But there were weary days of lingering pain and slow convalescence to

be passed over before that sea voyage could be undertaken. The red and

gold of the October leaves blew in drifts across the lawn and in the

wood before he was ever out of his room. Meanwhile his thoughts--in

spite of himself--were ever busy with Jaquelina. He pictured her to

himself many times daily. He wondered how she spent her time; he

wondered if she had gone away to teach as she had meant to do before

their evanescent dream of happiness. That fancy pained him.

It retarded his convalescence. It kept him restless and wakeful at

night. He learned the full meaning of the poet's plaints:

"When we most need rest, and the perfect sleep,

Some hand will reach from the dark, and keep

The curtains drawn and the pillows tossed

Like a tide of foam, and one will say

At night--Oh, Heaven, that it were day!

And one by night through the misty tears

Will say--Oh, Heaven, the days are years,

And I would to Heaven that the waves were crossed!"

General Valchester had returned home when his son was declared out of

danger, but his wife remained to nurse and tend her darling. She was

growing very impatient to take him home to Richmond.

It was a happy day for Violet Earle when the invalid was at last able

to come down into the drawing-room and rest on the snowy pillows

that she eagerly arranged for him. She had not been admitted to the

sick-room much, but for the few days he would remain with them, she

determined that she would do her best to win him. Jaquelina was out of

the way now, and she had a fair field for her operations.

As she sat near the sunny window with her dainty basket of bright

colored silks and embroideries, Ronald's eyes could rest on her without

the trouble of turning his head, and he could not help seeing that she

was very fair and beautiful. She had spent a long time at her toilet

that morning, and the result was a very dainty and charming toilet.

A morning dress of pale-blue cashmere, with front facings of shirred

satin, made a perfect foil to her fair skin, blue eyes and golden

hair. A delicate fichu of cream-colored lace was knotted around her

throat and fastened on her breast by a cluster of pale, pink begonias.

The delicate hands, flashing in and out through the bright colors of

the embroidery, were soft and white, and gleaming with jewels. Mrs.

Valchester was charmed with her. She wished very much that her son

would take a fancy to her, since he had lost the girl he loved at first.

But Violet's presence was more of a pain than a pleasure to Ronald

Valchester. She made him think all the more of Jaquelina. He had seen

them so often together.

"I wish you were well enough to go out and walk in the woods," she said

to him, lifting her blue eyes a moment to look at him; "you would be

delighted with their autumn beauty. I sent you, yesterday, a little

basket of leaves, the brightest and prettiest I could find. Did mamma

give them to you?"

"Yes, but I think she forgot to tell me you had sent them," he replied.

"Thank you for thinking of me so kindly. They were very beautiful. I

enjoyed looking at them very much."

Violet pushed back the lace curtains that he might look out at the

distant hills with their vivid coloring of scarlet and gold, blent with

the dark green of holly and cedar and evergreen.

The autumn sunshine lay over all the scene, brightening it with its

mellow light, and adding new beauty to the prospect. Ronald gazed on it

long and unweariedly, and he could not help seeing pretty Violet, too,

for she sat between him and the window with the golden light shining on

her sunny hair.

"How beautiful it all is," Ronald said, with a passing gleam of

enthusiasm. "The light is so soft and clear, the air so sweet, and

those distant mountains look so blue and beautiful. It seems to me that

Italy can scarcely be lovelier than my own native land."

Violet folded her white hands on her work, and looked at him earnestly.

"Oh, Mr. Valchester, I want you to promise me one thing!" she exclaimed.

He looked at her in some surprise.

"What can it be?" he inquired, rather gravely.

"Only this," she said, "that you will write to Walter every week while

you are gone, and describe all the beauties of art and nature which you

encounter in your travels. I do so love Italy, and long to see it, and

if you describe it in your letters, graphically, as I know you will do,

it will be almost like seeing it myself, for I will insist on reading

all Walter's letters."

"I did not know you were so fond of the beauties of nature, Miss

Earle," he replied in some surprise, and the color rose in her fair

cheeks.

"I am very fond of nature," she replied, "but you have not promised me

yet that you will write to my brother as I said."

"Of course I shall write to Walter," he said, "but I cannot promise

that my letters will be very interesting. Perhaps you would prefer to

hear me describe my travels when I return."

"Oh, yes, that would be delightful!" Violet cried, all smiles and

pleasure. "So then you promise me to come to Laurel Hill when you

return, and describe Italy to me?"

"Oh, yes, I will come," he replied, carelessly. "But I dare say you

will be married and gone to a home of your own before that time."

"Oh! no indeed!" she cried out quickly. "If you stay ten years you will

find me at Laurel Hill when you return."

"It will be quite a wonder if he does, then," said Mrs. Valchester, who

had entered and overheard the last remarks. "It is not likely that the

young men of Virginia will allow such a pretty girl to remain at Laurel

Hill ten years longer!"

Violet laughed and blushed, and protested that she would never marry;

but Ronald agreed with his mother that it was quite unlikely she should

remain an old maid. She was exceedingly pretty for such a fate.

CHAPTER XXVII.

Ronald Valchester grew very tired of the _role_ of invalid. His mother

and Mrs. Earle and Violet all vied in attentions to him. They were

always arranging his pillows, bringing him flowers, and "fussing

over him," as Walter laughingly termed it. The young man was growing

exceedingly impatient. He declared that he was well enough to go back

to Richmond, and Doctor Leslie at last agreed with him. So they decided

one day to start the next day for home.

In the meantime Ronald had enjoyed a few rides in Mrs. Earle's

pretty little phaeton with Walter or Violet as his companion. The

cool, bracing air of autumn made him feel stronger and better. Mrs.

Valchester thought she would soon have him well when once she had taken

him home with her.

"Violet," she said, the afternoon of the day on which they were to

leave that night, "Walter is going down to Richmond with us. I wish you

would go also. Cannot you go, dear?"

Violet looked up with a deep flush of pleasure crimsoning her cheeks.

"If mamma is willing, I can see no reason to prevent," she said, her

heart beating high at the thought, for she had been grieving over the

thoughts of the near departure of the man she loved so vainly.

"You must ask your papa, love," replied Mrs. Earle, with placid

unconsciousness.

"Papa and Walter are going over to the town," said Violet, unable to

conceal her disappointment. "They are on some odious law business, and

if I wait for their return it is quite likely I shall not have time to

pack my trunk--so you will have to excuse me, Mrs. Valchester."

Ronald looked across at her from over the top of the book he was

apparently reading. He saw that she was disappointed, though he had no

idea of the reason. He did not dream that Violet loved him. He thought

she was simply like other girls--weary of the monotony of country life,

and longing for the gaiety of the city.

"If you will let me have a horse, Mrs. Earle," he said, "I will ride

over to the town and hasten the truants back."

"You are not strong enough to bear horse-back exercise, otherwise I

have no objection," replied Mrs. Earle.

"I am quite strong enough," protested Ronald. "You ladies are keeping

me an invalid too long. A mile ride through this pleasant air would

brace me up. I believe it would do me good."

"Perhaps it would be better to take the phaeton," suggested Violet, who

saw therein a chance to accompany him.

But Ronald insisted that horse-back exercise would please him best, and

the three ladies yielded the point and allowed him to have his own way.

It was very unwise of Ronald, perhaps, but his passionate hunger to see

Jaquelina again had been mainly instrumental in sending him out that

evening. The perfect silence everyone maintained regarding her, instead

of cooling the fever of his heart added new fires to it. Although his

peculiar views regarding divorce precluded the idea that they should

ever be aught to each other again, he could not cease to love her.

"It is quite impossible I should ever cease to love her," he said to

himself as he rode along under the interlacing boughs of the trees. "I

long to see her again, to hear her voice, to touch her hand. And yet

I know that I am unwise. But if they had talked to me about her, if

they had even called her name I think I could have borne it better. The

strange silence they keep maddens me with suspense. It is just as if my

lost little Lina were dead."

He sighed deeply, and the thought came to him that it were better

indeed if she were dead--better than this separation. He wondered if

Lina was as miserable over it as he found himself.

He persuaded himself that it would not be wrong to go and bid Lina a

last farewell, and tell her that he was going away--far away in the

hope of forgetting her. He could not leave the neighborhood without one

more look in the dark eyes that had won his heart. It seemed to him

that one look into the fair young face, one sound of the winning voice

would cool the fever and thirst of his heart.

He turned into the road that led to Meredith farm, and, almost before

he knew it, found himself dismounted and tying the bridle-rein to the

orchard gate. Then he opened the gate and went down the path expecting

every moment to come upon Lina under the trees, reading or dreaming as

of old. His pale face flushed, his heart beat quick, his whole frame

trembled with the pain and pleasure of seeing Jaquelina again.

He walked on full of the thought of the girl he loved so wildly and

came upon an unexpected tableau. Mrs. Meredith was under a tree with a

basket, busily filling it with great red-cheeked winter apples. Little

Dollie, frisking beside her, uttered a cry, and she looked around.

"Oh! Mr. Valchester!" she exclaimed, surprised and embarrassed at his

sudden appearance.

"Good-evening, Mrs. Meredith," he replied, in equal surprise and

confusion.

"I have come to bid Lina good-bye--I am going home to-night. Can you

tell me where to find her?"

Mrs. Meredith straightened up and looked at him in surprise. She did

not know how carefully they had kept the truth from him.

"My dear sir, I wish I _could_ tell you," she said, full of a certain

remorseful pity over poor Jaquelina's fate. "We hain't never heard a

word since she went away!"

"Went away--where?" asked Ronald Valchester, blankly; then he added at

her look of surprise: "I thought she was at home all the time."

"Oh! dear me," cried Mrs. Meredith; "why, she disappeared all of a

sudden, sir, the very day that she left Laurel Hill after visiting you

there. Mr. Walter was the last person that ever saw her. We have never

seen nor heard of her since, and Mr. Meredith's nigh crazy over it. Did

Mr. Walter never tell you, sir?"

But Ronald Valchester did not stay to answer her. He turned away like

one in a dream and walked back to the gate, mounted his horse, and rode

away as though on an errand of life or death.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

Three years; again the autumn leaves lay on the grass; again the roses

shed their leaves and left the thorns; again the golden sunlight lay

over the earth as it did that autumn three years gone when the tragedy

of sorrow fell between Ronald Valchester and the dawning happiness of

his life.

* * * * *

In one of the most palatial hotels of New York a lady sat in her

luxurious parlor a lovely morning in that sunny autumn. She was young

and beautiful--so beautiful that the eye never wearied of gazing on

the light of the large, dark eyes, the dainty contour of the cheek and

throat, and the delicate, lovely coloring of the scarlet lips curved

like Cupid's bow. That rich tinting of the lips was all the color in

her face. The cheek was pale and clear, the brow was creamy-fair,

and so transparent you could see the blue veins outlined clearly in

the temples. The abundant chestnut hair, with a glint of gold in its

brownness was drawn back in waving masses from the thoughtful brow

and arranged in rich confusion of braids and ringlets fastened with

a comb of gold and pearl. She wore a morning gown of royal purple

velvet trimmed with snowy swansdown, and lingered near the fire as if

the chill in the autumn air made itself felt even amid the luxurious

comfort of her surroundings.

The door opened and an old gentleman entered with an arm-full of

papers. The lady looked up with a gentle smile.

"Ah! professor," she cried, "you have not turned newsboy, I hope?"

The handsome old gentleman, with his gray hair and slightly foreign

face, laughed genially as he laid his burden down on the small reading

table and wheeled it to her side.

"Ah, my dear, only read these!" he exclaimed, enthusiastically. "Your

first appearance was a perfect success. All New York is at your feet."

A slight, sad smile came over the beautiful face with its subtle touch

of melancholy.

"So they praise me," she said, carelessly. "Tell me what they say,

professor."

"_Parblieu!_ I could not begin to tell you," said the old gentleman.

"You must read the papers."

She glanced at the formidable heap with an expression of dismay.

"I really have not the time," she said. "I have to study my part for

to-night. I will just look at one, however. I suppose one will be a

fair epitome of all the rest."

"Yes, about that," he replied. "They are all unanimous in praising you.

They declare that Madam Dolores is the queen of the lyric stage."

"They are very kind," replied Madam Dolores, carelessly, with the

languid air of one who is accustomed to praise, and almost indifferent

to it.

She took up at random a morning paper, smelling freshly of printer's

ink, and ran her eyes over its columns. Several columns were devoted to

a description of the brilliant first appearance and splendid success of

the lovely _prima donna_ who had just come to New York from Europe with

all the _prestige_ of a brilliant foreign reputation fresh upon her.

The professor sat down and dived eagerly into the papers, while Madam

Dolores rapidly gleaned the contents of the one she held. Presently she

looked around at her companion with an eager light in her dark eyes and

a sudden flush on her dark cheeks.

