"What on earth was the matter with you, Victor?" inquired Mr. Lyle, as they walked on together.

"What?" exclaimed Hartman, under his breath, and stopping short in the street.

"Yes, what! I never saw a man so upset without an adequate cause in all my life."

"Don't let us go into the house yet," said Victor; for they were now before the door of the hotel. "It is only ten o'clock, and a fine night. Take a turn with me down some quiet street, and I will tell you."

"Willingly," agreed Mr. Lyle; and they walked past the hotel and out toward the suburbs of the little town.

"Mr. Lyle, I have seen them both!" exclaimed Victor, when they were out of hearing of every one else.

"Both? Whom have you seen, Hartman?" inquired the minister a little uneasily, as if he feared his companion was not quite sane.

"First, I have seen again the heavenly vision that appeared and dispersed the furies from around me on that dark day when I passed, a condemned criminal, from the Court House to the jail," replied Victor Hartman, with emotion.

"Hartman, my poor fellow, are you mad?"

"No; but it was enough to make me so. To meet one of them, whom I never expected to see again in this world, would have been enough to upset me for a while; but to meet both, and to meet them together, who were so widely apart in place and in rank, I tell you it was bewildering! I felt as if I was under the influence of opium and in a delightful dream from which I should soon awake. I did not quite believe it all to be real. I do not quite believe it to be so yet. Have I seen that celestial visitant again?" he inquired, putting his hand to his head in the same confused manner.

"Now, which one of these young ladies do you take to have been your 'celestial visitant,' as you most absurdly call her?"

"Oh, the fair, golden-haired, azure-eyed angel, robed so appropriately in pure white!"

"That was Miss Emma Cavendish," said Mr. Lyle, very uneasily; "and you talk of her like a lover, Hartman—and like a very mad lover too! But oh, I earnestly implore you, do not become so very mad, so frenzied as to let yourself love Emma Cavendish! By birth, education and fortune she is one of the first young ladies in the country, and a bride for a prince. Do not, I conjure you, think of loving her yourself!"

Victor Hartman laughed a little light laugh, that seemed to do him good, as he answered:

"Do not be afraid. I worship her too much to think of loving her in the way you mean. And, besides, if I am not greatly mistaken, my boy has been before me."

"Alden Lytton?"

"Yes, sir. I saw it all. I was too much interested not to see it. My boy and my angel like one another. Heaven bless them both! They are worthy of each other. They will make a fine pair. He so handsome; she so beautiful! He so talented; she so lovely! His family is quite as good as hers. And as for a fortune, his shall equal hers!" said Victor, warmly.

"Will you give away all your wealth to make your 'boy' happy?" inquired Mr. Lyle, with some emotion.

"No! The Red Cleft mine is not so easily exhausted. Besides, in any case, I should save something for my girl She must have a marriage portion too!"

"You really ought to have a guardian appointed by the court to take care of you and your money, Victor. You will give it all away. And, seriously, it grieves me to see you so inclined to rob yourself so heavily to enrich others, even such as these excellent young people," said Mr. Lyle, with feeling.

"Be easy! When I have enriched them both I shall still have an unexhausted gold mine! By the way, parson—parson!"

"Well, Hartman?"

"I saw something else beside the love between my angel and my boy. I saw—saw a certain liking between my girl and my friend."

If the bright starlight had been bright enough Victor Hartman might have seen the vivid blush that mantled all over the ingenuous face of Stephen Lyle.

"I certainly admire Miss Lytton very much. She is a genuine girl," said Mr. Lyle, as composedly as if his face was not crimson.

"And I see she certainly admires you very much. She evidently thinks you are a genuine man. So, my dear friend, go in and win. And my girl shall not miss her marriage portion," said Hartman, cordially.

Mr. Lyle was beginning to feel a little embarrassed at the turn the conversation had taken, so he hastened to change it by saying:

"You told me that you had met them both whom you never had expected to see again in this world. One was Miss Cavendish, your 'heavenly vision;' who was the other?"

"Can you be at a loss to know? There were but three young ladies present. My own girl, whom I went to see and did expect to meet; Miss Cavendish, whom you have just identified as one of the two alluded to, and the brilliant little creature whom you introduced by a heathenish sort of name which I have forgotten."

"Miss Electra?"

"Aye, that was the name; but however you call her, I knew her in Rat Alley as Sal's Kid."

"What!" exclaimed Mr. Lyle, stopping short and trying to gaze through the darkness into the face of his companion; for Mr. Lyle had never happened to hear of the strange vicissitudes of Electra's childhood.

"She is Sal's Kid, I do assure you. Her face is too unique ever to be mistaken. I could never forget or fail to recognize those flashing eyes and gleaming teeth. And, I tell you, I would rather have found her again as I found her to-night than have discovered another gold mine as rich as that of Red Cleft."

"Hartman, you were never more deceived in your life. That young lady, Electra Coroni, is the granddaughter of Dr. Beresford Jones, and is the sole heiress of Beresford Manors. She was educated at the Mount Ascension Academy for Young Ladies in this State, from which she has just graduated."

"Whoever she is, or whatever she is, or wherever she lives now, when I knew her she was Sal's Kid, and lived in Rat Alley, New York. And she knew me as Galley Vick, the ship cook's boy."

"Hartman, you have certainly 'got a bee in your bonnet!'"

"We shall see. She almost recognized me to-night. She will quite know me soon," answered Victor, as they turned their steps toward their hotel.



CHAPTER XIX.

VICTOR AND ELECTRA.

Heaven has to all allotted, soon or late, Some lucky revolution of their fate; Whose motions, if we watch and guide with skill— For human good depends on human will— Our fortune rolls as from a smooth descent, And from a first impression takes its bent; But if unseized, she glides away like wind, And leaves repenting folly far behind, Now, now she meets you with a glorious prize, And spreads her locks before her as she flies. —DRYDEN.

The next morning at the appointed hour the Rev. Mr. Lyle and Victor Hartman left their hotel together and went to Mrs. Wheatfield's, to escort the ladies to the University, where Dr. Jones and Alden Lytton were to meet them and introduce them to the president. The two gentlemen found the young ladies already dressed and waiting.

Miss Cavendish explained that her aunt did not care about seeing more of the University than she had already seen, and preferred to remain in the house with the bishop's widow and rest that day.

And so, under the circumstances, they—Miss Cavendish and her young friends—had decided not to have a carriage, but to take advantage of the fine morning and walk the short mile that lay between the village and its great seat of learning.

Nothing could have pleased their escorts better than this plan.

And soon they—the party of five—set out upon the pleasant country road that led out to the University.

Emma Cavendish and Laura Lytton led the way, and by Laura's side walked the Rev. Mr. Lyle. Electra dropped a little behind, and was attended by Victor Hartman.

They talked of the fine morning and of the beautiful country, of the grand Commencement of the preceding day and of the University they were going to see; but they talked in an absent-minded manner, as if, indeed, they were both thinking of something else.

This lasted until they were half-way to the place, when at length Electra turned suddenly upon Victor and said:

"Do you know, Mr. Brent, that your face seems a very familiar one to me?"

"Indeed!" said Victor, bending his head nearer to her.

"Yes, indeed! Your face struck me as being familiar the first moment I saw you, and this impression has grown deeper every moment we have been walking together; and now I know of whom you remind me," answered Electra; and then she paused and looked at him.

He made no remark.

"You do not care to know who that was, it seems," she said.

"Oh, yes, I do, I assure you, Miss Coroni, if you please to tell me!"

"Then you remind me of a poor lad whom I once knew and liked very much in New York, when I was as poor as himself," said Electra, meaningly.

"It is very kind of you to remember the poor lad after so many years and so many changes," replied Victor.

"I wonder if that poor lad ever thinks of me, 'after so many years and so many changes?'" murmured Electra, musingly.

"I don't know. Tell me his name, and then perhaps I can answer your question. I have roamed around the world a good deal and seen a great many different sorts of people. Who knows but I may have met your poor lad? Let us have his name," said Victor, gravely.

They were both, to use a household phrase, "beating about the bush."

"Oh, he was too poor to own a name! But he was cook's boy on board a merchantman, and they called him 'Galley Vick.' I never knew him by any other name. Did you ever see him at all?"

"Oh, yes, I've seen him! A good-for-nothing little vagabond he was! No, I don't suppose he ever dares to think about such a fine young lady as you are. But he cherishes the memory of a poor little girl he once knew in Rat Alley, New York. And only the day before yesterday, when I happened to be with him, he was saying how much he would give to know what had become of that poor little girl."

"Yes, it was very nice of him to remember her," said Electra, musingly.

"You say that you knew the poor lad in New York. Perhaps, as they were so much together, you may have known the poor little girl also?" said Victor.

"I can not tell you unless you give me her name. There were so many poor little girls in New York," answered Electra, shaking her head.

"She, like the boy, was too poor then to own a name. They called her 'Sal's Kid.' I never knew her by any other name," answered Victor.

And then their eyes met, and both laughed and impulsively put out their hands, which were then clasped together.

"I knew you at the very first sight, Vick," said Electra, giving full way to her feelings of pleasure in meeting her old playmate again.

"And so did I you. Heaven bless you, child! I am so happy and thankful to find you here, so healthy and prosperous. You were a sickly, poor little thing when I knew you," said Victor, with much emotion.

"I was a famished poor little thing, you mean, food has made all the difference, Victor," laughed Electra.

"My name is Joseph Brent, my dear," said Hartman, who almost trembled to hear the old name spoken.

"Ah, but Sal's Kid knew you only as Galley Vick. I thought Vick was the short for Victor. But it seems you really had a name all the time as well as I had, though neither of us suspected we possessed such an appendage."

Hartman bowed in silence.

"And now I suppose you would like to know how it happens that you find poor little ragged, famished, sickly Sal's Kid, who used to live in Rat Alley among thieves and tramps, here—well lodged, well dressed and in good company?"

"Yes, I really would."

"Well, it was 'all along of' a grandfather."

