Thorns of regret
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Title: Thorns of regret
or, His brother's wife

Author: Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller

Release date: July 19, 2026 [eBook #79130]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Street & Smith Corporation, 1899

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79130

Credits: Demian Katz and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (Images courtesy of the Digital Library@Villanova University.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THORNS OF REGRET ***

NEW EAGLE SERIES No. 1347

THORNS OF
REGRET

By

Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller

THORNS OF REGRET

OR,

His Brother’s Wife

BY

Mrs. ALEX. McVEIGH MILLER

AUTHOR OF

“A Crushed Lily,” “Her Husband’s Secret,” “Little Coquette Bonnie,” “My Lillian.”

STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
PUBLISHERS
79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York

Copyright, 1899
By Norman L. Munro

Thorns of Regret

(Printed in the United States of America)

THE THORNS OF REGRET.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I. ASHES TO ASHES.
CHAPTER II. THE READING OF THE WILL.
CHAPTER III. FATE.
CHAPTER IV. A HASTY WOOING.
CHAPTER V. “THERE ARE OTHER LIPS!”
CHAPTER VI. THE WORST FATE THAT COULD BEFALL.
CHAPTER VII. PURE GOLD AND GILDED DROSS.
CHAPTER VIII. GIVE ME MY RELEASE.
CHAPTER IX. “LEAD US NOT INTO TEMPTATION!”
CHAPTER X. MAISIE’S FLIGHT FROM HOME.
CHAPTER XI. ONLY TO SUFFER AND ENDURE!
CHAPTER XII. THE DIE WAS CAST.
CHAPTER XIII. JOSEPHINE’S LITTLE GAME.
CHAPTER XIV. WHAT BLISS HAD SHE ONLY LOVED ME.
CHAPTER XV. IN THE CLASH OF HOSTILE ARMS.
CHAPTER XVI. SUCH A TRAGEDY OF WOE.
CHAPTER XVII. THE ONLY ROMANCE OF HIS LIFE.
CHAPTER XVIII. A PAINFUL DISAPPOINTMENT.
CHAPTER XIX. A SUSPICIOUS LOVER.
CHAPTER XX. “FORGIVE THE PAST; I LOVE YOU NOW!”
CHAPTER XXI. ONE GLIMPSE—ONE ONLY.
CHAPTER XXII. BROTHERS AT LAST.
CHAPTER XXIII. THE WEDDING-BELLS.
CHAPTER XXIV. I COULD NOT BE HAPPY WITHOUT LOVE!
CHAPTER XXV. A WRETCHED MEETING.
CHAPTER XXVI. LIKE AN ENVENOMED ARROW.
CHAPTER XXVII. THE MIGHT-HAVE-BEEN.
CHAPTER XXVIII. THE THORNS OF REGRET.
CHAPTER XXIX. TRUE LOVE IS ETERNAL.
CHAPTER XXX. THE LIGHTNING BOLT OF JEALOUSY.
CHAPTER XXXI. “LONG HOPES WEAR OUT JOY.”
CHAPTER XXXII. “YOU HAVE GROWN INTO MY HEART.”
CHAPTER XXXIII. A BREATHING SPELL OF JOY.
CHAPTER XXXIV. THE SUSPENDED SWORD.
CHAPTER XXXV. UNMASKED.
CHAPTER XXXVI. “HAVE YOU NO PITY FOR ME?”
CHAPTER XXXVII. I KNOW NO COMFORT!
CHAPTER XXXVIII. LOOKING BACKWARD.
CHAPTER XXXIX. THE SUNSHINE OF A WINTER DAY.
CHAPTER XL. “THE POOR HEART SHE BROKE.”

CHAPTER I.
ASHES TO ASHES.

Slowly and solemnly the village church-bells tolled while the funeral cortège wound its way to the grave, followed by the long train of mourners.

The richest man in the country was dead, and the whole neighborhood had turned out to do honor to his obsequies.

The chief mourners were his two sons, Byrd and Delmar Barrington, his widowed sister, Mrs. French, and his adopted daughter, Maisie Van Allyn.