"Professor," she said, pointing one taper finger to a paragraph, "here

is a book I should like to read. Will you send out and get it for me?"

The professor looked at the words under her finger.

"Poems by R. V.," he read; "certainly, my dear," rising, then at the

door he turned and said, "who _is_ R. V., my child?"

"Some American poet," said Madam Dolores, carelessly, with her head

turned away.

The door closed between them and a long, long sigh quivered over the

lips of the beautiful _prima donna_ with the sorrowful name, _Dolores_.

She hid her face in her beautiful hands.

"_His_ poems," she murmured, almost inaudibly. "It will be almost like

meeting him face to face. Oh, Ronald, Ronald!"

You would not have thought, to see that slender figure bowed so

sorrowfully there, that all New York was raving over her beauty and her

genius. But it was true. Madam Dolores, as she called herself, had been

induced to come to America by a New York manager who wished to bring

out an opera by an author who desired to remain unknown for the present.

It was rumored that the gentleman had already achieved fame as a poet,

but beyond that fact, which the manager did not deny, no one even

remotely guessed the name. Neither money nor pains had been spared to

bring the opera out successfully. Madam Dolores, who had just completed

a successful starring tour abroad, was engaged at immense expense to

bring it out. The result was--success! Laurels for the brow of the

composer, and new laurels for the brow of the singer.

Yet no smile of triumph touched the fair face of the lovely queen of

song as she sat there waiting. It was full of a wistful pathos that

sometime deepened into pain. It was full of poetry and passion and

sorrow. There was no light of gladness in the large and bright dark

eyes, yet they were both brave and tender. It was only when she was

singing that any brightness came into the grave, sad face.

Then she lost herself like a true _artiste_ in the part she sang.

She looked up quickly as the professor entered with the book for which

she had sent him, her white hand trembled as she took the beautiful,

richly-bound volume.

"Thank you," she said, and her voice was so husky and low that the

professor, her teacher and adviser, looked at her anxiously.

"Dolores, your voice sounds hoarse," he said. "I fear you will not be

in voice for to-night."

"Never fear," she replied in a clearer tone, and then she turned away

from him, and while he pored over the papers, glorying in the praises

they showered on his gifted ward, she sat silent in the great velvet

arm-chair with the beautiful volume shut tightly between her folded

hands. She was not quite strong enough to open it yet. It seemed

like a message from the dead. Ronald Valchester was as one dead to

her forever, yet the best part of her lost lover, the heart's deep

tenderness, the imperishable, proud, poetic soul seemed throbbing

beneath the warm clasp of her hand.

It was several minutes before she could open the book. She, who had

always loved music and poetry so dearly, sat trembling with her lover's

poems in her hands and could not read them. She was dizzy--there was

a mist before her eyes. The luxurious room seemed to fade before her,

giving place to the green hills and dales of her old Virginia home.

She felt the cold winds whispering among the trees and lifting the

careless curls from her brow, she smelt the "violets hidden in the

green," she recalled the old, simple, lonely life which had been

glorified for a little while by Ronald Valchester's love. Then with

a start she came back to the present. Of that life and of that lover

there remained to her only a memory now.

"And this," she said, opening the beautiful book and trembling all over

as she read the dainty verses into which her lost lover had poured all

the poetry and passion of a gifted mind and tender heart.

She read on and on. They touched her strangely, these gems of thought

and feeling.

Some were very sad and tender--some seemed to have poured straight from

Ronald's heart into her own. It seemed as if he had written them for

her--for her only.

She became quite lost in them, and oblivious to everything else; she

did not hear the professor steal out and close the door gently behind

him. The outer world had no place in her thoughts for awhile.

She started when a hand was laid upon her head, and looked up with a

cry, but it was only the old professor's wife, who was like a mother to

her.

"Oh, forgive me, darling," said the sweet old lady; "I did not mean to

startle you. But only look at these flowers!"

She put a bouquet into the _prima donna's_ hand--an exquisite

collection of rare and odorous flowers. There was not a scentless

leaf or flower in the bouquet. The delicate, living fragrance floated

deliciously through the room.

"_He_ sent them--the author of the opera himself," cried Mrs.

Professor, delightedly. "He is coming with the manager to call on you

this afternoon."

"Very well," said Madam Dolores, resignedly. "_Chere maman_, please

tell my maid to put the flowers in water, and call me when it's time to

dress."

"Why, my dear, it's time now, this minute. You have been lost in that

book for hours! Twice I looked into the room, and went out again

because you were so absorbed I hadn't the heart to disturb you. But

now, really, there isn't another minute to lose. I've told Fanchette

to lay out a handsome dress for you--and, dear, I think it would be a

graceful compliment to the author to wear a few of these flowers in

your hair."

"Very well," said Madam Dolores again, as she rose and passed into the

dressing-room, still clasping the precious book in her hand.

"What will madame wear?" inquired the trim French maid.

"Anything; it does not matter," was the careless reply, as Madam

Dolores threw herself into a chair to have her hair rearranged, and

opened her book again.

She could not bear to lose a minute from its pages.

Fanchette had the true French taste for style and elegance. She

selected a robe of black lace and black satin, embroidered with jet.

Then she took some fragrant white rose-buds from the author's bouquet

and fastened them at the front of the square corsage, and tied a black

velvet ribbon around the slender column of the white throat. She wore

no ornament except the pearl cross that swung from the velvet ribbon,

and a diamond on her finger. No costume could have enhanced the

star-like beauty of the queen of song more superbly. The lustrous satin

set off the creamy fairness of cheek and throat and brow exquisitely,

and made the soft darkness of eyes and hair more lovely by the contrast.

But Madam Dolores was so impatient she forgot to glance into the long,

swinging mirror when Fanchette said she was "finished."

She took up R. V.'s poems and went back to the parlor, hoping to get a

minute more for reading before her visitors came.

So when Professor Larue ushered Manager Verne and the author into the

room, Madam Dolores had utterly forgotten their existence.

She was half-buried in a great, velvet chair, her cheek in the hollow

of one small hand, the dark, fringed lashes almost sweeping her cheek

as she pored over the blue-and-gold volume that lay open on her knee.

They were fairly in the house before she heard them; then she rose,

with a deep, beautiful blush that faded instantly into marble pallor;

for, glancing instinctively past the manager, she saw a tall, handsome

man with blue-gray eyes like twilight skies, and dark hair thrown

carelessly back from a high, white brow. She heard the manager say,

courteously:

"Madam Dolores, allow me to present to you Mr. Valchester, the composer

of the opera over which all New York has gone wild with delight."

Madam Dolores murmured some indistinct words in reply, and made a low

bow to the author, but she did not offer him her hand. It hung at her

side, still mechanically grasping the book of poems.

Mr. Valchester complimented and congratulated her on her successful

appearance last night, and then thanked her in eloquent, well-chosen

terms for the part she had taken in making his venture such a signal

success.

Both were grave and courteous, and calm. No one who witnessed the

meeting would have suspected that they had parted only three years ago,

broken-hearted and longing for death.

In that moment of quiet recognition each believed that the other had

outlived the passion which a little while ago had seemed the all in all

of life.

Then the manager excused himself and went out with the professor.

The author and the singer were left alone in the luxurious parlor to

entertain each other. They sat silently a moment; then Mr. Valchester

said, calmly:

"You were reading, Madam Dolores?"

She looked down at the book in her hand, and the color rushed into her

cheeks as she answered:

"Yes."

CHAPTER XXIX.

"Will you permit me to see what author engages your attention?" said

Ronald Valchester; and the singer quietly laid the book in his hand.

He opened it, and she smiled very faintly as she saw the sensitive

color mount to his cheeks.

"I presume they are your own poems, Mr. Valchester?" she said; and he

shivered at the sweetness of her low voice.

The rushing tide of memory poured over his soul overwhelmingly. He

lifted his eyes and looked fully at the beautiful woman.

"Yes, they are mine," he answered, trembling as the beautiful dark eyes

met his own.

As they held his glance a moment he saw how grave and sad they were,

and the white brow suggested lines he had somewhere read:

"How noble and calm was that forehead

'Neath its tresses of dark, waving hair;

The sadness of thought slept upon it,

And a look that a seraph might wear."

"Ah, Mr. Valchester," she said, lightly, it seemed to him, "I told you

long ago that you were a poet, and you denied it."

He bent toward her eagerly, his blue-gray eyes growing bright and dark

with excitement.

"Then it really _is_ you, Lina?" he cried. "I thought--I believed it

was so, but I was afraid to speak."

His deep voice quivered with emotion.

Of the two she seemed much the calmer.

Only the marble pallor of her cheek showed her intense repressed

agitation.

"Yes, it is Lina," she said, with apparent calmness. "Are you

surprised, Mr. Valchester?"

"Lina, we have mourned you as dead," he said, unsteadily.

"There were few to mourn me," she replied, and there was a note of

bitterness in the musical voice.

There was a moment's embarrassed silence. Valchester twirled the leaves

of the book in his hand. Jaquelina looked at the floor.

"Tell me something of the Earles--and my uncle," she said. "It is so

long--three years--since I have heard."

"The Earles are in New York--they came expressly to hear you sing last

night," he replied.

"They did not know----" she said, then paused, abruptly.

"That Madam Dolores was little Lina?" he said; "no, but in the first

moment when you came upon the stage we were struck by the resemblance.

Violet was positively agitated, yet she refused to entertain the idea

that it could really be you. You see she had always felt convinced that

you were dead, or that"--he paused, and she could see the shudder that

shook the strong, handsome form--"you had met a more terrible fate."

"And you--did you believe in my identity?" she asked, calmly, and a

little curiously.

"Yes," he answered, unfalteringly. "I knew there was no other face or

voice on earth like yours."

"You must have been surprised?" she said.

"I was," he answered. "Only think how strange it is, Lina. We who

parted under such sad and terrible circumstances three years ago, to

meet again in this way. To think that you of all others should be the

one to bring out the opera on which I have labored so long."

"I did not know that you were the author--you must believe that, Mr.

Valchester! I should not have undertaken it had I only known!" she

exclaimed, hurriedly and earnestly.

He looked at her, the heavy sadness on his face deepening as he saw the

lines of pain drawn around the delicate, scarlet lips.

"Lina, were you so proud?" he asked.

"I did not know it was pride," she said, simply. "I was only thinking

that--that it were so much better if we had never met again."

She did not know what a pathetic heart-cry there was in the words, but

Ronald understood. He rose from his seat and before she could prevent

him knelt humbly at her feet.

"Lina, you are quite right," he said, "I tried to keep myself from

coming, but I could not. Can you forgive me for inflicting this pain

upon you?"

She did not answer, and he took the white hand that hung listless by

her side and pressed it to his lips.

"I could not keep myself from coming," he repeated; "I could not still

the fever and thirst of my heart. Last night I did not sleep one hour.

The knowledge that you were alive and so near me almost maddened me

with mingled joy and pain. Ah! Lina, my lost love, you must forgive me

for coming this once. I meant to be brave and calm. I thought it might

not pain you as it did me. I thought you might have learned not to

care."

The hot, passionate tears he could not repress, fell on her white hand,

but she did not speak one word. There was nothing she could say. She

had not "learned not to care."

She knew that her heart was beating with a fierce, wild joy because she

had met him again, but she knew and faced the knowledge with brave,

uncomplaining silence, that when he passed out of her life again the

unhealed wound in her heart would only bleed anew.

"I thought you might have forgotten," he went on, out of his bitter

anguish, "but I see now that you still remember."

"I remember--all," she said, through white lips. "It was such a happy

summer--it would not be easy to forget."

"And it pains you to remember it," he said, reading her heart by the

light of his own.

She did not answer, but there came into her mind those sad words of

Tennyson:

"This is truth the poet sings,

That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things."

She drew her hand from his clasp, and rose, pallid, beautiful,

mournful, her rich and somber draperies rustling as she moved away from

him.

"Mr. Valchester, do not be angry, but it would be better for you if you

would go," she said, bravely.

"Better--for me?" he said, rising, and looking at her with haggard,

weary eyes.

"For us both, then," she answered with patient truthfulness, though the

color rose for a moment to her cheek.

"Not to see you again?" he said, questioningly.

"It would be better so," she answered, "unless you have changed your

convictions," and he could not help seeing the trembling hope that came

into her eyes. "Oh! Ronald, have you never changed in all these years?

Do you still hold me bound to that terrible man by a law man cannot

repeal?"

Her calmness had broken down. The anguish of that wild and sudden

appeal thrilled through his heart. He had no words to answer her.

He saw the dark eyes gazing at him through a mist of tears, the white

roses trembled on her breast with the quick beating of her heart. He

could not answer the question.