"A grandfather!"

"Yes, a grandfather. I really had a grandfather! And I have him still. And you have seen him, and his name is Dr. Beresford Jones. And, moreover, I had a great-grandfather back of him; and also forefathers behind them, and ancestors extending away back to antiquity. In fact, I think they ran away back to Adam!"

"I dare say they did," answered Victor, with a smile; "but tell me about that grandfather."

"Well, you must know that he was wealthy. He owned Beresford Manors. He had one child, 'sole daughter of the house.' She married a poor young Italian music-master against her father's will. Her father cast her off. Her husband took her to New York, where they fell by degrees into the deepest destitution. They both died of cholera, leaving me to the care of the miserable beings who were their fellow-lodgers in the old tenement house. I believe I was passed from the hands of one beggar to those of another, until my identity was lost and my real name forgotten. But I do not clearly remember any of my owners except Sal. And I was called 'Sal's Kid.'"

"It was then I knew you," said Victor.

"So it was. Well, you know all about that period. It was soon after you went to sea that Sal's husband, being mad with drink and jealousy, struck his wife a fatal blow and killed her."

"Horrible!"

"Yes, horrible! I have heard since that the man died of mania-a-potu in the Tombs, before his trial came on."

"And you?"

"I was taken by the Commissioners of Charity and put into the Orphan Asylum at Randall's Island."

"And how did your grandfather ever find you there, where your very name was lost?"

"You may well ask that. My name was lost. I suppose, hearing me called Sal's Kid, they mistook that for Sal Kidd. Any way they registered my name on the books of the Island as Sarah Kidd."

Victor laughed at this piece of ingenuity on the part of the authorities, and again expressed wonder as to how her grandfather ever found her.

"If I were a heathen, I should say he found me by chance. It looked like it. You see, he had met with misfortunes. His wife—my grandmother—died. And he was growing old, and his home was lonely and his life was dreary. And so he relented toward his poor daughter, and even toward her husband."

"But too late!" put in Victor.

"Yes; too late. He relented too late," sighed Electra. "He went to New York, where they had been living when he had last heard of them, and after making the most diligent inquiries he only learned that they had been dead several years, and had left an orphan girl in great destitution. Well, he advertised for the child, offering large rewards for her discovery."

"But in vain, I suppose?" said Victor.

"Ah, yes, in vain, for I was at Randall's Island, registered under another name."

"The case seemed hopeless," said Victor.

"Entirely hopeless. And then, partly from his disappointment and partly from seeing so much of suffering among children, he became a sort of city missionary. It was in his character of missionary that he went one day to an examination of the pupils of the girls' school on Randall's Island. There he saw me, and recognized me by my striking likeness to my mother. Indeed he has since told me that I am a counterpart of what my mother was at my age."

"And your face is such a very peculiar and, I may say, unique face, that the likeness could not have been accidental, I suppose," observed Victor.

"That is what he thought. Well, without saying a word to me then of his recognition, he commenced with the slight clew that he had in his hands and pursued investigations that in a few days proved me to be the child of Sebastian and Electra Coroni. Then he came to the Island and took me away, and put me to school at Mount Ascension. There I made the acquaintance of the young lady friend that I am now staying with. Miss Cavendish is my cousin. Last month I graduated from Mount Ascension. And on the first of next month I am going to Beresford Manors, to commence my new life there as my grandfather's housekeeper. And, Victor—I beg your pardon!—Mr. Brent, I hope that you will come and visit us there," concluded Electra, with a smile.

"But how would your grandfather, Dr. Beresford Jones of Beresford Manors, take a visit from a poor adventurer like me?" inquired Victor.

"He will take it very kindly; for he also will ask you to come," said Electra.

Victor bowed and walked on in silence.

Electra spoke again:

"I have told you without reserve how it was that I was so suddenly raised from extreme poverty to wealth, and now—"

She paused and looked at her companion.

"And now you want to know how I came by my fortune?" smilingly inquired Victor.

"Yes, of course I do," answered Electra.

"The explanation is short and simple enough. I became suddenly rich, as some few other poor vagabonds have, by a fortunate stroke of the pick—by a California gold mine," quietly answered Victor.

"Oh!" exclaimed Electra.

And she stopped and put him away from her a step, and stood and stared at him.

Victor laughed. And then they went on, for their companions were at the gates of the University, waiting for them to come along.

They entered the beautiful grounds occupied by the extensive buildings of the University, and where several of the professors, as well as a few of the students who had not yet left for the vacation, were taking their morning walks.

The visitors were soon met by Dr. Jones and Alden Lytton, who came up together to welcome them.

After the usual greetings, Alden introduced his party to several of the professors, who received them with great courtesy, and attended them through the various buildings, pointing out to them the most notable objects of interest, and entertaining them with the history, statistics and anecdotes of the institution.

They were taken into the various libraries, where they saw collected vast numbers of the most valuable books, among which were a few very unique black letter and illuminated volumes of great antiquity.

They were then led into the several halls, where were collected costly astronomical and chemical apparatus.

And finally they visited the museum, filled with cabinets of minerals, shells, woods, fossils, and so forth.

And after an interesting but very fatiguing tour of inspection, that occupied four hours, they were invited to rest in the house of one of the professors, where they were refreshed with a dainty lunch, after which they returned to the village.

And the evening was spent socially in Mrs. Wheatfield's drawing-room.



CHAPTER XX.

A SURPRISE.

In the course of that evening they were surprised by a visit. It was from Mr. Craven Kyte, who came to call on Miss Cavendish.

He was invited into the drawing-room and introduced to the whole party.

Mr. Kyte was in the deepest state of despondency.

He told Miss Emma that a few days previous he had received a letter from Mrs. Grey, saying that she was about to leave Charlottesville for a little while, in order to give up her rooms to Miss Cavendish and her party, and that she did not know exactly where she should go, but that she would write and tell him as soon as she should get settled.

"And since that, Miss Emma, I have not heard one word from her, nor do I know where she is, or how she is, or how to find out," concluded Mr. Kyte, in the most dejected tone.

"How long has it been, Mr. Kyte?" inquired Miss Cavendish.

"Five days," answered the young man, as solemnly as if he had said five years.

"That is but a short time. I do not think you have cause to be anxious yet awhile," said Emma, with a smile.

"But you haven't heard from her yourself even, have you, Miss Emma?" he anxiously inquired.

"Certainly not, else I should have told you at once," replied Miss Cavendish.

"For mercy's sake, you never came all the way from Wendover to Charlottesville to ask that question, did you, Mr. Kyte?" inquired irrepressible Electra, elevating her eye-brows.

The lover, who had so unconsciously betrayed himself, blushed violently and stammered forth:

"No—not entirely. The fact is, for more than a year past I have been watching and waiting for an opportunity to change my business from Wendover to Charlottesville. And I came up partly about that also. But as a—a friend of Mrs. Grey, I do feel anxious about her mysterious absence and silence."

"I assure you, Mr. Kyte, that Mrs. Grey is quite capable of taking excellent care of herself," added plain-spoken Laura Lytton.

"Come, Mr. Kyte, cheer up! We are going on a pilgrimage to Monticello to-morrow and you must join our party," said Miss Cavendish, kindly.

But Mr. Kyte excused himself, saying that he could not leave his business long, and must start for Wendover the next morning.

And soon after this he took leave.

The next day was devoted by our party to a pious pilgrimage to the shrine of classic Monticello, once the seat, now the monument of Thomas Jefferson.

The whole party, young and old, gentlemen and ladies, went.

The bishop's widow forgot her housekeeping cares and took a holiday for that day.

And even Mrs. Fanning, who did not care to see the great University, could not miss the opportunity of a pilgrimage to that mecca.

The party was a large one, consisting of five ladies and four gentlemen.

And so it required two capacious carriages and two saddle horses to convey them.

They formed quite a little procession in leaving the village.

In the first carriage rode Mrs. Fanning, Emma Cavendish, Electra and Dr. Jones.

In the second carriage rode Mrs. Wheatfield, Laura Lytton and Mr. Lyle.

Alden Lytton and Victor Hartman rode on horseback, and brought up the rear.

Their way lay through the most sublime and beautiful mountain and valley scenery.

Monticello is built upon a mountain, some three miles south of the village.

Perhaps there is no private dwelling in the whole country occupying a more elevated site, or commanding a more magnificent panorama of landscape, than Monticello.

It is a fine country house of great architectural beauty and strength, built upon a lofty and slightly inclined plain, formed by grading the top of the mountain.

It commands a stupendous prospect, bounded only by the spherical form of the earth. And standing there, with the earth beneath and the heavens all around, one fully realizes that we live upon a great planet rolling in its orbit through immense space.

Our party spent a long summer's day up there in the sunshine, and then, after eating the luncheon they had brought with them, they set out on their return to the village, where they arrived in time for one of Mrs. Wheatfield's delicious early teas.

The remaining days of the week were passed in walking, riding or driving to the most interesting points of the neighborhood.

On Saturday morning they took leave of the bishop's widow and set out for Richmond, en route for Wendover and Blue Cliffs.

They reached the city late on the same night, and took up their old quarters at the Henrico House.

They staid over the Sabbath, and went to hear Mr. Lyle preach, morning and evening, to his old congregation.

On Monday morning the whole party resumed their journey, and arrived at Wendover early in the afternoon of the same day.

There the party were destined to divide.

There were carriages from Blue Cliffs waiting by appointment at the railway station to meet Miss Cavendish and her friends; and there was the hack from the Reindeer Hotel for the accommodation of any other travelers who might require it.

Mrs. Fanning, Emma Cavendish, Laura Lytton and Electra, attended by Dr. Jones and Alden Lytton, entered their carriages to go to Blue Cliff Hall.

Mr. Lyle and Victor Hartman took leave of them at their carriage doors, saw the horses start, and then set out to walk together to the bachelor home of Mr. Lyle, where Hartman was to be a guest.



CHAPTER XXI.