These four stood in silent grief by the grave while the preacher’s voice droned over the burial service, shuddering as the clods began to fall upon the splendid casket, but waiting till the mound was shaped and covered with floral tributes before they turned away and left the dead to his long repose.

No violent grief had been shown by the mourners, and nothing but subdued respect by the sympathetic friends, and as the crowd dispersed there was not one who said feelingly:

“There is another good man gone!”

The minister who had preached his funeral sermon had very pertinently remarked before launching into an eloquent discourse upon death:

“The deceased is too well known to you all for me to dilate at length upon his characteristics. He has made his way among you from obscurity to wealth and position.”

What the reverend man said was perfectly true. Any of Augustus Barrington’s neighbors could have sketched the outlines of his biography.

Augustus Barrington had prided himself upon being a self-made man.

He had been reared on a Virginia farm, and at fifteen years of age he ran away to the nearest town, disgusted with poverty, and determined to make his own way in life. Securing a position as errand-boy in a bank, he improved his education by attending night-school. By thrift and rigid attention to business he rose by successive gradations to the honorable position of cashier of the bank.

By this time he had been received into the best society of the town, and his vaulting ambition prompted him to seek in an advantageous marriage still further advancement in life.

It was supposed that he would marry well; indeed, every one generously agreed that such a plucky fellow deserved it, but even his nearest friends scarcely expected him to lift his eyes to an heiress, daughter of the richest man in town, the president of the bank in which he was simply the cashier.

To be brief, he aspired and won, to the surprise of the whole town.

Perhaps he had had one advantage in wooing Miss Byrd. She was not pretty, and in spite of her father’s wealth she was so diffident that her bashfulness, mistaken for pride, had daunted other suitors. So she had reached the same age as Barrington, twenty-five, when his bold and determined siege conquered the citadel of her tender heart.

It was a misalliance in the eyes of the world, but Miss Byrd was fond and romantic, and this only added zest to her love-affair. She coaxed her rather reluctant parents to consent.

They were married and settled down at Castellane with the old folks, who in a few years died and left their daughter half a million of money.

One would have thought that Barrington’s gratitude would have surrounded with an atmosphere of adoration the fond wife who had brought him wealth and position, added to worshiping love.

Not so. He was selfish to the core and incapable of gratitude, while his pretended love had been but a sham. Secretly he adored beauty, and his homely, devoted wife had no share in his heart.

Neglect and indifference became her portion, Barrington proceeding to enjoy himself on her money, allowing himself more relaxation from business now that he was rich, having succeeded his late father-in-law as owner and president of the bank by the weakness of his wife, who, in her pitiful attempts to buy his love, permitted him to have the mastery of her fortune.

The day came when, through her inability to cope with the keen, avaricious man of business, he became owner of everything, and she could not command a dollar save by his will.

Then he dropped every pretense of affection, and the ghastly reality stared her in the face. Barrington had married the heiress, not the woman. He had her money now, and only tolerated her because she was the mother of his son, and held the position of his wife. He did not dare outrage society by extreme measures, but he outraged her heart in every conceivable fashion, so that she began to die by inches of a strange decline—the malady of a broken heart.

So the woman’s wounded love, changing slowly to jealous pain and fierce resentment, died the death, leaving in its place a thirst for revenge. She dragged through nine wretched years and died.

Three children had been born to her, but only the eldest one survived. He was her constant companion, worshiping her as an angel, and to the boy of eight years, mature and thoughtful for his age, she confided all her sorrows, and bequeathed him, alas, a legacy of hate!

“Listen, dear,” she had told him, over and over; “when I am dead your father, who married me for my money and broke my heart, will some day bring home another wife. He will marry for love the next time, and he will endow her with the gold he has wrested from me. This wealth should all come to you, Byrd, but there will be other children who will wish to share your inheritance.”

“They shall not!” cried the boy of eight, his proud blue eyes flashing.