With a stifled moan he turned from the sight of her sorrowful beauty,

and rushed from the room, while the beautiful singer fell like a broken

lily to the floor and prayed to die.

CHAPTER XXX.

Ronald Valchester thought after he had left the presence of his lost

love that day that he would not attend the opera again at night.

But he had promised his mother, who had just arrived in New York that

morning, to accompany her, and he had also engaged the same box with

Walter and Violet Earle, so it was almost impossible for him to remain

away.

When the vast theater rang with the wild plaudits that greeted the

queen of song, he was in his place by his mother's side, and his eyes

saw nothing clearly but the one face that had filled his heart for

years--his ears heard nothing but the silvery voice that carolled its

songs to the world now, but which long ago--it seemed years and years,

measured by his pain--had sung to him alone beneath the blossoming

apple boughs, while her heart had thrilled within him at the sweetness

of the strain.

How like and how unlike was the brilliant _prima donna_ of to-night,

to the pretty, simple girl of three years ago. The love-light that

had beamed in those dark eyes then was so different from their quiet

sadness now. As she stood there in her costly robes and gleaming

jewels, while fragrant flowers rained at her feet, and the rapturous

applause thundered over her head, her beauty was peerless.

Yet no smile curved the rich, red lips as she bent her graceful head,

though the lashes swept low on the cheek that for a moment wore a

crimson flush like the sunset glow.

There was no gladness on the beautiful face, and yet it was not cold or

indifferent.

It was only touched on the fair, low brow, in "the dark--dark eyes,"

and on the arched, crimson lips with "the sadness of thought."

Walter Earle gazed on the singer, too, with his heart in his eyes. He

believed that Madame Dolores was Jaquelina Meredith. The conviction

grew upon him.

And Violet, sitting by her brother's side, a fair and graceful figure

in blue velvet and pearls, on which many eyes gazed admiringly, watched

that slender, stately figure, and listened to the musical voice with

untold feelings of horror and despair.

When the curtain was rung down on the first act, stately Mrs.

Valchester leaned over to murmur to Violet:

"My love," she said, "the _prima donna_ reminds me of some one I have

seen before; but I cannot exactly recollect where."

"Really?" said Violet, with an air of languid interest, but she

fluttered her fan nervously and did not try to enlighten the lady.

But Walter Earle had heard the whisper, too. He spoke impulsively:

"Mrs. Valchester, I will tell you of whom she reminds you. She is

like--Miss Meredith."

"Oh, yes--yes," Mrs. Valchester assented, quickly, "but it cannot be

that--that----" she stopped and looked at Walter, startled out of her

usual quiet self-possession.

Walter answered, readily:

"The resemblance struck us all, Mrs. Valchester. I, for one, believe

that it is little Lina herself. She had a wonderful voice."

"I thought--thought every one believed that she was dead, or that

Gerald Huntington had carried her off again," stammered the lady.

"Every one must have been mistaken," said Walter. "I think there can

scarcely be a doubt that Madame Dolores is only the stage name of

Jaquelina Meredith."

"Ronald, what do you think?" the lady asked, looking up half timidly

into the face of her son.

He had stood by her chair, pale and silent as a statue, hearing every

word but taking no part in the conversation. He looked down at her now

and answered in a low, quiet voice:

"It is Lina herself."

"Are you sure?" cried Walter.

"I am quite sure," Ronald answered.

Then he saw that they were all looking at him inquiringly, and nerved

himself to explain.

"I called on Dolores to-day," he said, "and she frankly admitted her

identity."

He did not notice the white anguish that came over Violet's face. He

was startled by the gladness that shone in her brother's eyes. It was

a revelation to him. But the next moment he heard the sound of a fall.

They all turned and saw that Violet had slipped out of her chair and

lay on the floor with closed eyelids and a deathly face.

"Violet has fainted," cried Mrs. Valchester.

She had fainted, and when she regained consciousness, it was only to

bury her face on Walter's breast, and whisper sadly:

"Take me away."

He carried her home, and when they were gone, Mrs. Valchester looked at

her son.

"Ronald, do you know what Violet's fainting meant? she asked, gravely.

"It was too warm, I think," said the unconscious poet.

"Oh, how blind you are, Ronald!" exclaimed his mother.

CHAPTER XXXI.

The next day while Madam Dolores sat alone in her beautiful parlor, a

card was brought to her. She read upon it the name of Walter Earle.

"I am so glad to meet you once more," he said, as she rose to receive

him. "Valchester told me he had called upon you yesterday and I could

not resist coming to-day."

The sensitive color Walter remembered so well, rose into Jaquelina's

clear cheek.

"I am very glad to meet you, Mr. Earle," she replied, and gave him

her hand in a perfectly frank, unembarrassed way. Walter pressed it

a moment with a quickened heart-beat, and then they sat down. He

congratulated her on her brilliant career.

"You must tell me how it all came about," he said. "We all believed you

dead. It seemed as if the earth must have opened and swallowed you that

morning, when I left you at the park gates."

"I wish it had!" she cried, involuntarily, and a look of pain came over

the eager, handsome face of the listener.

"Were you so unhappy, Lina?" he asked, sadly.

The white hands clasped each other tightly, and tears came into the

sad, dark eyes, as she lifted them to Walter's face.

"I was wretched," she replied. "It seemed to me that my heart was

broken."

"But you were not so desperate as I feared," he said. "For when you

disappeared so strangely, and we could hear nothing of your fate, I was

always afraid that you had drowned yourself."

"I was not quite so reckless, nor so romantic," said Jaquelina, with a

slight air of surprise; "I was very anxious to get away from myself,

but as that was impossible, I did the next best thing that occurred to

me. I simply ran away from the scenes and associations which it was

beyond my strength to endure any longer."

"You must have taken infinite pains to hide every trace of your

flight," he said. "No one saw or heard anything of you after I parted

from you."

"That is not so strange when you remember how early it was, and what a

wet and chilly morning," replied Jaquelina, quietly. "I am almost sure

I did not meet a single person on the road, but I went straight home.

My uncle and aunt were very early risers, you know. They were both

out of the house--uncle in the field, and his wife at the milking, I

supposed. I went up-stairs to my room, donned a traveling suit, and,

taking a small bag in my hand, left the house unobserved. I walked to

the station and took an early train for Staunton."

"You had friends there?" said Walter, deeply interested in her quiet

story.

"Only Professor Larue--my old music-teacher--and his wife," she

replied. "I went to them quite sure of a welcome. They had always

predicted great things of me," she added, with the deep color rushing

to her cheeks.

"You have been with them always then?" he asked.

"Always," she replied. "They have supplied the place of the parents I

never knew. I owe them everything."

"God bless them," said Walter, fervently. "I shall always love them

because they were kind to you in your sorrow, Lina."

He could not help calling her Lina. He did not like the sound of her

stage name, and "Miss Meredith" seemed so cold and formal in this

moment when they had been parted so long. She did not seem to care. She

looked at him now, and answered quietly:

"Yes, they were very kind--yet they never knew how much I needed love

and kindness. They had only themselves to care for. The professor had

always been wild over my voice. I was reckless, desperate. I allowed

him to have his own way with me. He took me to Europe, procured musical

instructors for me and in time I made my _debut_ in opera."

"And from thenceforward it has been _veni, vidi, vici_," smiled Walter.

"Yes," she replied, with the calmness of indifference "I have been

what the world calls very fortunate. I have won fame and gold--I have

been loved and sought--I have had all the best the world has to give

except"--here her low voice sank still lower--"except happiness."

"Poor child!" he said, involuntarily.

"Except happiness," she repeated, looking at him with her large, soft,

mournful eyes. "That was impossible, you know."

An answering sadness came into Walter's blue eyes.

"Is happiness always to be an impossibility to you, Lina?" he asked.

"Always," she answered, with patient resignation.

"Lina, have you ever seen Gerald Huntington since that night?" he broke

out.

"Never!" she replied, with a shudder, and her pale face grew paler

still.

"And you have never guessed why he repudiated you in the very moment he

made you his bride?"

"Never," she answered again. "There was some secret connected with it;

something he found out when he saw the picture of my mother. I cannot

tell what it was--I have no idea."

"I saw Gerald Huntington at the opera last night," he said, startlingly.

Jaquelina sprang to her feet, and looked at him in a very panic of

terror.

"You saw _him_," she said, her breath coming and going in fluttering

gasps. "Oh, Mr. Earle!" she cried out in wild hope and anxiety; "did

Uncle Charlie ever try to get me freed from him, if indeed I was ever

bound? for it seemed to me a mere farce--nothing more."

"He did not try, Lina--you were gone, and it seemed as if you were

dead," Walter said, hesitatingly.

"He did not try--and Gerald Huntington is here? Oh, Mr. Earle! do

you think he has recognized me? Why is he here? What does he mean to

do? Oh, if I had never returned here!" Jaquelina cried, rapidly and

excitedly.

Before Walter could reply the door was pushed open, and Violet Earle

came quickly into the room.

"Walter--you _here_!" she cried.

CHAPTER XXXII.

Walter Earle looked at his sister in surprise. He had left her rather

unwell and complaining of a headache. Even now her eyes were dull and

heavy, and her cheeks were flushed a feverish crimson.

"Violet, I would have waited for you if I had known you would come," he

said.

"I preferred to come alone," she replied, a little shortly.

Then she went to Jaquelina and held out her hands.

"How do you do, Lina?" she said. "You must allow me to congratulate you

on your brilliant success."

The words were calm and conventional; there was no heart in them.

Jaquelina felt it vaguely; but she laid her hands in Violet's, kindly,

and would have kissed her, only Miss Earle did not offer her lips.

Then Violet looked around at her brother with a charming smile.

"I came alone that I might have a quiet chat with our old friend," she

said, "and I dare say you have finished your call; so you may just take

yourself off, Walter."

Walter looked uneasy, but her careless gaiety disarmed his vague dread.

He went up to Jaquelina and held out his hand.

"I must give way to Violet this time," he said, "but I will call again

to-morrow and continue our interrupted conversation, if you will permit

me."

Jaquelina turned courteously to her guest, who had thrown herself

wearily into a cushioned chair.

"I hope your mamma is well, Miss Earle," she said, gently, thinking of

the faded little lady who had always been so kind.

Violet looked surprised and pained.

"Did not Walter tell you?" she cried. "Oh, Lina, mamma is dead!"

"Dead!" cried Jaquelina, and the quick tears sprang into her eyes. "I

am sorry. No one had told me of it. How long is it, Violet?"

"Almost three years now," answered Violet, sadly: "She died the winter

you went away. I--I do not like to recall it. I was away at the time,

visiting the Valchesters in Richmond. It was very, very sudden. She had

disease of the heart."

"I am so sorry," Jaquelina repeated, sorrowfully. "I loved her dearly.

She was always kind to me."

"Yes, mamma loved you dearly," said Violet, gravely; "yet you

disappointed her dearest hope, Lina."

"Her dearest hope!" cried Jaquelina. "I do not understand you, Violet."

"She wished above everything, for you to have become Walter's wife,"

exclaimed Violet.

The beautiful singer colored deeply, but she did not reply.

"We all wished it," continued Violet. "It would have pleased me very

much. I cannot tell you what a disappointment it was to us all when you

chose Valchester--a disappointment and a surprise as well. The match

seemed so unsuitable."

Jaquelina lifted her dark eyes and regarded her gravely.

"Why unsuitable?" she asked.

"Oh, I could hardly explain it," answered Violet, vaguely, "but it

struck us all that way. Ronald Valchester was so very peculiar. You

must have thought so yourself after you learned his strange views of

marriage and divorce. Did you not, dear?"

Jaquelina sat silent, her hands tightly clasped in her lap.

"Ronald is so very, very proud," went on Violet, after a moment.

"He was too proud to marry a woman who had been married to Gerald

Huntington; so he invented that excuse to break with you."

"Miss Earle, I believe your views do injustice to Mr. Valchester,"

Jaquelina answered, with grave, sad dignity. "I am willing to admit

that his views are peculiar, but I am quite, quite sure that he only

acted in accordance with his honest convictions of duty."

An irrepressible sneer of scorn rose to Violet's lips.

"You must remember I have known Ronald Valchester longer than you

have," she said.

"You have known him longer, but I cannot think you understand him any

better than I do," Jaquelina answered with gentle sadness.

Violet bit her lip at the quiet rejoinder, but still she persevered.

"Let me give you another instance of his peculiarity," she said. "Are

you aware that he entertains a most unwarrantable and ridiculous

prejudice against a public life for a woman--such a life as you lead,

for instance? Will you discredit this assertion also, Lina?"

"No, for I have long been aware of the fact," she replied with perfect

calmness.