AT THE PARSONAGE.

Mr. Lyle lived in a pretty white cottage, covered nearly to the roof with fragrant creeping vines, and standing in the midst of a beautiful flower-garden.

Here he lived his bachelor life quite alone but for the occasional sight of the old negro couple that were waiting on him—Aunt Nancy, who did all his housework, and Uncle Ned, who worked in the garden.

He found the faithful old couple prepared to receive him and his guest.

A tempting repast, combining the attractions of dinner and tea, was ready to be placed upon the table just as soon as the gentlemen should have made their toilets after their long journey.

Mr. Lyle led his guest into a fresh, pretty room, with white muslin curtains at the vine-clad windows and a white dimity spread on the bed, and white flower enameled cottage furniture completing the appointments.

"This is a room for a pretty girl rather than for a grim miner," said Victor Hartman, looking admiringly around the little apartment.

"I call it the 'Chamber of Peace,' and that is why I put you in it," said Mr. Lyle.

After they had washed and dressed they went down together to the cozy little dining-room, where they did such justice to the tea-dinner as made Aunt Nancy's heart crow for joy.

And when that was over they went into the snug little parlor and sat down to talk over their plans.

It was then that Mr. Lyle informed Victor Hartman that he was doing all the work of the parish during Dr. Goodwin's hopeless indisposition, and that he had been doing it for the last twelve months.

"You will succeed him here as rector, I presume?" said Victor.

"I presume so; but I do not like to speak of that," gravely replied Mr. Lyle.

"No, of course you do not. And I really beg your pardon. I should not have spoken myself, only in my girl's interests. You see, I felt a little curious and anxious to know where her future life would be likely to be passed, and I thought it would be a much happier life if passed here, near her dear friend Miss Cavendish, that's all," explained Victor.

"You seem to consider that quite a settled matter," replied Mr. Lyle, a little incoherently, and blushing like a maiden.

"Yes, of course I consider it all quite settled! You, in your earnestness, can not conceal your liking for my girl, and she, in her innocent frankness, does not even try to conceal hers from you. And I heartily approve the match and am ready to dower the bride," said Victor.

"But I have not ventured to speak to her yet," stammered Mr. Lyle.

"Then you may do so just as soon as you please," answered Victor.

"And now about Alden," said Mr. Lyle, by way of changing the conversation.

"Yes, now about Alden. He does not suspect that I am his banker, I hope?"

"No, indeed! I paid him over the munificent sum you intrusted to me for him. He feels—well, I may say painfully grateful, and is confident that he must some time repay you, with interest and compound interest."

"Yes, my boy will certainly repay me, but not in the way he thinks," observed Victor, gravely.

"After a week's visiting with his sister at Blue Cliffs, he will go up to Richmond and select a site for his office and purchase his law library, though I think he will have to go to Philadelphia to do that."

"Yes, I suppose he will," admitted Hartman.

"What are your own plans about yourself, Victor, if I may be allowed to ask?" inquired the minister.

"Well, I haven't any. I came on here to see my boy and girl, and settle them in life as well as I can. I shall stay till I do that anyway. After that I don't know what I shall do. I do not care about going back to California. My business there is in the hands of a capable and trustworthy agent. And somehow I like the old mother State; and now that you lead me to think about it, perhaps I shall spend the rest of my life here; but, as I said before, I don't know."

"By the way, dear Victor, you spoke to me with much simple frankness of my most private personal affairs. May I take the same liberty with you?" inquired Mr. Lyle, very seriously.

"Why, of course you may, if you call it a liberty, which I don't, you know!" answered Victor, with a smile.

"Then, my dear Hartman, how about Miss Electra? I was not so absorbed in my own interests as not to have an eye to yours."

"Ah, Miss Electra! Well, parson, she was my little old acquaintance of Rat Alley, when I flourished in that fragrant neighborhood as Galley Vick."

"No!" exclaimed Mr. Lyle, opening his eyes wide with astonishment.

"Yes," quietly answered Victor Hartman. "And it is a wonder that you, who know the family so well, do not know this episode in its history."

"How was I to know, my friend, when no one ever told me? I suppose that few or none but the family know anything about it."

"I suppose you are right," said Victor. "Well, you see, she recognized me, as surely as I did her, at first sight. We had an explanation as we walked out to the University that day."

"But how came the granddaughter of Dr. Beresford Jones ever to have had such a miserable childhood?"

"Well, you see, there was a disobedient daughter, a runaway marriage, a profligate husband, and the consequences—poverty, destitution, early death, and an orphan child left among beggars and thieves! Her grandfather found her at last and took her under his guardianship. That is the whole story in brief."

"Well, well, well!" mused Mr. Lyle, with his head on his breast; then, raising it, he went back to the previous question: "But what about Miss Electra?"

"I have just told you about her," replied Victor.

"Oh, yes, I know! You have told me something about her, but you haven't told me all. Take me into your confidence, Victor."

"What do you mean?" inquired Hartman, in some embarrassment.

"Why, that you and your little old acquaintance seem to be very fond of each other."

Victor laughed in an embarrassed manner, and then said: "Do you know that when we were in Rat Alley, and she was a tiny child and I was a lad, there was a promise of marriage between us?"

"That was funny too! Well, what about it?"

"Nothing. Only, if I dared, I would, some day, remind her of it."

"Do, Victor! Believe me, she will not affect to have forgotten it," said Mr. Lyle, earnestly.

"Ah, but when I think of all I have passed through I dare not ask a beautiful and happy girl to unite her bright life with my blackened one! I dare not," said Hartman, very sadly.

"Nonsense, Victor! You are morbid on that subject. Yours is a nobly redeemed life," said Mr. Lyle, solemnly.

"But—my past!" sighed Victor.

"She had a dark past too poor child! But no more of that. In both your cases

"'Let the dead past bury its dead! Live—live in the living present, Heart within and God o'erhead!'

And now it is time to retire, dear Victor. We keep early hours here," said Mr. Lyle, as he reached down the Bible from its shelf, preparatory to commencing evening service.

Then they read the Word together, and offered up their prayers and thanksgivings together, and retired, strengthened.

This week, to which Alden Lytton's holiday visit to Blue Cliffs was limited, was passed by the young people in a succession of innocent entertainments.

First there was a garden-party and dance at Blue Cliff Hall, at which all the young friends and acquaintances of Miss Cavendish assisted, which the Rev. Dr. Jones and the Rev. Mr. Lyle endorsed by their presence, and in which even Victor Hartman forgot, for the time being, his own dark antecedents.

Next Mr. Lyle himself opened his bachelor heart and bachelor home to the young folks by giving them a tea-party, which delighted the hearts of Aunt Nancy and Uncle Ned, who both declared that this looked something like life.

But the third and greatest event of the week took place on Friday evening, when Dr. Beresford Jones gave a great house-warming party, on the occasion of his carrying home his granddaughter and sole heiress, Electra Coroni.

Not only all our own young friends, including the reverend clergy and the California miner, but all the neighborhood and all the county were there.

And they kept up the festivities all day and well into the night.

Emma Cavendish and Laura Lytton remained with Electra for a few days only, for Alden Lytton was to leave the neighborhood for Richmond on the Monday morning following the party at Beresford Manors.

And during all this time no word was heard of Mary Grey.

That baleful woman had heard all that had passed at Charlottesville and at Wendover, and her vain and jealous spirit was filled with such mortification and rage that she was now hiding herself and deeply plotting the ruin of those who had been her best friends and benefactors.



CHAPTER XXII.

MORE MANEUVERS OF MRS. GREY.

She, under fair pretense of saintly ends, And well-placed words of sweetest courtesy Baited with reason, not unplausible, Glides into the easy hearts of men, And draws them into snares. —MILTON'S Comus.

When Mary Grey reached Richmond she went first to a quiet family hotel, where she engaged a room for a few days.

Then she took a carriage and drove to the rectory of old St. John's Church and presented her letter to the rector.

The reverend gentleman received her very kindly and cordially, and glanced over her letter, saying, as he returned it to her:

"But this was not at all necessary, my dear madam. I remember you perfectly, as a regular attendant and communicant of this church, while you were on a visit to the family of the late lamented Governor of this State."

"Yes, sir; but then I was only a visitor at the church, just as I was a guest at the Government House. Now I wish to be a member of the church, as I intend to become a permanent resident of the city," Mary Grey explained, with her charming smile.

The pastor expressed himself highly gratified, and added:

"Your large circle of friends, that you won during your long visit here two or three years ago, will be delighted to hear of this."

Mary Grey bowed gracefully and said:

"The pleasure, she believed, would, like the advantage, be mostly on her own side."

Then she inquired of the rector—with an apology for troubling him with her own humble affairs—whether he could recommend her to any private boarding-house among the members of his own church, where the family were really earnest Christians.

The rector could not think of any suitable place just then, but he begged to have the pleasure of introducing Mrs. Grey to his wife, who, he said, would most likely be able to advise her.

And he rang the bell and sent a message to Mrs. ——, who presently entered the study.

The introduction took place, and the rector's wife received the visitor as cordially as the rector had.

She knew of no boarding-house of the description required by Mrs. Grey, but she promised to inquire among her friends and let that lady know the result.

Soon after this Mrs. Grey took leave.

Many of her former friends were, at this season of the year, out of town, as she felt sure; but some among them would probably be at home.

So, before she returned to her hotel, she made a round of calls, and left her cards at about a dozen different houses.

She then went back to her room at the hotel and spent the remainder of the day in unpacking and reviewing her elegant wardrobe.

There was no sort of necessity for doing this, especially as she intended to remain but a few days at the house; and the operation would only give her the trouble of repacking again to move.

But Mary Grey never read or wrote or sewed or embroidered if she could avoid it, and had nothing on earth else to occupy or amuse her; so her passion for dress had to be gratified with the sight of jewels, shawls and mantles, laces, silks and satins, even though she durst not wear them.

Next day the rector's wife called on her and recommended a very superior boarding-house to her consideration.