“That is spoken well, my son, but you will have to fight for your rights to the bitter end. Remember, you are to hate your stepmother and every child she bears; you are to stand between them and your father so that neither he nor she shall ever have any real happiness. Poison his heart against her if you can, and scheme in every way possible to prevent them ever inheriting when he dies a single dollar of the money that should rightfully fall to you. All this may seem strange to you now, but as you grow older you can think of many cunning schemes for repaying your cruel father for breaking your loving mother’s heart. Swear now that you will faithfully carry out my wishes!” cried the frenzied mother, joining the little white hands of her son, while she made him take a solemn vow of obedience and secrecy.

He never forgot the grateful kiss she pressed on his brow, her lips were so hot and burning with the fever that was consuming her life.

So, for the remaining days of her short life, the wronged, half-maddened wife hugged to her heart the thought of the vengeance that would go on beyond the grave, and died, without ever revoking her baleful legacy of hate.

The boy Byrd grieved for her with unavailing regret, and bided his time for vengeance.

It was not long in coming, for at the end of the second year of bereavement his father married a second time.

And this time, as the dead wife had predicted, it was for love—love so passionate that it overruled prudence.

He lost his heart to a girl of nineteen, while he was nearly forty, and looked even older, and laid siege to her heart with such ardor that she capitulated and accepted, but then she was very poor, and her family, broken-down aristocracy, could not make both ends meet, so they dazzled her with his wealth and power, and persuaded her that gratitude and respect were as good as love.

She was beautiful and charming, and seemed like a living bit of sunshine in gloomy, grand old Castellane, but her stepson hated her from the very beginning, and repulsed friendly overtures with scorn.

He was ten years old now, and his cunning brain devised many plans of annoying the usurper of his mother’s place.

At the same time he managed to keep always in his father’s favor while devising each day new schemes to destroy his happiness.

“Papa,” he said once, drawing him aside into the library and whispering, “I have a secret to tell you.”

“Yes, Byrd.”

“It is this: your new wife did not marry you for love, as my dear mama did! She married you for money!”

“How dare you?” cried the man, stung by the assertion of what he already dreaded, and wondering at the boy’s cleverness.

“But, papa, it is the truth. Do you know that that proud old woman, her mother, comes here to beg money of her daughter? But she never gives her any, so Mrs. Delmar was rather angry yesterday. She cried, and said: ‘Kathleen, I never thought you could be so heartless as to refuse your poor mother a few dollars when you are rolling in gold.’”

“Ah!” cried Barrington angrily.

“I was hid behind the curtains. I could hear all plainly,” continued the boy. “The new wife cried, too, and told Mrs. Delmar that you had never given her a dollar of her own to spend. She had asked you for a little money several times, but you said: ‘Never mind the money. Buy the things you want and send the bills to me.’”

His father cried breathlessly:

“What next?”

“Then your new wife went on complainingly:

“‘Mama, I see that I made a terrible mistake—marrying him. I was dazzled by his money and the thought of what I could do for you all. I wanted to send Hugh and Rob to school, to hire a servant to do the work for you, and to buy you a black silk gown. Perhaps I can manage the gown, because he gave me carte blanche to buy what I chose. But as for the rest, you see how it is, mama; he is miserly and will not allow me a penny of my own. And the worst of it is, I am getting disgusted with his stinginess, and can hardly respect him, much less love him! Oh, how different it is from what we expected! Just think! if he would have let me share my good fortune with the needy ones at home, I think I should have loved him out of pure gratitude and joy, but now—now’—and she cried so hard she could not go on, so her mother kissed her twice and went home.”

How every inflection of the childish voice stung, as Byrd meant it should, taking revenge for his mother’s wrong.

Augustus Barrington, face to face with the truth, chafed in fury.

He did not try to buy Kathleen’s love by indulgence; he was too stubborn and angry. He punished her innocent fault by indifference and neglect, thinking to pique her into tenderness; but ere he saw any signs of success, the brief story of Kathleen’s life ended suddenly with the birth of a little dark-eyed son ere she was twelve months a wife.

“Call him Delmar!” she said with her dying breath.

So she passed away soon from her short earth life, and was buried by the side of Byrd’s mother, with a space between them for the husband who had broken both their hearts. Now the third tenant was come, but was it possible he could rest there in peace?