"Ah, then, he was frank enough to tell you so yesterday," cried Violet,

with unmistakable triumph and delight.

"Oh, no! I knew his opinion years and years ago," the singer replied,

simply.

"And you actually defied his opinion--you were careless of what he

would wish!" exclaimed Violet Earle, surprised and incredulous.

There was a moment's silence. The white hands that were clasped

together in her lap were lifted to hide her face; then she dropped them

again, and answered, with quivering lips:

"No, Miss Earle, do not say that. I was never either careless

or defiant of Ronald Valchester's opinion. I loved him too well

always--always--to do him that despite. But the old life was

unendurable. It was madness to remember all I had lost. I threw myself

feverishly into a public career because it promised--forgetfulness."

"And have you found it?" Violet asked her, quickly.

"No."

The simple word dropped mournfully from the quivering lips.

Violet looked searchingly at the sad young face that looked so

marble-white with the dark fringes of the long, curling lashes resting

against the cheeks. A mental vision of that face three years ago came

over her. She remembered it sun-tanned, rose-flushed, happy. She

remembered the faded print dress, the shabby boots, the worn poetry

volume. In the place of that simple girl here was a beautiful, sad-eyed

woman, clothed with purple and fine linen--a woman who but a little

while ago had told Walter Earle that life had given her fame, wealth,

admiration--everything except happiness.

Violet studied the beautiful face curiously a moment, then inquired,

abruptly:

"Lina, did you know when you came here that Ronald Valchester was the

author of the opera you have brought out with such signal success?"

"No, I did not know it until yesterday," she replied.

"Not until Ronald called upon you?" inquired Violet.

"Not until then," was the answer.

Then Violet said, with flushing cheeks and restless eyes:

"Tell me, Lina, if you had known it would you have come?"

"No, I would not have come," Jaquelina replied, firmly.

"But since you _have_ come," said Violet, with a look of relief, "what

do you intend to do about it?"

The singer looked up with a surprised face. Violet looked down uneasily

before that wondering gaze.

"Miss Earle, what is there that I _can_ do?" she inquired, in a clear,

distinct voice.

"You could go away," Violet replied.

"I intend to do so the very day that my engagement is ended," Jaquelina

answered. "It would be impossible to do so before. I am under the

heaviest bonds to the manager to fulfill my contract. To evade it I

should have to forfeit the greater part of my fortune."

"You would be willing to do that to insure Mr. Valchester's

happiness--would you not?" asked Violet, quickly.

"I would do more than that to secure Ronald's happiness," Jaquelina

answered, "I would give my life."

"Do you love him so well, then?" Violet asked, with actual pain upon

her face.

"Yes," was the quiet reply. "I love him well enough to make any

sacrifice for him if it could but secure his happiness. Can you tell me

how to do so, Miss Earle?"

"Yes," said Violet. "Obtain a divorce from Gerald Huntington and marry

Walter."

"Marry Walter?" Jaquelina echoed faintly. "What happiness could that

give to Ronald?"

"It would leave him free to marry elsewhere. Now he has a foolish,

Quixotic notion that honor binds him to remain single for your sake."

"And he would be glad to be free from that shadowy tie?" asked the

_prima donna_, with white, pain-drawn lips.

"Yes," Violet answered, recklessly.

"Whom would he marry?" asked Jaquelina.

There was a moment's silence. The dark eyes and the blue ones looked

straight into each other. In the first moments of that interview

Jaquelina had read the secret of the other. She was not surprised when

Violet answered desperately:

"I would try to win him for myself, then."

"You love him?" said Jaquelina, in a tone of the gentlest pity.

Violet lay back in the great, velvet arm-chair, her face as pale as

death, her white hand pressed to her side to still its heavy beatings.

She answered, gaspingly:

"Yes, I love him--I have always loved him--before you ever saw him. If

I do not win him I shall die!"

Then the white lids closed and she lay unconscious before the eyes of

her dreaded rival. Jaquelina bent over her and chafed the nerveless

hands in her own with tenderest pity.

"Poor Violet," she murmured, "I never dreamed of this, yet I have been

her unconscious rival for years. Must I give him up to her? Alas! he is

not mine to give."

It was several minutes before Violet revived. She looked up into the

face of her rival and whispered fearfully.

"It is my heart, Lina. I cannot bear any great excitement. I have

inherited my mother's disease."

The look of grief and pity that came over Jaquelina's sensitive

features disarmed all Violet's passionate jealousy and resentment for

a moment. A blush of shame colored her pale cheeks, and she cried out

with a sudden, remorseful impulse:

"Oh! Lina, do not look at me so kindly--you would not if you knew!"

Touched by an impulse of pity, Jaquelina bent and kissed the white brow

with its soft waves of golden hair.

"I know what you mean, dear," she said. "You have been angry with me

because Ronald loved me. You could not help it, dear. I am sorry, but

I am not angry. You cannot be very envious of me. His love has not

brought me much happiness."

It was an anguished plaint from the young heart that had suffered for

years in brave silence. Violet looked at her in wonder.

"Oh, Lina," she cried, "how have you borne your sorrow all these years?"

"Violet, I could not tell you," she answered. "Sometimes I wonder at

myself when I look back through the long years and remember how hard

it was to bear. I think it was only my art that kept my heart from

breaking."

"Ah! I have had nothing to divert my mind," cried Violet. "I have spent

my whole time thinking of Ronald Valchester--yes, and trying to win

him! You need not look so pained, Lina. I loved him before you ever saw

him, and it always seemed to me that I had the prior right to him."

She paused, then as Jaquelina made no reply she went on slowly:

"After you were lost to him so strangely, I set my whole heart on

winning him. I think--nay, I am almost sure that I must have succeeded

in time if only--ah, if only you had not come back, Lina!"

Lina clasped her white hands tightly as she looked at the speaker.

"What difference could that make?" she asked. "You know it is

impossible I should win him, Violet. By his own will we are separated

forever!"

"Yes, I know that," said Violet, "but, you see, Lina, you have turned

his thoughts into the past."

The words were spoken with almost a sob. As the singer made no reply

she continued fretfully, and almost reproachfully:

"You have ruined everything by coming back Lina. You have spoiled

Ronald's peace, and made Walter's heart ache. And you have destroyed my

only hope of happiness. I know I shall surely die!"

CHAPTER XXXIII.

Those who attended the opera that night thought that Madam Dolores sang

more exquisitely than ever before. She poured her whole heart into the

passionate strains of the music. She held every heart chained by the

power of her beauty and genius.

The impressible throng was swayed tumultuously. Men's hearts beat fast

with love for her beauty and admiration for her genius, yet, although

their hearts lay at her feet, no one dreamed that it was possible to

win her.

There was a look on the fair face beneath the diamond tiara that bound

the dark hair that forbade the thought. There was a story written on

that face--a story of poetry, and passion, and sorrow.

The dark eyes did not dwell on men's faces. They looked down as if in

mournful retrospection. The scarlet lips but seldom smiled. The cheeks

were always pale.

One pair of eyes followed every movement of the _prima donna_ with a

passionate pain and repressed yearning in their grave, sad depths.

She did not turn to meet their glances, yet she knew instinctively that

he was there. Through all the scenes in which she took her brilliant

part there remained with her an aching consciousness of that note which

Ronald Valchester held tightly clenched in his hand as he followed her

every movement with hungry, despairing eyes--the note she had sent him

that evening at twilight.

It was brief and calm, but Ronald had read it over and over. He had

held the thick, satiny sheet in his hand, and looked at the delicate,

flowing chirography with a blank, staring gaze, trying to picture to

himself the white, jeweled hand that had traced those lines that seemed

so cold and cruel to his eager, passionate, though wretched heart.

Yet Jaquelina had not meant to be so cruel. She had only written out

of the tenderness of her pity for Violet, and the sadness of her own

despair, these plaintive words:

"DEAR RONALD:--For the sake of all that I might have been to you

once, I beg you to listen to me and grant my prayer. I have learned

to-day that you are deeply beloved by one whose unconscious rival I

have been for years. Perhaps you may guess her name--it is Violet

Earle. It will make her very happy if you will make her your wife.

One more request, Ronald. I am compelled to remain in New York

two weeks longer. I think I could bear it better, Ronald, if you

would leave New York and return to the South until I am gone, you

understand. The Earles return to-morrow. Go with them, Ronald; marry

Violet, and try to be happy. For me, I will leave America as soon as

my engagement is ended, and henceforth the whole width of the world

shall remain between us."

That was what Lina had written to the lover from whom she had been so

tragically parted before the very altar--the poet lover of whom she had

been so proud and fond. He read and re-read the note with dazed eyes

full of grief and pain.

There was another man in that vast theater, too, who clenched a folded

note in his strong, white hand, while he gazed at the beautiful singer

with burning, black eyes, and eager, repressed passion in every line of

his haughty, superbly handsome face.

He had no eyes for anyone else but Madam Dolores, save that now and

then his gaze strayed to the box where Ronald Valchester sat in the

shadow of the heavily-fringed curtains, and a gleam of satanic rage

and hatred transfigured the dusky beauty of his proud face. Once or

twice he opened the note he held and read it over with a grim and

deadly smile upon his lips. It was a challenge to a duel; and as Gerald

Huntington sat there feasting his eyes on the beauty of the _prima

donna_, and filling his heart with the magic sweetness of her voice, he

knew that it was quite probable that this was the last time he might

ever behold her charming face.

The play was over at last. The storm of hot-house bouquets had rained

upon the stage at the feet of Madame Dolores. The curtain had fallen,

the lights were dim. She had passed to her carriage with downcast eyes

that did not see the two men who waited outside the door, taking no

note of each other's presence in their eager desire that one glance

from those dark eyes might fall upon them. But they lingered in vain.

The long lashes did not lift from the white cheeks. The closing door

shut her in from their sight. The two men who loved her, each in his

own fashion, left the scene disappointed and sad, while Jaquelina

rode home to spend the long hours of the night in a weary, sleepless

vigil. She was wondering over and over in a weary, dazed way if Ronald

Valchester would take her at her word and marry Violet.

"If he marries her--poor Violet," she said to herself, sadly and

tearfully, "I wish to be quite out of the country before it takes

place."

Then it came to her mind that perhaps she was selfish in the wish.

"Not that I wish it not to be," she said. "I pity poor Violet, and I

pity Ronald. He will learn to love her in time. She is fair and sweet.

They may be happy yet."

She walked up and down the floor in her long, white dressing-gown, her

dark hair trailing loosely over her shoulders, a pathetic despair in

the dark eyes and in the droop of the red lips.

"They may be happy," she repeated, "happy--while I--oh, God!" with a

sudden gesture of wild despair; "oh, God! how much longer must I live

to bear my burden of sorrow?"

She fell upon the floor, and lay there moaning and weeping for long

hours. It was not often that tears came to those dark eyes, but

to-night the sealed fountains of sorrow were unclosed, and the quick,

refreshing tear-drops came quick and fast. They relieved her. They

seemed to cool the fever of her blood, and lift the burden that weighed

so heavily on her heart.

No sleep came to the dark eyes that night. When her maid came to

call her the next morning, she found her sitting wearily in a great

cushioned arm-chair, her dark hair flowing about her in waving masses,

her dark eyes fixed on vacancy with a grief, more pathetic than tears,

in their shadowy depths.

"Oh, my dear lady, you have not been in bed all night," she cried in

dismay.

Jaquelina looked at her in kind of vacant surprise.

"Why, Fanchette, is it morning?" she asked, looking around at the drawn

curtains and the flaring gas-light.

"Oh, yes, madam, and here's a note which has just come for you, so I

thought I had better bring it in, and not wait for your bell to ring,

as it is getting late."

Jaquelina took the delicately scented note and opened it almost

mechanically. It was an incoherent scrawl from Violet Earle.

"Oh, Lina, Lina!" it ran. "I told you you had ruined all our lives by

coming back. That terrible Gerald Huntington has murdered our poor

Walter this morning. He has spoken but once, and then only to ask for

you. Come at once."

CHAPTER XXXIV.

The Earles were not staying at a hotel. They were at the residence of

a distant relative in a fashionable quarter of the city. Violet had

inclosed her address, and the _prima donna_ drove there immediately,

full of grief and horror over Walter's dreadful fate.

Violet met her in the elegant drawing-room. The beautiful blonde

looking pale, wan and distracted in the dim morning light. Her blue

morning robe was all in disorder, her golden hair was disarranged,

there were dark circles beneath her eyes, and the soft, blue orbs were

drowned in tears.

"Oh, Lina, Lina! I told you so!" she cried, breaking into wild,

hysterical weeping. "You have made us all wretched! You have caused

poor Walter's death! Oh my brother, my brother!"