It was a private boarding-house, in a fashionable part of the town, kept by two maiden ladies of the most aristocratic family connections and of the highest church principles.

This was exactly the home for Mrs. Grey.

And the rector's wife kindly offered to take her, then and there, in the rectory carriage, to visit "the Misses Crane," the maiden ladies in question.

"The Misses Crane," as they were called, dwelt in a handsomely-furnished, old-fashioned double house, standing in its own grounds, not very far from the Government House.

The Misses Crane were two very tall, very thin and very fair ladies, with pale blue eyes and long, yellow, corkscrew curls each side of their wasted cheeks.

They were dressed very finely in light checked summer silks, and flowing sleeves and surplice waists, with chemisettes and undersleeves of linen cambric and thread lace.

They were very poor for ladies of their birth. They had nothing in the world but their handsome house, furniture and wardrobe.

They depended entirely upon their boarders for their bread; yet their manners were a mixture of loftiness and condescension that had the effect of making their guests believe that they—the guests—were highly honored in being permitted to board at the Misses Cranes'.

But if not highly honored they were certainly much favored, for the Misses Crane kept neat and even elegant rooms, dainty beds and an excellent table.

Presented by the rector's lady, Mrs. Grey was received by the Misses Crane with a lofty politeness which overawed even her false pretensions.

Presently the rector's lady, leaving Mrs. Grey to be entertained by Miss Romania Crane, took the elder Miss Crane aside and explained to her the nature of their business call.

"I think she is just the kind of boarder that will suit you, as your house is just the kind of home needed by her," added the lady.

Miss Crane bowed stiffly and in silence.

"She is, like yourself, of an old aristocratic family, and of very high-church principles; and she has, besides, an ample income, much of which she spends for benevolent purposes," continued Mrs. ——.

Miss Crane bowed and smiled a ghastly smile, revealing her full set of false teeth.

"She is, I should tell you, also entitled to all our sympathy. She has suffered a great disappointment in her affections. She was engaged to be married to the late lamented Governor of the State, when, as you know, he was suddenly struck down with apoplexy, and died a few days before the day appointed for the wedding."

"Oh, indeed!" breathed Miss Crane, in a low, eager voice, losing all her stiffness and turning to glance at the interesting widowed bride elect.

"Yes. And you will find her a most interesting young person—devoted to good works, one of the excellent of the earth. When she was here, two or three years ago—in the same season that she was engaged to our honored and lamented Governor—she was quite famous for her charities."

"Oh, indeed!" again aspirated Miss Crane, glancing at Mrs. Grey.

"I am sure that you will be mutually pleased with each other, and, as she has declared her intention to make Richmond her permanent residence, I should not wonder if she also should make your pleasant house her permanent home," added the lady.

"Much honored, I'm sure," said Miss Crane, with a mixture of hauteur and complacency that was as perplexing as it was amusing.

"And now, if you please, we will rejoin your sister and Mrs. Grey," said the rector's lady, rising and leading the way to the front windows, near which the other two ladies were sitting.

The end of all this was that the Misses Crane engaged to take Mrs. Grey as a permanent boarder, only asking a few days to prepare the first floor front for her occupation.

No arrangement could have pleased Mary Grey better than this, for she wished to remain at the hotel a few days longer to receive the calls of her old friends, who would naturally expect to find her there, as she had given that address on the cards that she had left for them.

So it was finally arranged that Mrs. Grey should remove from the hotel to the Misses Cranes' on the Monday of the next week.

Then the two took leave, and the rector's lady drove the widow back to her hotel and left her there.

The next day Mrs. Grey had the gratification of hearing from the cards she had left at the different houses of her old acquaintances. Several ladies called on her and welcomed her to the city with much warmth.

And on the Saturday of that week she had a surprise.

The Rector of St. John's paid her a morning visit, bringing a letter with the Charlottesville postmark.

"It came this morning, my dear madam. It was inclosed in a letter to me from Mrs. Wheatfield, the esteemed widow of my late lamented friend, Bishop Wheatfield," said the rector, as he placed the letter in her hand.

She thanked the reverend gentleman, and held the letter unopened, wondering how Mrs. Wheatfield could have found out that she was in Richmond.

When the rector had taken his leave, she opened her letter and read:

"CHARLOTTESVILLE, July 15, 18—.

"MY DEAREST MARY:—We have not heard a word from you since you left us.

"All your friends here suffer the deepest anxiety on your account, fearing that you may be ill among strangers.

"Only on Sunday last, when I happened to speak to our minister, after the morning service, I got a slight clew to you; for he told me that you had asked him for a church letter to the Rector of St. John's Parish in Richmond.

"That information gives me the opportunity of writing to you, with some prospect of having my letter reach you, for I can inclose it to the Rector of St. John's, who will probably by this time know your address.

"And now, having explained how it is that I am enabled to write to you, I must tell you the news.

"The great nuisance of the Commencement is abated. It is all over; the students, the visitors and the vagrants have nearly all gone, and the town is empty and—peaceful.

"One set of visitors I lamented to lose. They went on Saturday.

"I mean, of course, your friends from Blue Cliffs. They were all charming.

"I was very much interested in Miss Cavendish.

"And now, my dear child, although I am no gossip and no meddler, as you are well aware, I really must tell you what I would not tell to any other living being, and which I tell you only because I know you to be perfectly discreet, and also deeply interested in the parties of whom I shall take the liberty of writing.

"There are three marriages in prospect, my dear. I see it quite plainly. Our young people are the frankest and most innocent of human beings. They have no disguises.

"Who are to be married? you ask me.

"I will tell you who, I think, will be married.

"First, Mr. Alden Lytton and Miss Emma Cavendish.

"Not a prudent marriage for her, because she is a minor, with an immense fortune. And he is a young lawyer, with not a dollar of his own and his way yet to make in the world.

"But what can we do about it?

"With one guardian in her dotage and the other at the antipodes Miss Cavendish is practically, if not legally, her own mistress.

"The only comfort is that the young man in question is rich in everything else, if not in money.

"Well, the second prospective marriage pleases me better. The Rev. Mr. Lyle, a worthy young clergyman, is devoted to Miss Laura Lytton.

"The third approaching nuptials interest me least of all, in any manner. A dark, brigandish-looking Californian, of almost fabulous wealth, who is the friend and guest of Mr. Lyle, has evidently fallen in love at first sight with pretty little sparkling Electra Coroni.

"They have all gone down to Wendover together, and the Lyttons are to make a long visit at Blue Cliffs.

"I must not forget to tell you that worthy young man, Mr. Kyte, has been here inquiring after you with much anxiety. He went back to Wendover a day or two before our young people left.

"Now, my dearest Mary, let me hear that you are well, and believe me ever your devoted friend,

"MARIA WHEATFIELD."



CHAPTER XXIII.

A DIABOLICAL PLOT.

Between the acting of a dreadful thing And the first motion, all the interim is Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream; The genius and the mortal instruments Are then in council; and the state of man, Like to a little kingdom, suffers then The nature of an insurrection. —SHAKESPEARE'S Julius Caesar.

No language can adequately describe the mortification and rage that filled the bosom of Mary Grey as she read the foregoing letter.

Two of her once ardent worshipers—handsome Alden Lytton and eloquent Stephen Lyle—had forsaken her shrine and were offering up their devotion to other divinities.

They had wounded her vanity to the very quick.

And to wound Mary Grey's vanity was to incur Mary Grey's deadly hatred.

She was always a very dangerous woman, and under such an exasperation she could become a very desperate enemy.

She had felt so sure that no woman, however young and lovely, could ever become her rival, or even her successor, in any man's affections. So sure, also, that no man, however wise and strong, could ever resist her fascinations or escape from her thraldom.

And now that charming illusion was rudely dispelled! She saw herself even contemptuously abandoned by her subjects, who transferred their allegiance to a couple of "bread-and-butter school-girls," as she sneeringly designated Emma Cavendish and Laura Lytton.

She was consumed with jealousy—not the jealousy born of love, which is like the thorn of the rose, a defence of the rose—but the jealousy born of self-love, which is like the thorn of the thorn-apple, a deadly poison.

She sat on one of her trunks, with her elbows on her knees and her clutched fists supporting her chin. Her lips were drawn back from her clinched teeth and her black eyes gleamed like fire from the deathly whiteness of her face.

And so she sat and brooded and brooded over her mortification, and studied and studied how she might pull down ruin upon the heads of those hated young people who were loving each other and enjoying life at the cost of her humiliation.

And of course the foul fiend very soon entered into her counsels and assisted her.

"I have one devoted slave—one willing instrument left yet," she muttered to herself: "he would pay any price—yes, the price of his soul—for my love! He shall pay my price down! He shall be the means of drawing destruction upon all their heads! Yes, Miss Cavendish, marry Alden Lytton, if you will, and afterward look honest men and women in the face if you can! Yes, Stephen Lyle, become the husband of Laura Lytton, and then hold up your head in the pulpit—if you dare! Ah, if my plot succeed! Ah, if my plot succeed, how terribly will I be avenged! And it shall succeed!" she hissed through her grinding teeth, with a grim hatred distorting her white features and transforming her beautiful face for an instant into demoniac hideousness.

She started up and commenced traversing the floor, as a furious tigress her den.

When she had raged herself into something like composure she opened her writing-case and wrote the following letter:

"RICHMOND, VA., Aug. —, 18—.

"TO CRAVEN KYTE, ESQ.

"Dear Friend:—My wanderings have come to a temporary end here in this city, where I expect to remain for some weeks, even if I do not conclude to make it my permanent residence.

"Shall I trouble you to do me a favor? Some time ago I left in the hands of the jeweler at Wendover a little pearl brooch, which I forgot to call for when I left, and have neglected to send for ever since.

"The brooch in itself is of small intrinsic value; but as it is an old family relic I should like to recover it. Will you, therefore, please go to the jeweler's and get it and send it to me in a registered letter by mail? and I shall be very much indebted to you. And if you should happen to come to this city during my stay here I hope you will call to see me; for I should be very glad to see any old friend from Wendover.