CHAPTER II.
THE READING OF THE WILL.

Under a light shower of sudden April rain three carriages rolled in through the broad gates of Castellane bearing Barrington’s relations and the lawyer who was to remain for the reading of the will that afternoon.

Much interest centered in that important event, for with successive years Barrington had grown richer and richer, fairly piling up gold, which he hoarded with almost miserly greed, and all his neighbors declared that he had never in his life been known to do but one charitable deed.

That was when he went to see some California gold-mines in which he owned large shares and brought back with him the little daughter of a miner who had died without achieving the success he had vainly courted through weary years. The motherless child, so pretty and winsome, had touched Barrington’s heart, and he could not refuse her father’s dying plea to adopt her as his daughter.

When Maisie Van Allyn came to Castellane she was ten years old, a bright-eyed, fearless little beauty, and Delmar was a handsome, spirited lad of fourteen, while Byrd, his elder brother, was twenty-five, and the pride of his father’s heart.

And, needless to say, he had kept faith with his dead mother in his secret, untiring persecution of Delmar, who in the neighborhood was called the unloved son, so small a place had he in his father’s heart, thanks to the machinations of Byrd.

Indeed, the younger son could scarcely be said to enjoy the really intimate acquaintance of his father, so little time had they passed together from the boy’s infancy till now, when he stood and listened to the clods rattling down on the grave of one whom he could remember only as a stern, censorious parent, finding always naught to praise but all to blame in the child of his second wife.

From nurses and tutors he had passed to college, and vacations by the sea or in the country, Byrd always managing to keep the two apart while encouraging Delmar in all boyish extravagance.

Now the last act in the drama of hate was to be played in the reading of the will, and as the family assembled in the darkened library that afternoon a grim smile played on Barrington’s fair mustached lips as he recalled his mother’s adjuration:

“Swear that not a dollar of the gold your father wrested from me shall ever be left to a second wife or her children!”

In the years while Delmar was kept at college Byrd had had ample time to perfect his schemes.

His younger brother, open-handed and warm-hearted, taking his nature from the generous Delmars, was painted to his father as dissolute and spendthrift, unworthy to be trusted with money that he would only squander in dissolute pleasures.

So in time the seed he had planted bore its natural fruit.

Though the father could not repress a thrill of pride when Delmar graduated at twenty-five with the highest honors of his Alma Mater, the triumph could not undo Byrd’s long work of misrepresentation. It worked well with the leaven of his resentment toward the beautiful girl who had married him for his money and learned to hate him afterward for his parsimony. It never came home to him that he was reaping what he had sown. He only remembered with humiliation and bitterness that the woman he had loved had not returned his passion, while the one he had slighted had been his devoted slave. With the flight of years he began to realize that the best of his love was due to her son, thus doing a tardy justice to her memory.

While much of this had been guessed at by the curious outside world, and by the group of relations who awaited the reading of the will, yet not one dreamed of the startling finale except Byrd, who sat with grim smile at the corners of his lips and that hard light in his cold blue eyes so like those of his dead mother, whose vengeance he had brought to pass.

Lawyer Munsey opened the seals of the will, cleared his throat, and began the reading.

Barrington had generously remembered his few country relatives with small bequests, the largest amount, ten thousand dollars, going to his sister, Mrs. French, in grateful acknowledgment of her services as chatelaine of his home during the years of his widowerhood. A smile of satisfaction dawned on all those faces at finding their names remembered in the will of their rich relation.

Next came the name of Maisie Van Allyn, whom the testator complained he had treated for eight years as a daughter, only to be rewarded by ingratitude, of which he now reminded her by cutting her off with fifty dollars that would pay her way until she could find a situation to support herself.

Maisie’s dewy rosebud of a mouth parted in a startled “Oh,” and she flashed a quick, resentful glance at Byrd Barrington’s calm, impassive face, then dropped the dark curly fringe of her lashes almost to her cheek, listening in silence to the lawyer’s monotonous voice droning on in the next paragraph which disposed of Delmar Barrington’s expectations.