Jaquelina stood irresolute in the center of the room, her lips

quivering at Violet's passionate charge.

"Oh, Violet, don't!" she cried, lifting her white hands as if to ward

off a blow. "I have done nothing! I love you all. I would give my life

to make you and Ronald and Walter happy. Tell me of Walter. He is not

dead--he will not die! Oh, Violet, do not tell me so! I could not bear

it!"

"There has been a duel," Violet cried. "They met outside of the city

this morning, and fought. That dreadful man--your husband--shot Walter,

and got away himself. We did not know one thing, Lina, till they

brought our poor boy home."

"Dead?" Jaquelina asked, with pitiful anguish in face and voice.

"Not dead--but--dying--we fear," wept Violet, wildly.

The beautiful singer knelt by the side of the agitated girl, who had

thrown herself down on a silken couch, sobbing and weeping in utter

hysterical abandonment. She put her arms around her, and drew the

golden head to a resting-place upon her breast.

"Oh, Violet," she murmured, smoothing back the disheveled tresses with

gentle fingers, "do not give way so utterly. Try to be calm. It may not

be so bad as you think. I cannot believe that Walter will die. He is

young and strong. Let us pray that God will spare his life."

There was some moments of utter silence. Violet's grief had spent

itself for awhile. She lay passive on Jaquelina's tender breast, her

golden eyelids resting on her pallid cheeks.

The delicate lips of the _prima donna_ moved silently for a little

while, as if in prayer--perhaps for the wounded man who lay up stairs

breathing painfully and shortly. Then she spoke:

"Violet, you will tell me how it all came about? Why did they fight?"

"It was for your sake, Lina," Violet replied, moving uneasily from the

clasp of her arm and opening her eyes a moment.

"For my sake?" Lina cried, with white lips. "Oh, Violet, I do not

understand."

"Read this," and Violet put a note into her hand. "Walter left it on

his dressing-table this morning for me. I found it a little while ago."

Walter had written as follows:

"DEAR SISTER:--I have challenged Gerald Huntington, and am gone to

fight him this morning. I saw him at the opera night before last,

and yesterday I sent him a challenge. I have taken Ronald's quarrel

on myself. It would not have been right for Ronald to fight him,

because if he had killed Lina's husband it would have been wrong for

him to marry Lina. So, without Ronald's knowledge, I have taken up

Ronald's quarrel. I hope I shall kill the villain, and then Lina will

be free to marry Valchester. I love Lina so dearly I cannot bear to

see her unhappy. If I kill Huntington I shall fly to a foreign land.

If he kills me I shall have done all I could to help my darling to

happiness. In either case, Violet, you must tell her that I did it

for her sake."

Lina's tears fell quick and fast on those brave, pathetic words.

"Oh, poor--poor Walter!" she exclaimed. "And he has asked for me,

Violet?"

"Yes," Violet replied. "Will you go to him now, Lina?"

"Yes," with a slight shudder of dread at what she was about to see.

Violet led her up a richly-carpeted stairway into a darkened, luxurious

chamber, where the wounded man lay among the snowy pillows, watched by

a skillful surgeon and careful nurses.

Jaquelina went up to the bed. She did not see Ronald Valchester draw

back quickly into the shadow of the bed-curtains in fear that it might

pain her to see him there.

Walter lay white and still upon the bed, his fair, curling locks

brushed back, the long lashes lying on his pale cheeks like one asleep;

but at the soft swish of Jaquelina's silken robe he opened his eyes and

looked at her.

"Oh, Walter, I am so sorry!" she cried. "Oh, why--why did you do it?"

"Lina, it was for your sake," he replied.

"You should not have done it; it was all wrong," she cried out,

quickly.

"Lina, do not blame me," he said, weakly; "I could not help it. I am so

sorry for you, dear."

Jaquelina pressed the hand she held impulsively to her lips.

"I remembered what you said," Walter continued, in feeble

accents--"that life had given you all save happiness--and I would so

gladly have given you that, too, Lina."

"Oh, Walter, you have a noble heart!" she cried, and a faint smile

curved his lips.

"But I have failed," he said, so sadly. "I have utterly failed, and the

only pleasant thought I have in dying is that I have given my life in

the attempt to make you and Ronald happy."

"You will not die, Walter--you must not!" she cried. "I should feel as

if I had murdered you! You must try to get well again!"

Walter shook his head in silence, and Lina looked around at the surgeon.

"Oh, sir, he will get well--will he not?" she exclaimed, pleadingly.

"I hope so," he answered, gravely; but her quick ear detected the tone

of doubt in his voice.

She looked down at the handsome, white face on the pillow. He was so

young, and life held so much for him; yet he was dying--dying for her.

"Walter, you must not go away from us like this! Live--_for me_!"

Walter's dim eyes flashed wide open, full of eager joy.

"Lina!" he exclaimed, incredulously.

"I mean it!" she whispered, gently. "Try to live, Walter, and as soon

as I can be relieved of those galling fetters that bind me I will be

your own. I will be as generous as you are. You were willing to give me

your life--now I will give you mine."

"Lina, I must not accept such a sacrifice from you," he whispered,

almost too weak to refuse the promise she gave so unselfishly.

But Lina murmured with a sad, pretty attempt at archness:

"You must not refuse a lady's hand when she offers it to you herself,

Mr. Earle."

Walter's face was radiant with joy and hope as he pressed her hand and

whispered:

"If I accept it, Lina, it is not through selfishness, but because if

I live I believe that my great love cannot fail in time to make you

happy."

"May God spare your life, Walter," she whispered from the depths of her

grateful, generous heart.

Then, as she turned her head aside quickly to hide the pain that came

into her face at the thought of that other dearer love that might have

made her life so fair, she suddenly encountered Ronald Valchester's

eyes looking straight into her own.

There was in that straining gaze a look of dumb and hopeless agony that

Jaquelina never forgot to her dying day. The beautiful, blue-gray eyes

that expressed, as eyes of another color never can, the lights and

shades of feeling, were fixed on hers with a yearning pathos that went

straight to her heart.

Then Ronald turned quickly and went from the room. It was all in

a moment. Walter had taken no notice. With his glad eyes fixed on

Jaquelina's face he was praying silently that his life might be spared

to him.

* * * * *

When Jaquelina was leaving, almost an hour later, she found Ronald

Valchester waiting on the pavement to hand her to her carriage.

When she was seated, he held her hand a moment in his own and bent

forward to speak to her.

"Lina," he said, hurriedly, "I meant to go south to-day as you wish

me, but that will be impossible now. I cannot desert Walter. He is my

dearest friend, and when I was wounded three years ago he nursed me

like a brother. Can you endure my presence a little longer?"

"I _must_ bear it--as I have done many things," she said, with her

white hand on her heart. "You must not forsake your friend."

Then she lifted her haunting, dark eyes to his face.

"Ronald, you are not angry with me," she said, wistfully. "Walter has

loved me through long years. And I could never be yours, you know."

He shook his head with white, pain-drawn lips.

"And Violet?" she said to him, questioningly.

"I spoke to her--a little while ago," he said. "It was only because

_you_ wished it, Lina. She will be my wife."

He felt, rather than saw the shiver that ran over the slender form of

the _prima donna_.

"When I marry her," he added, after a moment, "I shall take her far

away, Lina. I think it best--as you said--to put the whole width of the

world between you and me forever."

She bowed speechlessly. The blue-gray-eyes--black now with a yearning

love and fathomless despair--looked into hers gloomily a moment, then

the carriage-door clanged heavily between them, the carriage-wheels

echoed "low on the sand and loud on the stone."

CHAPTER XXXV.

"Ronald, there is something I should like to tell you," Walter Earle

said to his friend, with a hesitating air, when they found themselves

alone a little while that evening.

Ronald Valchester looked at the handsome face lying on the lace-trimmed

pillow. Despite its pallor it wore a look of triumphant happiness.

"Walter, you need not tell me," he said, with outward calmness. "I have

heard. Allow me to congratulate you."

"Thank you," Walter replied; then he looked at the calm, inscrutable

face.

"Ronald, I hope you do not blame me," the wounded man went on,

anxiously; "I have always loved her, but I would not have taken her

from you, only you know you never could have married her with your

views of divorce. But as I think differently from you I cannot believe

I am wrong to marry her when I am better, and she is free."

"I do not blame you in the least," answered Ronald Valchester. "If I

had known all the time how well you loved her, Walter, I must have

marveled at your persistent efforts to convert me to your own belief

that a legal divorce makes men and women free to marry again."

"If I could convert you even now," said Walter, earnestly, "I would

resign her to you the very moment in which she is free."

"You cannot convert me, Walter," Ronald answered with a sad smile. "God

only knows what I have suffered through this belief of mine, but I

cannot change it, nor act inconsistently with it. Yet I could not ask

Lina to remain alone all her life because my own views are at variance

with the rest of the world, or a majority of it, at least. I hope that

you may make her very happy."

"I shall try, certainly," Walter said, earnestly. "If I recover, and

I feel as if I cannot die now, with this prospect of happiness in the

future, I shall marry Lina as soon as Professor Larue has secured a

divorce for her. I shall take her back to Laurel Hill, and spend my

life in trying to win her heart and make her happy."

"And I," said Ronald, with brave composure, "shall marry Violet as soon

as you are well enough to go to church with us. Then we shall make our

home across the sea in sunny Italy."

Walter Earle rose feebly on his elbow and stared at his friend.

"Marry Violet--marry Violet," he cried, incredulously.

"Yes--I asked her to-day, and she said she would be my wife."

"You do not love her?" Walter exclaimed, bewildered.

"Not yet," the poet confessed, flushing slightly, at Walter's surprised

gaze.

"Why marry her then?"

"Lina wished me to do so," Ronald replied, with gentle frankness.

"Lina wished it--I do not understand--explain yourself."

They looked at each other in silence a moment, then Ronald answered

gravely and gently:

"I will tell you, Walter. Lina had found out a fact which I--foolish

dreamer that I am--had never suspected. Pretty Violet cared for me a

little, and could only be happy as my wife."

"Dear little Lina; and she asked you to sacrifice yourself for Violet's

happiness," said Walter, deeply moved.

"She wished me to marry Violet; perhaps she thought in making another's

happiness I might find my own," Ronald answered, in the same gentle

tone.

Walter's face brightened.

"Who knows but that you will," he exclaimed. "My sister has loved you

deeply for years, Ronald. God grant that she may win your heart and

make you happy in spite of yourself. How strange! You are to marry

Violet, I am to marry Lina. And yet in this way the tangled web of our

destinies may be straightened out at last."

After the first day or two of terrible suspense and anxiety, no

one doubted in the least that Walter would recover from his wound.

Happiness had a magical effect upon him. He mended rapidly.

The weeks waned, and the _prima donna's_ engagement with Manager Verne

was drawing to its close. She refused to renew it, although he offered

her a prince's ransom for another month. Walter had begged her to

give up a public life, and she had assented wearily and listlessly.

Professor Larue had been shocked and disconcerted at her resolve, but

she had told him for the first time all her sad story, and begged him

to forgive her for disappointing his hopes. The end of it all was that

Professor Larue espoused her cause, heart and soul. In the heat of his

indignation he vowed that he would shoot Gerald Huntington, if he could

find the villain.

It was not easy to find Gerald Huntington, however. Professor Larue

speedily found that out for himself. As the next best thing, he set

himself to work to secure a divorce for his beloved ward. He found

it even easier than he had expected. That bond forged by fraud and

violence, was held of little account in the eyes of the law. The day

came speedily when Professor Larue and his lawyer came smiling into the

_prima donna's_ presence to congratulate her and tell her that she was

free.

She was free! Walter Earle had convalesced so fast that he was well

enough to go to church now, and he pressed for an early marriage.

Jaquelina yielded hesitatingly, and the happy day was named for one

week after. Wednesday was to behold her last triumphant appearance upon

the stage. Thursday she was to breathe the solemn vows that would make

her the wife of Walter Earle. Ronald Valchester and his mother had

returned to Richmond. The date of his return to New York and the time

for his marriage were unfixed as yet, though Mrs. Valchester and Violet

secretly hoped it would not be long delayed.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

It was Wednesday night. Madame Dolores stood bowing before the eager,

admiring throng that greeted her farewell appearance. Some of her

romantic story had been noised abroad. It was rumored that the morrow

would behold her a bride, and there were not a few who envied the

fortunate bride-groom.

Walter Earle and his sister occupied a private box as usual. He looked

pale and thin still, but very handsome and happy, and his blue eyes

dwelt adoringly on the brilliant beauty of his promised bride. Violet,

sitting beside him in rich and costly attire, had never looked more

lovely.

