunsden lay dying.

They knew it—the silent watchers in that somber room—his daughter, and all. She knelt by the bedside, her face hidden, still, tearless, stunned. Sir Everard, the doctor, the rector, silent and sad, stood around.

The dying man had been aroused to full consciousness at last. One hand feebly rested on his daughter's stricken young head, the other lay motionless on the counterpane. His dulled eyes went aimlessly wandering.

"Doctor!"

The old physician bent over him.

"How long?" he paused—"how long can I last?"

"My dear friend—"

"How long? Quick! the truth! how long?"

"Until to-morrow."

"Ah!"

The hand lying on Harrie's dark curls lay more heavily perhaps—that was all.

"Is there anything you wish? anything you want done? any person you would like to see?"

"Yes," the dying man answered, "yes, Sir Everard Kingsland."

"Sir Everard Kingsland is here."

He motioned the baronet to approach.

Sir Everard bent over him.

"Send them away," said the sick man. "Both. I want to speak to you alone."

Ho delivered the message, and the rector and doctor went into the passage to wait.

"Come closer," the captain said, and the young baronet knelt by the bedside, opposite Harrie, "and tell the truth to a dying man. Harrie, my darling, are you listening?"

"Yes, papa."

She lifted her pale young face, rigid in tearless despair.

"My own dear girl, I am going to leave a little sooner than I thought. I knew my death would be soon and sudden, but I did not expect it so soon, so awfully sudden as this!" His lips twitched spasmodically, and there was a brief pause. "I had hoped not to leave you alone and friendless in the world, penniless and unprotected. I hoped to live to see you the wife of some good man, but it is not to be. God wills for the best, my darling, and to Him I leave you."

A dry, choking sob was the girl's answer. Her eyes were burning and bright. The captain turned to the impatient, expectant young baronet.

"Sir Everard Kingsland," he said, with a painful effort, "you are the son of my old and much-valued friend; therefore I speak. My near approach to eternity lifts me above the minor considerations of time. Yesterday morning, from yonder window, I saw you on the terrace with my daughter."

The baronet grasped his hand, his face flushed, his eyes aglow. Oh, surely, the hour of his reward had come!

"You made her an offer of your hand and heart?"

"Which she refused," the young man said, with a glance of unutterable reproach. "Yes, sir; and I love her with my whole heart!"

"I thought so," very faintly. "Why did you refuse, Harrie?"

"Oh, papa! Why are we talking of this now?"

"Because I am going to leave you, my daughter. Because I would not leave you alone. Why did you refuse Sir Everard?"

"Papa, I—I only knew him such a little while."

"And that is all? You don't dislike him, do you?"

"No-o, papa."

"And you don't like any one else better?"

"Papa, you know I don't."

"My own spotless darling! And you will let Sir Everard love you, and be your true and tender husband?"

"Oh, papa, don't!"

She flung herself down with a vehement cry. But Sir Everard turned his radiant, hopeful, impassioned face upon the Indian officer.

"For God's sake, plead my cause, sir! She will listen to you. I love her with all my heart and soul. I will be miserable for life without her."

"You hear, Harrie? This vehement young wooer—make him happy. Make me happy by saying 'Yes.'"

She looked up with the wild glance of a stag at bay. For one moment her frantic idea was flight.

"My love—my life!" Sir Everard caught both her hands across the bed, and his voice was hoarse with its concentrated emotion. "You don't know how I love you. If you refuse I shall go mad. I will be the truest, the tenderest husband ever man was to woman."

"I am dying, Harrie," her father said, sadly, "and you will be all alone in this big, bad world. But if your heart says 'No,' my own best beloved, to my old friend's son, then never hesitate to refuse. In all my life I never thwarted you. On my death-bed I will not begin."

"What shall I do?" she cried. "What shall I do?"

"Consent!" her lover whispered.

"Consent!" Her father's anxious eyes spoke the word eloquently.

She looked from one to the other—the dying father, the handsome, hopeful, impetuous young lover. Some faint thrill in her heart answered his. Girls like daring lovers.

She drew her hands out of his clasp, hesitated a moment, while that lovely, sensitive blush came and went, then gave them suddenly back of her own accord.

He grasped them tight, with an inarticulate cry of ecstasy. For worlds he could not have spoken. The dying face looked unutterably relieved.

"That means 'Yes,' Harrie?"

"Yes, papa."

"Thank God!"

He joined their hands, looking earnestly at the young man.

"She is yours, Kingsland. May God deal with you, as you deal with my orphan child!"

"Amen!"

Solemnly Sir Everard Kingsland pronounced his own condemnation with the word. Awfully came back the memory of that adjuration in the terrible days to come.

"She is very young," said Captain Hunsden, after a pause—"too young to marry. You must wait a year."

"A year!"

Sir Everard repeated the word in consternation, as if it had been a century.

"Yes," said the captain, firmly. "A year is not too long, and she will only be eighteen then. Let her return to her old pension in Paris. She sadly needs the help of a finishing school, my poor little girl! My will is made. The little I leave will suffice for her wants. Mr. Green is her guardian—he understands my wishes. Oh, my lad! you will be very good to my friendless little Harrie! She will have but you in the wide world."

"I swear it, Captain Hunsden! It will be my bliss and my honor to make her my happy wife."

"I believe you. And now go—go both, and leave me alone, for I am very tired."

Sir Everard arose, but Harrie grasped her father's cold hand in terror.

"No, no, papa! I will not leave you. Let me stay. I will be very quiet—I shall not disturb you."