"Yours truly, M. GREY."

She immediately sealed this letter, rang for a waiter, and dispatched it to the post-office.

This letter had been written for but one purpose—to bring Craven Kyte immediately to Richmond, without seeming especially to invite him to come.

She always wrote her letters with an eye to the remote contingency of their being produced in court or read in public.

This letter to Craven Kyte was a sample of her non-committal style—it compromised no one.

When she had sent it off she began to pack up her effects, in preparation for their removal, on Monday morning, to the Misses Cranes'.

Even after that work was done she could not be still. Like an uneasy beast of prey, she must needs move to and fro.

So she put on her bonnet, called a carriage and drove out to the rectory to spend the evening.

But though she was received in the most friendly manner she could not enjoy the visit. She was absent and distracted during the whole evening.

She returned late to a restless bed. And then she got up and took laudanum to put her to sleep. And this was not the first time she had had to resort to the same dangerous narcotic.

No more rest for Mary Grey!

Remorse sometimes begins before the commission of a contemplated and determined crime; repentance never. That is one difference between the two.

On Sunday morning, to keep herself actively employed, as well as to win "golden opinions," Mrs. Grey dressed herself plainly, but very becomingly, and went early to the Sunday-school at old St. John's, to offer herself as a teacher.

She was soon appointed to the temporary charge of a class of little girls, whose regular teacher was then absent on a summer tour of the watering places.

Afterward she attended both morning and afternoon services, and went to a missionary meeting in the evening.

Still, after all the fatigues of the day, she was unable to sleep at night, and again she had recourse to the deadly drug.

On Monday morning she paid her week's bill at the hotel and removed to the Misses Cranes'.

She was received with lofty politeness by the two maiden ladies; and she was put in immediate possession of her apartment—a spacious chamber, with a balcony overhanging the front flower-garden.

She had scarcely finished unpacking her effects and transferring them from her trunks to the bureaus and wardrobes of the chamber, before a card was brought to her by the neat parlor-maid of the establishment.

The card bore the name of Mr. Craven Kyte.

"Where is the gentleman?" inquired Mrs. Grey.

"In the drawing-room, madam," answered the maid.

"Ask him to be so kind as to wait. I will be down directly," said Mrs. Grey.

The girl left the room to take her message, and Mrs. Grey began to change her dress, smiling strangely to herself as she did so.

She gave a last finishing touch to the curls of her glossy black hair, and a last lingering look at the mirror, and then she went down-stairs.

There, alone in the drawing-room, stood the one devoted lover and slave that she had left in the whole world.

He came down the room to meet her.

"You here! Oh, I'm so delighted to see you!" she said, in a low tone, full of feeling, as she went toward him, holding out both her hands.

He trembled from head to foot and turned pale and red by turns as he took them.

"I am so happy—You are so good to say so! I was almost afraid—I thought you might consider it a liberty—my coming," faltered the poor fellow, in sore confusion.

"A liberty? How could you possibly imagine I would consider your coming here a liberty on your part? Why, dearest friend, I consider it a favor from you, a pleasure for me! Why should you think otherwise?" inquired Mary Grey, with her most alluring smile.

"Oh, thanks—thanks! But it was your letter!"

"My letter? Sit down, Craven, dear, and compose yourself. Here, sit here," she said, seating herself on the sofa and signing for him to take the place by her side.

He dropped, trembling, flushing and paling, into the indicated seat.

"Now tell me what there was in my harmless letter to disturb you," she murmured, passing her soft fingers over his forehead and running them through the dark curls of his hair.

"Nothing that was meant to disturb me, I know. It was all kindness. You could not write to me, or to any one, otherwise than kindly," faltered the lover.

"Well, then?" inquired Mary Grey, in a pretty, reproachful tone.

"But I felt it was cold—cold!" sighed the young man.

"Why, you dearest of dears, one must be discreet in writing letters! Suppose my letter had expressed all my feelings toward you, and then had fallen into the hands of any one else? Such mistakes are made in the mails sometimes. How would you have liked it?" she inquired, patting his cheeks.

"I should have been wild. But it would only have been at the loss of your letter. As for me, Heaven knows, I should not mind if all the world knew how much I adore you. On the contrary, I should glory in it," added the lover.

"But a lady feels differently. She only lets her lover know how well she loves him; and not always does she even let him know," softly murmured the beautiful temptress, as she lightly caressed his raven curls. "And now tell me the news, dear Craven. How are all our friends at Blue Cliffs?" she archly inquired.

"I only want to tell you how much I adore you," whispered the lover, who was beginning to recover his composure.

"That would be a vain repetition, darling, especially as I know it all quite well," murmured Mary Grey, with a smile, and still passing her hand with mesmeric gentleness over his hair.

"Aye; but when will you make me completely happy?" sighed the poor fellow.

"Whew!" smiled Mary Grey, with a little bird-like whistle. "How fast we are getting on, to be sure! Why, a few minutes ago we were afraid that we were taking a liberty in coming here to call on our lady-love at all! And now we are pressing her to name the day! See here, you impatient boy, answer me this: When did I ever promise to 'make you happy' at all?" she inquired, in a bantering tone.

"But you gave me hopes—oh, do not say that you never gave me hopes!" he pleaded, turning red and pale and trembling from head to foot as before.

"Well, I don't say it; for I know I promised if ever I should marry living man I should marry you. I repeat that promise now, dear Craven," she added, gravely and tenderly.

"Ah, Heaven bless you for those blessed words! But when—when will you make me happy? Oh, if I possess your love, when—when shall I possess your hand?" he pleaded.

And then, as if suddenly ashamed of his own vehemence, he stopped in confusion.

"You have won my love, you petulant boy!" she answered, archly. Then, dropping her voice to its tenderest music, she murmured: "What would you do to win my hand?"

"Anything—anything under the sun!" he answered, wildly, and forgetting all his embarrassment. "Whatever man has done to win woman would I do to win you—more than ever man did to win woman would I do to win you! I would renounce my friends, betray my country, abjure my faith, lose my soul for you!"

"Words, words, words! You talk recklessly! You know you would not do the least one of these dreadful deeds for me," answered Mary Grey, laying her hand on his lips.

"Try me!"



CHAPTER XXIV.

THE PRICE OF A SOUL.

I love you, love you; for your love would lose State, station, heaven, mankind's, my own esteem. —BYRON.

He spoke these two words with such a desperate look, in such a desperate tone, that Mary Grey was half frightened; for she saw that he was in that fatal mood in which men have been driven to crime or death for the love of woman.

This was the mood to which she wished to bring him, and in which she wished to keep him until he should have done his work; and yet it half frightened her now.

"Hush—hush!" she murmured. "Be quiet! There are people in the next room. They may hear you. And I am sure they should do so they would take you for a lunatic."

"But—do you believe me? Do you believe that I would defy the universe in your service? Do you believe me? If not, try me!" he aspirated, vehemently.

"I do believe you. And some day I will try you. You have won my love; but he who wins my hand must first prove his love for me in a way that will leave no doubt upon the fact."

"Then I am safe, for I am sure to prove it," he said, with a sigh of intense relief.

She looked at him again, and knew that he spoke as he felt. Yes, for her sake he would "march to death as to a festival."

"Now, then, will you be good and quiet and tell me news of my old neighbors at Wendover and Blue Cliffs?" she archly inquired.

"I do not think I can. I wish to sit here and look at you and think only of you. It would be a painful wrench to tear away my thoughts from you and employ them upon anything else. Let me sit here in my heaven!" he pleaded.

"Yes, love; but remember I am very anxious to know something about my dear friends, whom I have not heard from for a month. Can not you gratify me?" coaxed Mary Grey.

"I can not fix my mind upon them long enough to remember anything. You absorb it all," he answered, dreamily gazing upon her.

"But if I ask you questions surely you can answer them," said Mary Grey, who, though very anxious for information later than that afforded by Mrs. Wheatfield's letter, was not ill-pleased at the devotion which baffled her curiosity.

"Yes, I will answer any question you ask. That will not be so much of a wrench," he said.

"Then how is my dear friend, Emma Cavendish?" inquired the traitress.

"Well and happy, at Blue Cliffs," answered the lover.

"Is it true, as I hear, that she is to marry—" Mary Grey hesitated for a moment before her choking voice could pronounce his name—"Mr. Alden Lytton?"

"Yes, I believe so. Everybody says so."

"When?"

"As soon as he gets established in his profession, I suppose."

"Tell me about him."

"Well, he is coming here on the first of the month to find an office and fit it up. And then he is going on to Philadelphia to select books for a law library."

"Ah, he is coming here and he is going on to Philadelphia. Yes, yes, yes, yes! That will do," murmured Mary Grey, to herself.

"What did you say?" inquired Craven Kyte.

"I said that it was a good plan; but it will take money," answered Mrs. Grey.

"Yes, that it will. And he has got it. That mysterious guardian of his has sent him ten thousand dollars to begin with."

"A round sum! When did you say he was coming here?"

"On the first of next month; or, perhaps, before the end of this month."

"Good! Very good!"

"Good for what?" innocently inquired Craven Kyte.

"Good for his professional prospects, of course! The sooner he begins the better, isn't it?"

"Oh, yes; certainly!"

"And when does he go to Philadelphia?"

"Just as soon as he has selected his law office and set painters and glaziers and paper-hangers and upholsterers and such to fit it up. For no expense is to be spared, and the young lawyer is to set up in style. For such is the wish of his guardian."

"You know this?"

"Yes, I know it. One knows everything that anybody else knows in a small village like Wendover."

"You do not know when Mr. Lytton and Miss Cavendish are to be married?"

"No, because I do not think they know themselves. But the people say it will be as soon as the young gentleman gets settled in his practice."

"Good again! The delay is favorable," muttered Mary Grey to herself.

"What did you say?" again inquired the ingenuous young man.