"How perfectly beautiful Lina looks to-night," she whispered to her

brother. "To look at her now, she does not seem like the Lina Meredith

of five years ago. Do you remember how tanned and bashful and shabby

she was then? To-night she is the most beautiful woman I ever saw, and

her jewels are worth a fortune. I never saw such magnificent diamonds."

Then the curtain rose and the glorious voice of Madame Dolores filled

the vast theater with entrancing melody. They turned their attention to

the stage again.

It seemed to the _prima donna's_ admirers that she sang and acted more

splendidly than ever that night. They looked and listened in rapt,

spell-bound admiration, dreading for the moment to arrive when that

heavy curtain should fall between her and the public forever.

There was one scene, perhaps the most interesting and thrilling of the

whole opera, where the heroine knelt weeping and praying at the feet of

a cruel and relentless husband. Madame Dolores was always grand in this

scene. The whole audience leaned forward now, breathless and eager, as

the curtain rose upon this favorite part of the opera.

The scene was laid in a dim, Moorish garden in the shadow of a ruined

temple, bathed in the mystic beams of moonlight. Before the broken

archway a tall, dark, haughty man stood with folded arms looking

down at the suppliant kneeling on the ground, her loose, white robe

dishevelled, her dark hair broken from its fillets of gold, and flowing

in careless tresses around her, half hiding her slender form in its

luxuriant veil. At a little distance stood a lovely little siren who

had lured the fickle man from his rightful love and duty. His eyes were

fixed on her, not on his sorrowful, pleading wife.

At that moment, when the attention of the whole vast throng was

concentrated in intense silence upon the scene, there suddenly broke

through the back of the stage a vast and terrible sheet of flame that

lighted the whole scene with a crimson, deadly glare. A tumultuous

shriek of horror and despair rose from the throng, and the actors

rushed wildly forward toward the footlights in a frenzied effort at

escape. The _prima donna's_ foot became entangled in her flowing robe,

she swayed and fell forward across the footlights that instantly licked

the soft folds of her dress into a winding sheet of flame.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

There ensued a panic that baffled description. One impulse moved the

whole excited, shrieking throng--they surged forward madly toward the

doors and windows, bent on escape.

They were like maniacs for the time. The weak fell down beneath the

feet of the strong, and were heedlessly trampled, while groans and

cries, sometimes mixed with curses, divided the shuddering air.

Violet Earle had shrieked and fainted in the arms of her half-maddened

brother. There was not one to avert the awful fate of her who a single

moment before had held every heart enchained by the power of her beauty

and genius.

Yes, there was one--one only, it seemed. In an instant after the

terrible flames had wrapped their fiery tongues around the slender form

of the _prima donna_ a man sprang over the footlights upon the stage

at one rapid bound from the parquette floor.

He had caught up a heavy camel's-hair shawl, dropped by a lady in her

hurried flight. Rushing forward, utterly heedless of the advancing

flames that scorched his face and his hair, he threw the heavy shawl

over the blazing form and smothered out the fire. Then, lifting

the senseless girl in his arms, he made his way with the greatest

difficulty to a door and forced his way through the striving mass of

human beings out upon the thronged pavement.

The _prima donna's_ carriage was waiting on the pavement, and Professor

Larue, who had come with it a minute before, was darting frantically up

and down ceaselessly around the doors of the doomed building.

Afterward Professor Larue told how a tall man with a face so blackened

with fire and soot as to be quite unrecognizable, had put Jaquelina

into his arms and fallen fainting on the pavement.

Someone had attended to him--he could not tell who--for he had been so

distracted with grief and horror over the tragic fate of his ward he

had not waited to see, but all inquiry afterward failed to discover the

rescuer of the _prima donna_. No one had recognized him, no one knew

where he went, or whence he came.

Professor Larue in the gratitude of his heart wished to discover him

and reward him generously, but his persistent inquiries through the

personal column of the _Herald_ elicited no reply. The man was modest

as well as brave. He did not wish to be known.

Walter Earle had had a most terrible time getting his unconscious

sister out of the building; his heart was distracted with grief

over the tragic fate which had overtaken his darling. But for the

encumbrance of his sister he would have rushed out in an attempt to

reach Jaquelina through that struggling mass of maddened humanity. But

Violet lay like an inert, helpless burden on his hands. It was only by

superhuman efforts that he ever reached the outer world with her. Then

when he had put her in a carriage, taken her home, and had seen her

revive, he drove rapidly back to the theater.

They told him there that a stranger had leaped upon the burning stage

and smothered the flames that enveloped the _prima donna_.

"She was saved from that terrible holocaust of flame, then," Walter

cried out, almost wild with the joy of the tidings.

But no one could tell him whether Madame Dolores was living or not. Her

rescuer had carried her out of the burning building and placed her in

the arms of Professor Larue. He had carried her away, and no one knew

anything further as yet. Walter drove to the hotel where the professor

and his wife were staying with their ward. He sent up his card and the

professor came down to him.

They looked at each other silently a moment, then Walter breathed

"Lina?" through white lips that could scarcely utter that simple name.

Professor Larue shook his head sadly.

"Do not tell me she is dead!" Walter exclaimed, in an agony of fear and

dread.

"She lives," the professor answered, "if a mere wavering breath may be

called living. But she is horribly, horribly burned, and her sufferings

are fearful. Half a dozen doctors are with her this moment. They will

save her life if it is possible to accomplish it."

"Thank God, she lives," Walter exclaimed, and hurried away to carry the

welcome news to Violet, while the almost heart-broken old professor

hurried back to that quiet chamber where the angels of life and death

were striving together over Jaquelina Meredith's scorched and writhing

frame.

So the _prima donna's_ bridal day dawned dark and gloomy, and overcast,

and Jaquelina lay upon her couch of pain, swathed from head to foot in

bandages of linen, while the breath of life wavered unevenly between

the pallid, parted lips, and every gasp was one of almost unendurable

anguish.

And the morning papers which chronicled the particulars of the great

fire, told the public that Madam Dolores would live, but she had been

so horribly burned, even to her face and hands, that her beauty would

be marred and ruined forever. The physicians were of the opinion that

her exquisite voice would be destroyed also. She would be a perfect

physical wreck.

"I do not believe it!" Walter Earle cried out in passionate unbelief,

and he went to the physicians and asked them for the truth. They were

very sorry for him, but they confirmed the newspaper reports. They

believed that Madame Dolores would carry those terrible scars on her

face to the grave, and they did not think it possible that she would

ever sing again.

"I would rather she had died than lose all her charms!" Walter cried to

his own heart, in a perfect fever of regret and despair, and he went to

the hotel and begged Mrs. Larue to let him see Jaquelina if but for a

moment.

The professor's wife refused flatly. She said that Lina was far too ill

to see anyone, and that the lightest footstep in the room set her wild

with nervous pain. He must wait. It would be some time--three weeks,

perhaps--before he could be admitted to the room.

Almost distracted with his trouble, the young man returned to Violet

who was still suffering from the effects of her last night's shock

and excitement. He was surprised to find Ronald Valchester in the

drawing-room with his sister--Ronald, looking pale and ill, with his

right arm carried in a sling.

"Ronald--you here!" he cried. "How glad I am to see you! When did you

arrive?"

"Last night," said Ronald briefly.

"You changed your mind about coming to my marriage, did you not?"

Ronald smiled and did not reply.

"Oh, Ronald, is it not terrible?" cried Walter. "My poor little Lina.

Her beautiful voice and her beautiful face ruined forever!"

"Her life is spared, at least," Ronald answered, in a low, grateful

voice.

"If I had been Lina I would rather have died than have lost my voice

and my beauty," cried Violet. "She will have nothing left to live for

now."

"She will have Walter's love," said Ronald Valchester gravely, and

Violet saw that he was regarding her with a slight air of surprise.

"Oh, yes, I had forgotten that," she said quickly. "But it is dreadful

for Walter. He is such a beauty-worshiper, and he thought Lina the most

beautiful girl he ever saw."

Walter changed the conversation quickly by asking Ronald what was

wrong with his arm that he wore it in a sling, and his friend replied

briefly that he had been hurt by a slight accident. That was all the

explanation he volunteered.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

The day came when Jaquelina was well enough to sit up in her darkened

chamber again.

Then they sent word to Violet Earle that she might come to see her one

day and Walter the next.

Ronald Valchester had gone back to Richmond on the same day that he had

heard that Jaquelina would live.

Violet had fretted about him continually. She had never been quite well

since the night of the fire. The terrible shock had wakened her nerves,

and her heart. She was anxious to go back to Laurel Hill, but Walter

would not hear of such a thing yet.

"Not until Lina is better," he urged. "When she is well enough to

travel we will be quietly married, and then we will take her back to

Laurel Hill with us."

Violet grew very impatient in the weary weeks of waiting. She fancied

she would see Ronald oftener if she were only back in Virginia. He

wrote to her sometimes--simple, friendly notes such as he had written

her from abroad two years before, but he had never asked her to name

the wedding-day yet. She was very glad when they sent her word that

Jaquelina was well enough to receive a visit from her.

"They should have given me the first chance of paying her a visit,"

complained Walter.

He did not know that Jaquelina had purposely planned it so.

She wished that Violet would break to him the news of her changed

appearance before he saw her himself.

Violet went away from that visit to the darkened, invalid chamber

awed and saddened, and a little self-reproachful. She remembered how

bitterly she had used to hate Jaquelina for that dazzling beauty that

had won Ronald Valchester's heart. Of all that wondrous charm there

remained only a memory now.

"She is an object to pity and sympathize with, but never to admire

again," she told her brother in the first shock of his disappointment.

Walter's handsome face grew pale with dread and sorrow.

"You must prepare yourself for a great alteration, Walter," Violet

continued. "Her face is red and scarred, her hair is all burned off

short, even her long lashes are scorched and spoiled. It will be some

time before anyone can look at her without a shudder. You may love your

wife, Walter, but you can never be proud of her."

Walter shuddered at her emphatic words.

"Do not tell me any more, Violet," he groaned. "I cannot bear it. You

only torture me. Let me find it out for myself."

"If you cannot bear to hear of it I do not know how you will bear the

terrible reality," retorted Violet.

Walter could not answer her. He longed yet dreaded for the morrow.

The first thing he saw when he was ushered into Jaquelina's presence

was her portrait hanging against the wall. It had been painted by the

first artist in Italy. A few pale beams of winter sunshine stole in

through the closed curtains and shone on the beautiful pictured face,

touching it with a life-like glow. Then Walter looked away from it and

saw a little figure in a quilted morning-wrapper of dark, gray satin,

huddled into an easy-chair before the fire.

Walter went up to his betrothed. He saw that some uncontrollable

impulse had caused her to bury her poor scarred face in her small,

gloved hands. The short, soft, dark hair was hidden beneath a little

cap of fine muslin and lace.

"Lina, my darling," he cried out in a voice of yearning pain, and she

looked up reluctantly at her lover.

Then Walter saw that even Violet's words had not prepared him for the

sorrowful reality.

To have saved his life he could not have repressed the groan of

anguish that sight wrung from his lips. He had so loved that bright,

fascinating beauty, he had been so proud of it when she had promised to

be his own. Now at this moment it seemed to him that the girl he had

loved was dead and buried, and this an utter stranger who looked up at

him with that poor scarred face, and those dim and sad, dark eyes.

"Sit down, Mr. Earle," she said, gently. "It is even worse than you

imagined, is it not?"

"Yes," he answered, like one dazed, then started, ashamed of his candor.

"Oh! forgive me, Lina," he cried, "I am talking like a brute."

He sat down then and tried not to look at the poor face that reminded

him of a blighted flower. But some irresistible fascination drew his

own gaze to meet the wistful eyes that had lost all their brightness

now and were dim and misty with pain and weakness.

"Do I look at all like my old self?" she asked him, and he answered

almost bluntly:

"No."

In the next breath he went on in a kind of passionate despair:

"Oh, Lina, you were so beautiful, and I loved your beauty so well. It

almost kills me to see how utterly you have lost it."

"Did you prize my poor beauty so much?" she inquired, with a faint sigh.

She read his answer in the anguished eyes he turned upon her face. She

saw that in losing her peerless beauty she had lost her charm for him.

After a moment she said, gently and gravely:

"The physicians believe that my face is spoiled forever, Walter. They

are not sure but the shock and the illness have ruined my voice, also.

How could you bear to have a wife whom you must always pity for her

misfortunes, but could never worship for her fairness?"

He did not answer, but Jaquelina saw that the words had touched a

tender spot in his heart. He bit his lips beneath his fair mustache,

and an anxious gleam came into his blue eyes.

"I have been looking at my poor marred face in the glass," she went on,

in her low, sad voice, "and I came to the conclusion that no one could

ever love me any more. It is not fair to hold you to your promise now.

I will give you back your freedom, Walter, if you will accept it from

me."

"Lina!"

She scarcely understood whether it was relief or reproach that quivered

in his quick exclamation.

"It shall be just as you wish," she said, quickly. "If you claim my

promise, I am yours. If I have lost your love in losing my beauty, you

are free."

"Lina, would it pain you if I take you at your word?" he asked in a

low, abashed voice.

"No," she answered, with gentle frankness.

"You would not despise me?" he asked, anxiously, without looking at her.

"No," she said again.

He looked at her a moment, half irresolute.

"Do not fear to express your preference," she said, gently. "Either way

I stand willing to abide by the consequences."

"Then, Lina, since you are so generous, I will take my freedom,"

he blurted out, looking away from her, very red and ashamed. "I am

unworthy of you, my dear. I see now that it was only your beauty that

held me in thrall. Can you forgive me for being so weak and shallow?"

"I am not angry with you, Mr. Earle," she replied, gently. "Most men

would have felt the same--would they not?" but in her heart she felt

that there was one, at least, whose fealty would not have faltered.

"Yes, most men would, I think," he replied, and when he had made Lina

promise that she would still remain his friend, he went away to tell

Violet what had occurred.

"It was a weak and shallow love after all," she mused, when she was

thus left alone by her recreant lover. "I am glad he has found it out

in time, and I am--oh, so glad that I need not marry Walter Earle."

And with clasped hands Jaquelina thanked God for the accident which had

deprived her of all her charms and set her free from her engagement,

for she had realized from the first that there could be nothing more

galling in life than the bonds she had forged in her gratitude for

Walter's brave quarrel with Gerald Huntington.

Yet life looked very long and lonely to the tearful, dark eyes as she

sat there musing. She began to realise that love--beautiful love--had

gone out of her life forever.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

Violet Earle was not surprised at her brother's action. She was

rather relieved by it. The first shock over, she was rather glad that

Jaquelina had lost all her charms. Ronald Valchester had nothing to

regret now. The beauty he had loved was lost forever.

The day before she returned home, she went to see Jaquelina. She was

curious to know what her generous rival proposed to do with her blank

and ruined life.

"Do you really intend to return to Europe as you said you would?" she

asked her.

"Yes, I am going back after awhile," Jaquelina answered, "but first, I

am going to pay a visit to Virginia. I have had a letter from my Uncle

Meredith, and he has invited me to pay him a visit."

"I do not believe you would enjoy a visit to Meredith Farm," said

Violet, quickly. "Mr. Meredith has become involved in debt, somehow,

and there is a mortgage on the whole estate. His wife is crosser than

ever, and she has two more children."

"Yes, I know, Uncle Charlie wrote me about all his troubles," Jaquelina

answered, simply, "and I will tell you what I mean to do, Violet. I

shall pay off the mortgage on the farm, and settle twenty-five thousand

dollars on Uncle Meredith, so that he may get a new start in life."

Pretty Violet, rustling in her silks and furs, looked at her with

incredulous surprise.

"Lina, you are not in earnest?" she said.

"Yes, I am quite in earnest. I have more money than I know what to do

with, and I am going to help Uncle Charlie out of his difficulty."

"They have not been so kind to you, Lina, that you need trouble

yourself over them," said Violet, her mind going back to the old days

when Jaquelina had been the patient nurse and drudge, neglected and

uncared for.

"I know," said Lina. "I have not forgotten the past, but I am sorry

for them all the same. And then, too, Violet, you must remember," her

voice sank slightly lower, "I can never have any more happiness in life

except what I can make for others."

Violet and her brother returned south the next day. Violet had promised

Mrs. Valchester to spend a few days with her in Richmond before she

went to Laurel Hill. She felt quite sure of having Ronald all to

herself then. What was her dismay to find him preparing to leave for

New York again the very day she arrived in Richmond?

"Were you growing impatient at my lengthened stay?" she asked him,

fondly. "It was Walter that kept me. I was very anxious to get back to

you."

"I thought Walter intended to have brought back a bride with him,"

ignoring her first question.

"Oh! did not Walter tell you?" she cried out, carelessly. "The

engagement is off."

"I do not think I understand you," Ronald replied.

"The engagement is broken--they are not to be married," she explained.

"Why not?" gravely.

"Oh, Mr. Valchester, she is so changed, you know," said Violet, a

little disconcerted by his grave eyes. "She has lost her voice and

her beauty. She offered Walter his freedom, and he was glad enough to

accept it."

"I could not have believed it of Walter!" said Ronald Valchester,

sturdily.

"Oh, Mr. Valchester, she is a perfect fright! You would not blame

Walter if you could see how she looks!" cried Violet, warmly defending

Walter's course.

Ronald said no more. He had turned to go.

"You are not going to New York now! What is the use, when I am already

here?" she cried, in dismay.

Then Ronald answered, with a slight flush:

"Excuse me, Violet. At the risk of seeming rude, I must tell you I was

not going after you exactly. I am publishing another volume of poetry,

and I was going to New York on urgent business."

"You were going to see Jaquelina!" Violet broke out, in a sudden

passion of anger and jealousy. And then she threw herself on a sofa and

burst into bitter weeping.

Ronald stood looking at her in amazement. He did not kneel down by her

and kiss away the tears, as she expected him to do. He said, sadly and

gravely:

"Violet, this is quite unworthy of you. You must remember that Lina

herself gave me to you."

"I have small pleasure in the gift," she retorted. "I but seldom see

you."

The passionate complaint opened Ronald's eyes. He bent down and touched

his affianced's cheek with his lips while he said, quietly:

"Violet, when I return from New York I shall ask you to name our

wedding day. You must think about it while I am gone."

"When--when will you return?" sobbed Violet, with a smile struggling

through her tears.

"In about two weeks, I think," said Ronald.

"Two weeks longer; I shall be gone to Laurel Hill before that time,"

she said, disappointed.

"I do not think I can get back any sooner than that," he answered, "but

I will come to Laurel Hill as soon as I return."

"You promise," she said, "faithfully?"

"I promise faithfully," he replied, with a slight smile at her anxiety.

He went away and Violet was obliged to content herself with the thought

of seeing him again in two weeks. She returned to her mountain home

where she found her father very glad to see her again. In a week's time

she heard that Jaquelina Meredith had returned to the farm on a visit

to her uncle.

CHAPTER XL.

"May I see you for a little while, Lina? I have important news for you."

It was two weeks after Jaquelina had come to the farm-house that she

stood holding Ronald Valchester's card in her trembling hand and

reading the few lines scribbled upon it. Her uncle Charlie had brought

it to her. He told her that Mr. Valchester was waiting outside.

She started up nervously when Mr. Meredith gave her Ronald's card, and

told her that he was waiting to see her. An impulse came over her to

decline to grant him the interview he asked.

"He has come to tell me when he will be married to Violet," she said to

her wildly beating heart. "I--I am not so strong as I thought I was--I

do not believe I could bear it. It was cruel to come. I should not have

thought it of Ronald. He must have known how it would hurt me. Oh! I

should not have come here--so near to the sight of Violet's happiness."

Then it crossed her mind that she was weak and selfish. She had begged

him to marry Violet. She must be brave enough to bear what she had

caused.

"Uncle Charlie, you may tell him to come in," she said, with lips that

trembled strangely.

Then when he had gone out and closed the door she drooped into a chair

and hid her poor, marred face in her hands. She could not bear for

Ronald Valchester to behold it in its changed and altered guise.

She heard the door open softly, then Ronald's unforgotten step as he

crossed the floor. She could not look up. He knelt down beside her and

took one of the hands that hid her face and held it tightly in his own.

"Lina, look at me," he said, in a voice that was as tender as a caress.

"Do not be afraid to show me your sad affliction."

Jaquelina looked up with something like a sob into the handsome,

thoughtful face of her lost lover. It was beaming with an eager joy

and tenderness that was like the expression she remembered on it in

the brief, happy summer of their betrothal. Even when he saw the face

that had frightened Walter Earle's love away, no change came into the

blue-gray eyes fixed on her with such adoring love blent with such

sweet seriousness.

"Lina, do not grieve for the beauty you have lost," he said. "I am so

thankful that your life is spared that all else is of little account."

The sad dark eyes regarded him in wonder.

"Yes, darling," he said, with a smile into the wondering eyes; "all

that you have suffered only makes you dearer to my heart."

She pulled her small hand from his clasp and tried to rise.

"Mr. Valchester, you must not speak to me so," she cried. "You forget

Violet--you forget everything."

"I forget nothing," he returned. "Listen, Lina, I did not come here

simply to pain you. I have news for you. Gerald Huntington is dead."

CHAPTER XLI.

At those words from her lover's lips Jaquelina gasped for breath like

one dying. Her head fell heavily back against her chair, and her

eyelids closed. Ronald bent over her in surprise and alarm.

"Lina, did I tell you too suddenly?" he exclaimed, chafing the limp and

nerveless hands. "Forgive me, I forgot how weak and nervous you must be

yet."

It was a shock to her, there could be no doubt of that. She lay silent

several minutes, her heart throbbing quick and fast. It was some little

while before she could speak. When she did, she uttered only one word

through pale lips:

"When?"

"Almost a week ago now," he replied. "Are you strong enough for me to

tell you about it, Lina?"

"Yes," she replied, and he drew a chair to her side.

"Will you suffer me to hold your hand while I am telling you, Lina?" he

inquired, fondly.

She seemed to be lost in thought for a moment, then she answered, with

a slight flush:

"No; I would rather you should not do so."

A troubled look came into the blue-gray eyes a moment as they rested on

the leaping flames of the fire; then he said, with apparent composure:

"You knew I had been in New York for two weeks, Lina?"

"No, I did not know it," she replied, surprised.

"True, how should you know it?" he said, half to himself. "Well, I was,

and last week Professor Larue called on me at my hotel."

"The dear old soul! I hope he was well," exclaimed Jaquelina, warmly.

"Yes, he was well," said Ronald Valchester, "and very impatient for

your return to New York. A dying man had sent for you, and when he

found that you were out of reach he called for me."

"You went?" said Lina, looking at him with wide, dark eyes.

"Yes, Lina. Judge of my surprise when, in an obscure and comfortless

abode in the suburbs of Brooklyn, I found the handsome outlaw, Gerald

Huntington, stretched upon his dying bed."

"Dying!" Jaquelina repeated after him, with something like awe in her

low voice.

"Yes, dying, but dying ashamed and repentant. There was a priest with

him. He passed away peacefully."

"And he sent for me?" the girl said, wonderingly.

"Yes, he sent for you, and he was very much disappointed and grieved

that you were too far away to come in time. He wished to ask your

forgiveness for the cowardly revenge he took upon you for the ill-turn

you did him once."

"I have been so sorry for it," she said, weakly, and blushing crimson.

"I was so young and untutored I did not think. It was all because I

needed the money so much. If I could have seen him on his dying bed I

would have asked him to forgive me my sin of ingratitude, and I must

have forgiven him for the revenge he took. I could not have refused to

forgive him when he was dying."

"Yes, I told him that," said Ronald. "I understood you so well, Lina,

I knew just what you would say and feel. I told him to rest quite easy

about that."

Lina thanked him with a grateful glance, quickly withdrawn.

"He had sinned against you, too," she said, tremulously. "That dreadful

wound! You forgave him, Ronald?"

"Freely," he replied; and then they were silent a moment, and Lina

looked at the softly falling snow through the windows, and Ronald

looked at her steadily and gravely.

He did not flinch as his eyes marked the scarred, discolored skin that

covered the once delicately lovely face.

After a pause Ronald said, gravely:

"Huntington had a confession to make to you, Lina."

"A confession?" she repeated, turning her dark eyes from the window to

look at him with grave surprise.

"Yes," he said. "You must have wondered, Lina, often and often, what

mysterious discovery caused him to give you up in the very moment when,

by violence he had made you his bride."

"I have wondered over it often. It was the happy cause that delivered

me from a life more bitter than death," she replied, with a shudder.

"He explained it to me, Lina, and perhaps I should leave the story

untold to you. Are you willing for me to do so?" he inquired.

Lina meditated a moment, then replied:

"I would prefer to hear it."

"Spoken like a true daughter of Eve," said her companion, with a slight

smile. "Very well, Lina, I will do as you say, but I fear it will pain

you to hear my story. And there is one thing you must promise me. You

will tell no one else?"

"Yes, I will promise that," she replied.

"Listen to a bit of the outlaw's history, then," he said. "In the first

place, his true name was not Gerald Huntington at all."

"Then what----" said Lina, and paused abruptly.

"It was an _alias_ he adopted when he fell into evil and wicked

courses. He belonged to a well-born family in France. He was not an

American, Lina--he was French."