"I say the delay is wise, of course."

"Oh, yes; certainly!" assented Mr. Kyte.

"And now tell me about the others," said Mrs. Grey.

But her lover took her hand and gazed into her face, murmuring:

"Oh, my love, my life, let me sit here and hold your thrilling little hand and gaze into your beautiful eyes, and think only of you for a moment!"

She put her hand around his head and drew it toward her and pressed a kiss upon his forehead, and then said:

"There! Now you will go on for me, will you not?"

"I would die for you!" he earnestly exclaimed.

"I would rather you would live for me, you mad boy!" she answered, smiling archly.

"I will do anything for you."

"Then answer my questions. Is it also true that Mr. Lyle and Miss Lytton are to be married?"

"Oh, yes! That is certain. Their engagement is announced. There is no secret about that."

"When are they to be married?"

"Well, there is a slight obstacle to their immediate union."

"What is that?"

"An old school-girl compact between Miss Cavendish and Miss Lytton, in which they promised each other that they would both be married on the same day or never at all."

"A very silly, girlish compact."

"Very."

"Why do they not break it by mutual consent?"

"Because mutual consent can not be had. Miss Cavendish indeed offers to release Miss Lytton from her promise; but Miss Lytton refuses to be released. And although her clerical lover presses her to name an earlier day, she will name no other than the day upon which Miss Cavendish also weds, be that day sooner or later."

"So it is settled that they will be married upon the same day?"

"Quite settled."

"How do you know?"

"Everything is known in a little country town like Wendover, as I said before."

"They will be married the same day. Better and better. If I had arranged it all myself it could not be better for my plans," muttered Mary Grey to herself.

"What did you say?" inquired Craven Kyte.

"I say I think, upon the whole, the arrangement is a good one."

"Oh, yes; certainly!" admitted the young man.

"Where are you stopping, Craven?" softly inquired Mrs. Grey.

"Oh, at the same hotel from which you dated your letter! I thought you were there, and so I went directly there from the cars. When I inquired for you—I hope you will pardon my indiscretion in inquiring for you," he said, breaking off from his discourse.

"Oh, yes, I will pardon it! But it was a very great indiscretion, you thoughtless boy, for a handsome youth like you to be inquiring for a young widow like me at a public hotel. Now go on with what you were talking about."

"Well, when I inquired for you they told me you had left this very morning, and they gave me your present address."

"That was the way in which you found me?"

"That was the way I found you. But, before starting to come here, I engaged my room at that hotel; for, after it had been blessed by your dear presence, it had quite a home-like feeling to me," said the lover, fervently.

"How long do you stay in the city, Craven, dear?" sweetly inquired the siren.

His face clouded over.

"I must return to-morrow," he said. "It was the only condition upon which our principal would consent to my leaving yesterday. He is going North to purchase his fall and winter goods, you see, and wants me to be there."

"How long will he be absent?"

"He says only four days, at the longest."

"And when does he go?"

"By the next train following my return."

"Then he will be back again at his post by Saturday evening?"

"Yes; in fact, he intends to be back by the end of the week, and that is the very reason why he is so anxious to get away to-morrow night."

"Craven, dear, when your senior partner gets back do you think you will be able to return here for a few days?"

"Do you really wish me to come back so soon?" exclaimed the lover, his face flushing all over with pleasure.

"Yes; but don't cry out so loud—that's a dear! I repeat, there are people in the next room. But you have not yet answered my question."

"Oh, yes, I can return here as soon as my partner gets back! He promised that I should take a week's holiday then. So, if he gets back on Saturday evening, expect to see me here on Sunday morning, in time to wait on you to church."

"Stop; not so fast, my dear! You can take your week's holiday at any time, I suppose?"

"At any time this month or next."

"Very well. Now, dear boy, I want you to promise me two or three things."

"I will promise you anything in the world you wish."

"Then listen. Every time I write to you I will inclose within my letter another letter, sealed and directed to me, which you must stamp and post at the Wendover post-office. Will you do that for me?"

While she spoke the young man gazed at her in unqualified amazement.

"Will you do that for me?" she repeated.

"I solemnly promise to do that for you, although I am all in the dark as to what you would be at," earnestly answered Craven Kyte.

"I thank you, dearest dear," cooed the siren, caressing him tenderly.

"I would do anything in the world for you," he answered fervently. "I would die for you or live for you!"

"Well, secondly, I want you, when you go back, to keep an eye on Mr. Alden Lytton. Find out, if possible, the day that he comes to this city. And precede him here yourself by one train. Or, if that is not possible, if you can not find out beforehand the day that he is to come, at least you can certainly know when he actually does start, for every passenger from Wendover is noticed. And then follow him by the next train, and come directly from the depot to me, before going to a hotel or showing yourself at any other place. Will you do that for me?"

"I promise, on my sacred word and honor, that I will, although I have not the slightest idea why you wish me to do this," said Craven.

"You are a true knight, worthy of any lady's love! Well, thirdly, and lastly, as the preachers say, I wish you to promise me never to divulge to a human being anything that has been said between us during this interview."

"I not only promise, but I solemnly vow, in the sight of Heaven and all the holy angels, sacredly to observe the silence you require of me, although I feel more and more deeply mystified by all this."

"You must trust in me, my dear, blindly trust in me for the present, and in time you shall know why I require these things of you," she said, very sweetly.

"I trust in you blindly, utterly, eternally!" answered the lover.

"And now, do you know what your reward shall be?"

"Your smile of approval will be my all-sufficient reward!" exclaimed the young man, earnestly.

"Ah, but you shall hear! When you have done these little favors for me, and one more, which I will tell you about when you come back from Wendover, then—" she said, pausing and looking at him with a bewildering smile.

"Then? Yes! Then?" eagerly aspirated the young man, gazing at her in rapt admiration and expectancy.

"Then I will give you my hand in marriage. I solemnly promise it."

"Oh, you angel—you angel! You have made me so happy!" fervently breathed the infatuated lover, as he drew her, unresisting, and pressed her to his heart.

At this point there was heard the sound of light footsteps approaching.

And the moment after, several of the lady boarders opened the door and entered the room.

Craven Kyte, always shy of strangers, arose to take leave.

As he did so, he seemed suddenly to recollect something.

He put his hand in his breast-pocket and drew forth a little box, which he handed to Mrs. Grey, saying:

"It is your brooch that you requested me to get from the jeweler."

And then, with a bow, he left her.

Mary Grey went back to her room.

"I shall succeed in ruining them all now!" she said, her dark eyes on fire with anticipated triumph.



CHAPTER XXV.

A VERY DESPERATE GAME.

I have set my life upon a cast, And I will stand the hazard of the die. —SHAKESPEARE.

Craven Kyte, the infatuated and doomed instrument and victim of a cruel and remorseless woman, returned to Wendover and resumed his place in Bastiennello's establishment, where he culpably neglected his business, and lived only on the thought of receiving her daily letters and of soon returning to Richmond to be blessed by her promised hand in marriage.

Every morning he was the first man at the post-office, waiting eagerly, impatiently, for the arrival and opening of the mail.

And he was never disappointed of receiving her letter, and—never satisfied with its contents.

Every letter was in itself something of a mortification to him, containing no expression of confidence or affection, no word by which any one might suspect that the correspondent was writing to one she loved and trusted, much less to her betrothed husband.

Every letter began and ended in the most polite and formal manner; never alluded to the matrimonial intentions between the correspondents, but treated only of church services, Sunday-schools, sewing circles and missionary matters, until the young man, famishing for a word of affection, with pardonable selfishness, sighed forth:

"She is a saint; but oh, I wish she was a little less devoted to the heathen, and all that, and a little more affectionate to me!"

But the instant afterward he blamed himself for egotism, and consoled himself by saying:

"She always told me that, however much she loved, she would never write love-letters, as they might possibly fall into the hands of irreverent and scoffing people who would make a mockery of the writer. It is a far-fetched idea; but still it is her idea and I must submit. It will be all right when I go to Richmond and claim her darling hand."

And the thought of this would fill him with such ecstasy that he would long to tell some one, his partner especially, that he was the happiest man on earth, for he was to be married in a week to the loveliest woman in the world. But he was bound by his promise to keep his engagement, as well as all other of his relations with the beautiful widow, a profound secret. And though the poor fellow was a fool, he was an honorable fool, and held his pledged word sacred.

Every letter that came to him also contained another letter, to which it never referred by written word. This inclosed letter was sealed in an envelope bearing the initial "L" embossed upon its flap. And it was directed to "Mrs. Mary Grey, Old Crane Manor House, Richmond."

Craven Kyte would gaze at this mysterious letter in the utmost confusion and obscurity of mind.

"Now, why in the world does she write a letter and direct it to herself and send it to me to post privately, by night, at the Wendover post-office? And why did she give me only verbal instructions about it? And why does she avoid even alluding to it in her letter to me? Why is the envelope stamped with the letter L? And why, oh, why does the handwriting so closely resemble that of Mr. Lytton?" he inquired of himself, as his eyes devoured the superscription of the letter. "I can not tell," he sighed. "It is too deep for my fathoming. I give it up. I must blindly do her bidding, trusting to her implicitly, as I do, and as I will."

Then, following her verbal instructions, given him in Richmond, in regard to these mysterious letters, he put it away until dark, and then stole out and dropped it secretly into the night-box at the post-office.

Five days passed, in which he received and re-mailed three of these inexplicable documents.

Then, on Saturday morning, Bastiennello, the head of his firm, returned to Wendover and resumed the control of his business.

On the evening of the same day a van arrived from Blue Cliff Hall, bringing the heavy baggage of Mr. Alden Lytton, to be deposited at the railway station and left until Monday morning, when the owner intended to start for Richmond by the earliest train.

When Craven Kyte heard this he went straight to his principal and claimed his promised leave of absence.

"Why, Kyte, you are in a tremendous hurry! Here I have not been back twelve hours and you want to be off," said Bastiennello, with a shrug of his shoulders.

"It is a case of necessity, sir, believe me," pleaded Craven Kyte.

"And this is Saturday night, the busiest time in the whole week," complained Bastiennello.

"Well, sir, you will not keep open after twelve, will you?"

"Certainly not after eleven."

"Nor will you need my services after that hour?"

"Of course not."

"Then that will enable me to serve here as usual until the hour of closing, and then give me time to catch the midnight train to Richmond."

"Oh, well, if you can do that it will be all right, and I can have no objection to your going to-night," said Bastiennello.

And so the affair was concluded.

The great village bazaar closed at eleven that night.

As soon as he had put up the last shutter, Craven Kyte rushed off to his humble lodgings, stuffed a carpet-bag full of needed clothing and hurried to the railway station to catch the train.

It came thundering along in due time, and caught up the waiting victim and whirled him along on his road to ruin, as far as Richmond, where it dropped him.

It was nearly eleven o'clock in the morning, and all the church bells were ringing, when the train ran in to the station.

Craven Kyte, carpet-bag in hand, rushed for the gentlemen's dressing-room nearest the station, hastily washed his face, combed his hair, brushed his clothes, put on a clean collar and bosom-piece, and fresh gloves, and hurried off to old St. John's Church, which he thought the most likely place on that Sunday forenoon to meet Mary Grey.

The service was more than half over when he reached the church, but he slipped in and seated himself quietly on one of the back seats near the door and looked all over the heads of the seated congregation to see if he could discover his beloved in the crowd.

Yes, there she was, in a front pew of the middle aisle, immediately under the pulpit.

To be sure he could only see the back of her head and shoulders, but he felt that he could not be mistaken.

And from that moment he paid but little attention to the service.

Do not mistake the poor soul. He was not impious. He had been religiously brought up in the family of the late Governor Cavendish. He was accustomed to be devout during divine worship. And on this occasion he wrestled with Satan—that is, with himself—and tried to fix his mind in succession on anthems, psalms, collects and sermon. All to little purpose. His mind went with his eyes toward Mary Grey.

And even when he closed those offending orbs he still found her image in his mind.

At length the sermon was finished and the benediction pronounced.

The congregation began to move out.

Craven Kyte went out among the first, and placed himself just outside the gate to wait until his adored should pass by.

In a continued stream the congregation poured forth out of the church until nearly all had passed out, but still he did not see Mary Grey.

In truth, that popularity-seeking beauty was lingering to bestow her sweet smile and honeyed words upon "all and sundry" who would give her the opportunity.

At length, among the very last to issue from the church, was Mrs. Grey.

She came out chatting demurely with a group of her friends.

Craven Kyte made a single step toward her, with the intention of speaking; but seeing that she did not notice him, and feeling abashed by the presence of strangers about her, he withdrew again and contented himself with following at a short distance until he saw her separate herself from the group and turn down a by-street.

Then he quickened his footsteps, turned down the same street and joined her.

At the same instant she looked back upon him with a smile, saying:

"You clever boy, how good and wise of you to refrain from speaking to me before so many strangers! Now what is the news?"

"The news is—Oh, my dear, dearest, dearest Mary! I am so delighted to meet you!" he exclaimed, breaking suddenly off from his intended communications.

"So am I to see you, darling. But that is no news. Come, this is a quiet street, and leads out of the city. Let us walk on, and as we walk you can tell me all the news," she said, smilingly, resting her delicate hand on his arm.

"I can tell you nothing—nothing yet, but that I love you—I love you!" he fervently breathed, as he drew her arm within his own and pressed her hand to his bosom.

"And I love you," she murmured, in the lowest, sweetest music. And then, after a moment's pause, she added, gayly: "And now tell me what has brought you here so suddenly."

"Did I not promise you that I would be in Richmond this Sunday morning, in time to attend you to church?"

"Yes, you did, but—"

"Well, I could not get in so early as I intended, because I came on by the train that leaves Wendover at midnight. So I did not reach the city until nearly noon to-day. However, if I was not in time to attend you to church, I was in time to attend you from church. So I kept my promise tolerably well."

"Yes; but, my dear friend, I particularly requested that you would wait at Wendover and watch certain events, and not come to Richmond until something had happened or was about to happen."

"Well then?"

"You gave me your word that you would do as I directed you."

"Yes, certainly I did."

"Then, seeing you here, I am to presume that all the conditions of your engagement have been fulfilled."

"Yes, they have, dear lady mine."

"First, then, as you were not to come here until Mr. Alden Lytton was about to start or had started for this place, why, I am to presume, by seeing you here, that Mr. Lytton is either present in the city or on his way here."

"Mr. Lytton will leave Wendover for Richmond by the earliest train to-morrow. He will be here to-morrow evening," said Craven Kyte, gravely.

"You are absolutely sure of this?" inquired Mrs. Grey.

"As sure of it as any one can be of any future event. His heavy baggage came over from Blue Cliff Hall yesterday evening, and was left at the station to be ready for transportation on Monday morning, when Mr. Lytton intended to take the earliest train for this city."

"Then there can be no mistake," said Mary Grey.

"None whatever, I think."

"You say you have fulfilled all the conditions of our engagement?"

"Yes, dearest, I have indeed."

"How about those letters I inclosed to you to be re-mailed?"

"I received them all, and re-mailed them all. Did you get them? You never acknowledged the receipt of one of them, however," said Craven Kyte, thoughtfully.

"I got them all safe. There was no use in acknowledging them by letter, as I expected to see you so soon, and could acknowledge them so much better by word of mouth. But that is not exactly what I meant by my question, darling. Of course I knew without being told that you had re-mailed all those letters, as I had received them all."

"Then what was it you wished me to tell you, dearest Mary? Ask me plainly. I will tell you anything in the world that I know."

"Only this: Did you post those letters with great secrecy, taking extreme care that no one saw you do it?"

"My dearest, I took such care that I waited until the dead of night, when no one was abroad in the village, and I stole forth then, and, all unseen, dropped the letters into the night box."

"You darling! How good you are! What shall I ever do to repay you?" exclaimed the traitress, with well-acted enthusiasm.

"Only love me—only love me! That will richly repay me for all. Ah, only love me! Only love me truly and I will die for you if necessary!" fervently breathed the poor doomed young man, fondly gazing upon her, who, to gain her own diabolical end, was almost putting his neck into a halter.

"You foolish darling! Why, you would break my heart by dying! You can only make me happy by living for me," she said, with a smile.

"I would live for you, die for you, suffer for you, sin for you—do anything for you, bear anything for you, be anything for you!" he burst forth, in a fervor of devotion.

"There, there, dearest, I know you would! I know it all! But now tell me: Have you kept our engagement a profound secret from every human being, as I requested you to do?"

"Yes, yes, a profound secret from every human being, on my sacred word and honor! Although it was hard to do that. For, as I walked up and down the streets of Wendover, feeling so happy—so happy that I am sure I must have looked perfectly wild, as the people stared at me so suspiciously—I could scarcely help embracing all my friends and saying to them, 'Congratulate me, for I am engaged to the loveliest woman in the world, and I am the happiest man on earth!' But I kept the secret."

"You mad boy! You love too fast to love long, I doubt! After a month or two of married life you will grow tired of me, I fear," said Mary Grey, with mock gravity.

"Tired of you! Tired of heaven! Oh, no, no, no!" he burst forth, ardently.



CHAPTER XXVI.

THE HAUNTED COTTAGE.

She suddenly brought him down to the earth with a homely remark.

"I am tired of walking. And here is a vacant house placarded 'To Let,' with a nice long porch in front. Come, let [us] go in and sit down on one of the benches and rest."

And she drew him toward the little gate that led into the yard in front of the house.

It was a rustic two-story frame cottage, with a long porch in front, all overgrown with honeysuckles, clematis, woodbine and wild roses.

They went in together and sat down on the porch, under the shadow of the blooming and fragrant vines.

Then she turned and looked at him attentively for the first time since they met at the church.

"You look tired," she said, with alluring tenderness. "You look more exhausted than I feel. And that is saying a great deal, for I am quite out of breath."

"I am grieved that you feel so, dearest! It was selfish and thoughtless in me to keep you walking so long," said Craven, compunctiously.

"Oh, it is nothing! But about yourself. You really look quite prostrated."

"Do I, dearest? I am not conscious of fatigue. Though indeed I should never be conscious of that by your dear side."

"Now tell the truth," she said, again bringing him down from his flights. "Have you had your breakfast this morning?"

"Breakfast? I—don't remember," he said, with a perplexed air.

"Come to your senses and answer me directly. What have you taken this morning?" she demanded, with a pretty air of authority.

"I—Let me see. I believe I bought a package of lemon-drops from a boy that was selling them in the cars. I—I believe I have got some of them left yet," he said, hesitating, and drawing from his pocket one of those little white packets of candy so commonly sold on the train.

Mary Grey burst into a peal of soft, silvery laughter as she took them, and said:

"An ounce of lemon-drops and nothing else for breakfast! Oh, Cupid, God of Love, and Hebe, Goddess of Health, look here, and settle it between you!"

"But I do not feel hungry. It is food enough for me to sit here and feast upon the sight of your face, your beautiful face!"

"You frenzied boy! I see that I must take care of you. Come, now that we have recovered our breath, we will go on a little further to a nice, quiet, suburban inn, kept by an old maid. I have never been there myself, but I have seen it in driving by with the rector's family. It is such a nice place that the school children go there to have picnic parties in the grounds. We will go and engage a parlor, and have a quiet little breakfast or dinner, whichever you may please, for it shall combine the luxuries of both. Now will you go?" said Mary Grey, rising from her shady seat.

"Of course, if you wish me to do so; but indeed I do not need anything."

"But I do; for I breakfasted at seven o'clock this morning, before going to the Sunday-school. It is now one o'clock. I have been fasting six hours, and as I intend to spend the most of the day with you, I shall miss our luncheon at home; for, you see, we are deadly fashionable at the Misses Cranes'. We lunch at two and dine at six. So come along."