Lina's eyes were a little startled as she looked up at him; a sight

pallor crept about her lips.

"He was the younger son of a man who was so severely just, Lina, and so

proud and passionate, withal, that his children feared him instead of

loving him. His eldest daughter ran away with a young American artist,

and died under Virginian skies in only a few brief months. His younger

son, maddened by the sternness and harshness of his only parent, also

ran away to America. He fell into temptation, yielded blindly to evil,

and cast aside forever, the noble name he had disgraced."

He paused, and Jaquelina regarded him with wild, wondering eyes.

"Lina, I need not tell you more," he said. "You can guess."

She lifted her small hands dizzily to her brow.

"Tell me yourself," she said. "I am so dazed it seems to me I cannot

understand unless I hear the very words."

He said them over, reluctantly enough:

"Gerald Huntington's true name is Ardelle. Your mother, little Lina,

was his elder sister. He was your own uncle. Your mother's jewelry

revealed your true identity to him that night."

A moan of pain came from the girl's white lips as she pressed her hand

to her brow.

"My own uncle!" she cried. "Oh, the shame and disgrace of it!"

"It is a buried secret," he replied. "No one will ever know! I promised

him that myself, Lina. He died repentant. I believe that a noble nature

was marred when Gerald Ardelle, with his princely beauty and glorious

intellect, fell into evil ways."

"But he died repentant," she murmured, hopefully.

"Yes, he was very sorry for his sins," replied Ronald. "He regretted

his sin against you the most of all."

After a moment he added, gently:

"His dearest wish, Lina, was that you and I might be re-united."

She put up her hands as if she could not bear the words.

"He was full of life and strength," she said. "Why did he die? What

killed him, Ronald?"

"You will not be shocked if I tell you?" he said, hesitatingly.

"I wish to know," she answered.

"He was in the theater the night you were burned," he answered in a low

voice. "He tried to save your life, dear. He leaped from the upper tier

into the parquette--fell, and was almost trampled to death beneath the

feet of the maddened multitude. He died a slow and painful death from

internal injuries."

"He died for me," Jaquelina cried in a voice of pain, and the tears

fell from her eyes for the man who had wrecked her life and given his

own so freely at last for her sake.

Ronald wiped those tears away, and when she could speak she said,

looking gravely at him:

"Ronald, who was it that saved my life? Tell me."

"No one knows," he replied, uneasily.

"Yes, Ronald, _I_ know--I have always known," she replied. "Ah, do not

blush. I have never breathed it to anyone, but I know that it was you

that saved me from death that night."

"I thought you insensible," he exclaimed, unconsciously admitting the

truth of her words.

"Ah, Ronald!" she cried, with sudden uncontrollable pain and passion.

"I was almost dead, but I knew whose arms held me, and whose lips

kissed me. It seems to me if I were dead and you touched me, even, I

should surely know it."

"Ah, Lina, my darling," he cried, "there are no barriers between us

now. All are broken. You will be my own at last!"

She looked at her lover with dark, despairing eyes and a death-white

face.

"You forget--Violet," she said, in a desolate whisper.

She saw a dark shadow come over the handsome, love-lighted face.

"Lina, I have not told you all that Gerald Huntington told me yet," he

said. "Do you remember that it was a disguised woman who liberated him

from prison?"

"Yes," she replied, wonderingly.

"It was Violet who connived at his escape, and furnished him the means

to get away safely. The price of her aid was that he should kidnap you

and prevent our marriage."

"I can scarcely believe it," cried the girl.

"It is quite true," he answered. "Gerald swore to it. Violet does not

deny it."

"You did not charge her with it?" the girl cried, in breathless dismay.

"Yes," he replied, firmly. "She was very angry at first, but when I

had talked to her awhile, she owned the truth. She had visited the

prisoner, and they had concocted their diabolical plan of revenge

together. She hated you, dear, because--she loved me."

"And she gave you back your freedom?" Lina said, with unconscious

hopefulness.

"Yes, when I had asked her," he answered, with a slight flush. "Her

offense had been too great for me to marry her. Do you blame me, Lina?"

She would not say, only asked him, anxiously:

"Was Violet repentant?"

"She was sorry she had been found out, and very angry with Gerald

Huntington for betraying the secret. I do not believe she has reached

the verge of repentance just yet."

"Poor Violet!" the girl said, with infinite compassion. "You will not

tell anyone about it, Ronald?"

"No, darling, I promised her I would not. Many people have secrets

hidden in their lives. This will be one in Violet's, and Gerald

Huntington's near kinship to you, will be one in yours. I did not even

tell Walter her story. I gave her the privilege of saying she had

jilted me. You will not mind taking a man who has been jilted, will

you, Lina?"

She looked at the handsome, happy face, with the eager light of hope

shining in the blue-gray eyes, and her lips quivered. Years had

passed since she had seen the light of happiness shining on Ronald

Valchester's face.

"Ronald, I must not take you now," she said, "I am not the Lina you

loved years ago. I have lost my beauty."

"You will always be beautiful to me," he answered, loyally. "Lina,

my love was no weak, shallow passion for a fair face such as Walter

Earle cherished for you. It was not altogether your beauty that won me

first. There was about you a singular unconscious fascination--a luring

charm--sweet and subtle as the fragrance of a flower, that won me even

against my will. That nameless charm lingers about you still, though

your wondrous fairness has faded like a flower. You remember--

"'You may break--you may shatter

The vase if you will,

But the scent of the roses

Will cling round it still.'

So, although you have lost your beauty, Lina, the real, undefinable

charm that held me, holds me still."

Lina looked at him with dewy eyes. His whole, handsome, eager face was

lighted with the tenderness of his heart.

He took her small hands and held them fondly in his own.

"Lina, we were made for each other," he pleaded; "we both love poetry,

music, and everything beautiful. Fate has been hard and unkind to us,

but she has relented at last. You are going to be my wife."

Lina could not resist his pleading, and the gentle arm that stole

around her. She hid her face on his breast and wept the happiest tears

that ever rained from a happy woman's eyes. She had loved Ronald so

long and so well, and she was going to be his wife at last.

* * * * *

Only one month later they were happily married amid the rejoicings of

all the neighborhood. General and Mrs. Valchester were present and

seemed very happy in the happiness of their idolized son. Mr. Earle was

also present, but Walter and Violet sent regrets. Their father said

that they were very busy making arrangements for a long projected tour

abroad.

Mrs. Meredith's wedding-gift to her husband's niece was a mysterious

box swathed around with silver paper.

Ronald was quite mystified to hear her say, gratefully, when she

received it:

"A thousand thanks, Aunt Meredith. I would rather have this box than

Crœsus' fortune!"

It has been frequently said that women have all the curiosity in the

world and men none at all, but Ronald Valchester was exceedingly

curious over his wife's bridal gift. He thought over it several times,

and at last he said to her:

"Lina, my darling, what precious gift was that which your uncle's wife

gave you on your wedding-day?"

They were in Richmond then, spending the honey-moon very quietly at

General Valchester's splendid residence at the West End. Lina was too

sensitive over her marred beauty to allow them to persuade her into

society and gayety. She took Ronald's white fingers now, and passed

them gently over her cheeks.

"Ronald," she said, "do you perceive that my skin is becoming softer

and smoother?"

"Yes, and fairer, too," he replied. "The discolorations are

disappearing very fast. What does it mean, Lina?"

"It means that Aunt Meredith was wiser than the New York doctors," she

laughed. "She has prepared a salve for me from various woodland roots

and herbs that is slowly obliterating every scar and discoloration from

my face. She declares that in a year I shall be as pretty as I ever

was."

"Then I shall bless the kind soul forever!" he cried out joyfully, and

Lina knew then for the first time how silently and sadly Ronald had

sorrowed for the loss of her wondrous beauty.

It was two years later when the two were traveling, that they met

Walter Earle.

He had attended morning service at a pretty English church, and he

heard a grand, glorious, triumphant voice, rising, as it were, to

Heaven on the wings of the _Gloria in Excelsis_. He looked around and

saw Ronald Valchester sitting by his wife's side.

Jaquelina had grown more beautiful than ever. Every trace of her

accident had disappeared. The dark eyes were radiant with youth and

health, the long lashes rested on a rose-flushed cheek, the scarlet

mouth smiled as she chanted:

"Glory be to God on high, and on earth peace, good will to men."

Walter covered his face with his hands, and gave one sigh, deep and

bitter, to the memory of what he had lost through his weakness.

When they came out of the church he was strong enough to meet them and

speak to them.

They were glad and surprised in a breath. They asked him if he was

married yet, and if Violet was with him.

"No, I am not married yet, and my sister is dead," he answered sadly,

and then he showed them her grave. It was right in the churchyard

there, and just a little way from the path.

The low, green mound was covered with white and blue violets, and

there was a broken marble shaft at the head, twined about with passion

flowers.

"She has been dead six months," he said, tremulously, and then he saw

the husband and wife look at each other with a shade of remorse and

pain in their speaking eyes.

"She had quite gotten over her trouble," he said, quickly. "She seemed

perfectly well and happy. She talked of you, Ronald, and you, Mrs.

Valchester, kindly and often. But she inherited her mother's disease.

She died very suddenly and painlessly one evening while sitting in her

chair and watching a beautiful sunset."

Jaquelina shed some quiet and sorrowful tears over Violet's early doom.

They were the first tears that had dimmed her lovely eyes since she had

married Ronald Valchester. He made her very happy.

In the beautiful, calm years of wedded happiness that flowed serenely

over their future lives, the few years of passionate sorrow she had

known were forgotten wholly, or remembered only as a haunting dream.

* * * * * *

Transcriber's note:

Added table of contents.

The original text lacked accent marks; this has been left unchanged

(e.g. _en regle_ in place of _en règle_).

Inconsistent hyphenation (e.g. "bedside" vs. "bed-side") has been

retained from the original.

Title page, corrected typographical error "JACQUELINA" to "JAQUELINA."

This book contains two different chapter IX's. The numbering has been

left as originally printed.

Page 1, added missing "g" to "bounding vitality." Added missing "l" to

"fragrant apple-blossoms." Added missing "r" to "Your uncle wants."

Page 3, corrected typographical error "Jacquelina" in "scarcely older

than Jaquelina."

Page 6, added missing period to "Gentle Mrs. Earle."

Page 11, corrected "trangressing" to "transgressing."

Page 14, corrected typographical error "strangly" in "strangely

stirred by it."

Page 18, changed comma to period at end of paragraph after "knelt down

beside her."

Page 19, corrected typographical error "notted" in "knotted

carelessly."

Page 21, added missing period after "satin ribbons fluttering about

it."

Page 22, corrected period to question mark after "passion-flowers for

her type?"

Page 23, removed extra "a" from before "an" in "for an instant."

Page 28, corrected single to double quote after "The outlaw! the

outlaw!"

Page 31, added missing hyphen to "to-day" in "ball-dress to-day."

Page 35, corrected typographical error "Dolly" in "He sat Dollie

down."

Page 42, corrected "her" to "his" in "Jaquelina's partner, with his

tall head."

Page 50, corrected typographical error "preparad" in "not prepared

to do."

Page 51, corrected typographical error "you" in "from your

uncongenial home."

Page 62, corrected typographical error "ooked" in "when she looked

back."

Page 65, corrected typographical error "Haiwatha" in "Happy are you;

Hiawatha." Added missing comma before "persuaded into amiability."

Page 71, corrected typographical error "appartment" in "luxurious

cavern appartment." Added comma before "suddenly regaining her

strength."

Page 74, added missing period after "mysterious, blighting secret."

Page 75, added missing comma after "fixed yearningly on the door."

Page 80, moved misplaced quote from after "Ronald" to after "beloved"

in "Oh, Ronald, my best beloved."

Page 81, added missing quote after "refuse his prayer."

Page 82, corrected typographical error "It" in "If he becomes excited."

Page 84, corrected typographical error "anxously" in "anxiously for

his arrival." Added missing comma after "Perhaps, then."

Page 85, added missing quote after "befallen little Lina."

Page 87, corrected typographical error "convalesence" in "It retarded

his convalescence." Corrected "rst one" to "rest on."

Page 90, added missing "d" to "bridle-rein."

Page 99, added missing quote before "and she frankly admitted."

Page 101, added missing period after heading for CHAPTER XXXII.

Page 105, corrected typographical error "imposible" in "it is

impossible I should win."

Page 113, corrected "that" to "than" in "easier than he had expected."

Page 115, corrected typographical error "maddenened" in "mass of

maddened."

Page 126, corrected typographical error "respeated" in "she respeated,

turning her dark eyes."

Page 127, removed unnecessary quote before "She put up her hands."