Craven Kyte arose and gave her his arm, and they walked on together until they reached the little cottage, half farmhouse, half hotel, that was so well-kept by the nice old maiden hostess.

The good woman looked rather surprised to see Sunday visitors walk into her house.

But Mary Grey, prayer-book ostentatiously in hand, took her aside, out of the hearing of Craven Kyte, and explained:

"I and my brother walked in from the country to attend church this morning. We have a carriage and might have ridden, only we do not think it is right to make the horses work on Sunday, do you?"

"No, miss, I candidly don't; and that's a fact," replied the good creature.

"Mrs.," amended Mary Grey, with a smile.

"'Mrs.' of course! I beg your pardon, ma'am! But you looked so young, and I may say childish, and I didn't notice the widow's cap before," apologized the hostess.

"Well, as we had no friends in the town—no one with whom we could stop to dinner—I and my brother set out to walk home again. He is an invalid, and is quite exhausted with fasting and fatigue. So perhaps, under the circumstances, you would not mind letting us have a parlor to rest in and a little dinner."

"Of course not, ma'am; for under such circumstances it is clearly my duty to entertain you," answered the good soul, who, under no possible circumstances, would have been false to her ideas of right.

"You are very kind. I thank you very much," said Mary Grey, sweetly.

"Here is a room at your and your brother's disposal, ma'am. No one will intrude upon you here," said the hostess, opening a door that led into a neat back parlor, whose windows overlooked the garden and orchard attached to the house.

"Come," said Mary Grey, beckoning to her companion.

"Dear me! I never saw a brother and sister look so much alike as you two do," remarked the hostess, admiringly, as she showed them into the back parlor.

She left them, promising to send in a nice dinner.

"And coffee with it, if you please," added Mary Grey, as the landlady went out.

"Yes, certainly, ma'am, if you wish it," she answered, as she disappeared.

Mary Grey went to the back window and looked out upon the pleasant garden, verdant and blooming with shrubs, rose-bushes and flowers.

Craven Kyte joined her.

"Did you hear that old lady call us brother and sister?" inquired the young man.

"Yes," answered Mary Grey, with her false smile. "But I did not think it necessary to set her right."

"And she said we looked so much alike," smiled Craven.

"We both have dark hair and dark eyes. And we are both rather thin in flesh. That is the beginning and the ending of the likeness. And her imagination did the rest," explained Mary Grey.

They were interrupted by a pretty mulatto girl, who came in to lay the cloth for dinner.

And this girl continued to flit in and out of the room, bringing the various articles of the service, until, on one of her temporary absences, Craven Kyte exclaimed:

"I would rather have sat and fasted with you under that pretty porch of the old road-side empty house than sit at a feast here, with that girl always running in and out to interrupt us."

"Never mind, dear. As soon as we get something to eat we will go," said Mary Grey, with her sweet, false smile.

In a reasonable time a dainty little dinner was placed upon the table, consisting of broiled chickens, green corn, asparagus and mashed potatoes, with fragrant coffee for a beverage and peaches and cream for dessert.

When they had partaken of this, and had rested a while, Craven Kyte went out and paid the bill. And Mary Grey again drew the landlady aside, out of hearing of her companion, and said:

"We are so much rested and refreshed by your admirable hospitality that my brother and myself think we shall walk back to town and attend afternoon service."

The good hostess smiled approval, but expressed a hope that they would not overdo themselves.

Mary Grey smiled and took leave, and walked off with her captive.

They went on until they came in front of the vacant house with the vine-clad porch.

"Come, won't you rest here a little while?" inquired Craven Kyte, laying his hands upon the latch of the gate.

"Yes, for a little while only," said Mary Grey, consulting her watch. "It is now half-past three o'clock, and service commences at half-past four. And I must be at church in time for the commencement of the service. You will go to church with me, of course," she added.

"Of course!" answered Craven Kyte, emphatically.

"I am sorry that I can not ask you to sit with me; but the fact is I have only one seat that I can call my own in a crowded pew belonging to the Blairs. But you can walk with me to church, and join me again after the service," exclaimed Mary Grey.

"I should so much like to sit by your side!" said poor Craven, with a disappointed look.

"Don't you see, my dear, it is quite impossible? The service, however, is short, and I will join you immediately after it."

And as they talked they went in and sat down on the porch.

"This is a pretty little old-fashioned cottage. Don't you think so?" inquired the beauty, as they looked around them.

"Very pretty," agreed her victim, who would equally have agreed to anything she might have proposed.

"Look what a fine luxuriant garden it has behind it, all growing wild with neglect."

"Yes."

"And the orchard back of that. See the trees bending under their loads of ripening apples or peaches."

"Yes. It's a wonder the boys don't go in and steal them."

"No boy would enter there for love or money."

"Why?"

"Because this is the house in which Barnes killed his wife and child, in a fit of insane jealousy; and the place has the terrible reputation of being haunted."

"Oh!"

"Yes; it is said that the ghost of a weeping woman, carrying a weeping child in her arms, is seen to wander through garden and orchard at all hours of the night, or to come in and look over the beds of the sleepers in the house, if any are found courageous enough to sleep there."

"Oh! And that is the reason, I suppose, that the house remains untenanted?" said Craven Kyte.

"Yes, that is the reason why the house, pleasant and attractive as it looks, remains untenanted; and why the garden and orchard, with their wealth of flowers and fruit, remain untouched by trespassers," said Mrs. Grey.

"It is a pity such a pretty place should be so abandoned," mused the young man.

"It is. But, you see, family after family took it and tried to live in it in vain. No family could stay longer than a week. It has now been untenanted for more than a year. I have heard that the owner offers to rent it for the paltry sum of fifty dollars a year."

"For this delightful house!"

"For this haunted house, you mean!" said Mrs. Grey.

"Oh, nonsense! I beg your forgiveness, my dearest, I did not mean that for you, but for the gabies that believe in ghosts!" said Craven Kyte.

"Then you do not believe in ghosts?"

"I!"

"Well, I thought you did not. In fact, I knew you did not. Now I want you to do something to please me," said the siren, laying her soft hand upon his shoulder.

"Anything in this world, you know, I will do to please you."



CHAPTER XXVII.

WHAT SHE WANTED HIM TO DO.

"Well, I want you to rent this house."

Craven Kyte started with surprise and looked at the speaker.

She went on, however, regardless of his astonishment.

"And I want you to purchase furniture enough to fit up one room for yourself; and I want you to do that the first thing to-morrow. And I want you to lodge here alone, while you remain in Richmond."

He still stared at her in amazement, but with no sign of a wish to disobey her strange commands.

She went on with her instructions.

"You can walk into the city, and take your meals at any restaurant you please; but you must lodge here alone while you stay in the city."

"I will do so," he answered, earnestly, as he recovered the use of his tongue—"I will do anything you tell me. I am entirely under your orders."

"You are the best fellow in the whole world, and I love the very ground you walk on!" exclaimed the traitress, warmly.

He grasped her hand convulsively and pressed it to his lips, and then waited her further directions.

"To reward you I will come out here every morning and spend the whole day with you."

"Oh, that will be heavenly! I should be willing to live in a cave on such delightful conditions!"

"But mind, my dearest one, you must not come to see me at my boarding-house, or try to meet me, or to speak to me, after to-day, anywhere where I am known," added Mrs. Grey, gravely.

"Oh, that seems very hard!" sighed the victim, with a look of grief, almost of suspicion.

"Why should it seem hard, when I tell you that I will come out here every morning to spend the whole day with you?" inquired Mrs. Grey.

"But why, then, can I not go home with you and spend the whole evening in your company at your boarding-house?" pleaded the poor fellow.

"Because we should have no comfort at all in a whole parlor full of company, as there is at the Misses Cranes' every evening. And because we should be talked about in that gossiping boarding-house circle. And, finally, because I should much rather stay with you alone here in this house, where there is no one to criticise us, as late every evening as I possibly can, and let you walk home with me and leave me at the door at bed-time. Now don't you think mine the better plan?"

"Oh, yes, indeed, if you really will spend the evenings with me also!"

"Why, certainly I will! And now let us walk on to church. And mind, you must leave me at the church door and find a seat for yourself, while I go to mine. After church I will come out here with you again and sit with you all the evening. I have no doubt the good woman at the rustic inn down the road will give us tea, as she gave us dinner," said the beauty, as she arose and slipped her hand within her companion's arm.

They left the house together and walked on to the church.

And the programme for the afternoon and evening was carried on according to the beautiful schemer's arrangement.

After the services were concluded they walked out to the suburban inn, where the simple-minded hostess willingly agreed to furnish tea for such a pious church-going brother and sister.

And when they had had this tea, Mary Grey, to beguile the landlady, took her willing captive for a walk further out toward the country; and then returning by a roundabout route, came to the vacant road-side cottage, where, as the September evening was very warm, they sat under the vine-clad porch until ten o'clock.

Then they walked back to the town together.

Craven Kyte took Mary Grey to the gate of her boarding-house, where, as the place was silent and deserted, they paused for a few last words.

"Mind, the first thing you do to-morrow morning will be to go and find the owner of the haunted house and rent it from him," said the widow.

"Yes," answered her white slave.

"And the next thing you do will be to go and buy the furniture necessary to fit up one room for yourself, and have it taken out there and arranged."

"Yes," he answered again, very submissively.

"That will take you nearly all day, I think."

"I will hurry through the business as fast as I can, so that I may see you the sooner. When can I see you to-morrow?" he pleaded.

"At seven o'clock to-morrow evening wait for me at the haunted house. I will come and stay with you there until eleven."

"Oh, that is so long to wait! May I not see you sooner?"

"Impossible! I have a sacred duty to do to-morrow that will engage me all day. But you too will be busy. And we can look forward all day to our meeting in the evening. And after to-morrow we can meet every morning and spend the whole day together," said the traitress, sweetly.