The testator put on record that he was exceedingly wroth with his younger son by reason of his low tastes and spendthrift habits, and felt that the inheritance of a fortune would only help him to go to the dogs faster. Having toiled hard to amass a large fortune, he objected to having it dissipated in riotous living, hence Delmar’s portion would be the monthly interest of fifty dollars accruing from stocks set aside for that purpose, and a home at Castellane for life. Perhaps Delmar would thus learn by this needful lesson the virtues of thrift and economy.

You might have heard a pin drop at that moment.

It seemed as if every one forgot to breathe through sheer astonishment, and in the breathless silence the lawyer resumed his reading of the will, which named last of all Byrd Barrington as the sole inheritor of his father’s vast wealth—in stocks, bonds, and real estate, over five millions of money. A final clause stated that the beginnings of his wealth having come from Byrd’s mother, it was but just to restore it to her son.

Delmar’s great dark eyes blazed with disappointment and anger. He sprang to his feet, facing his elder brother accusingly:

“You have done me this foul wrong, Byrd! It is your cursed malice! You told lies of me to my father, and set his heart against me!” he cried scathingly.

Maisie Van Allyn sprang to his side with a second accusation:

“It was spite work, too, that turned his love from me! I have always been dutiful and obedient to my adopted father—I never crossed his wishes in but one thing!”—she hesitated a moment, then added bitterly: “He wished me to marry that snake in the grass, his elder son! Bah, I would not have him with all his five millions thrown in!” and she stamped her foot at him in superb rage.

Mrs. French reprimanded her curtly:

“Fie, Maisie, this behavior is unseemly. Do not forget that you are simply Byrd’s guest now!”

“I am not forgetting it, I shall leave here as soon as I can pack my clothes!” beautiful Maisie retorted, flying from the room in a passion.

Thus through “the long slow years that bring us all things ill,” the dead cold hand of the wronged wife had stretched forth from the grave and taken vengeance through her devoted son for all the sufferings of her wedded life.

Would she rest any easier in her grave now that innocent lives had been sacrificed to her memory? Would the restless dead lie still now that her husband had come at last to sleep by her side beneath the churchyard grass? For it was an open secret among the more credulous of the servants at Castellane that Barrington’s first wife “walked,” in approved ghost fashion, gowned in white, with streaming hair, wringing her hands in distress, and wailing, “Woe is me! Woe is me!” till she won the name: “The Mad Lady!”

CHAPTER III.
FATE.

It was no wonder that Byrd Barrington had wished to marry Maisie.

She was beautiful as a dream in her fresh young girlhood.

Her slight willowy form had the most enchanting curves, her lovely head with its aureole of curly golden hair was set with exquisite grace on her proud white throat, and her fair face with its piquant features, wild rose bloom, and saucy dimples, was lighted by the most beautiful eyes in the world—bright and sparkling, and of the rarest shade of deep purplish-blue, like pansies in shady nooks—so that few could look upon her without a thrill of tenderness for one so fair.

Byrd Barrington had long coveted the peerless beauty for his bride, but to his anger and amazement she had rejected him twice—once at sixteen, and again at eighteen, although his father’s whole influence had been thrown into the scales to win her consent.

Had the younger son wooed her, ah, how different her answer, but Delmar looking on Maisie as a sister, neglected her for other girls, and it was rumored that his heart was set on a fair coquette whose father’s estate adjoined Castellane.

It was indeed to this young beauty that Delmar’s thoughts turned quickly in the bitterness of his unexpected disinheritance. What would his darling say to this misfortune? Would she be willing to wait a few years until he could conquer fortune for himself, or—would she heartlessly throw him over?

His hasty, impetuous nature could not brook delay and suspense, so when twilight fell he hurried to her home, eager to learn his fate.

It did not seem to him that she would prove untrue after all their tender vows of love. She would be full of sympathy and tenderness, his sweet, brown-eyed darling with her rosebud mouth and soft, scented cloud of thick dark hair.

His heart beat fast as he walked up the path in the moonlight between the beds of spring flowers that scented the balmy air with delicate elusive fragrance.

Placing a sweet white hyacinth in his buttonhole, he went quickly into the house, and found her alone in the drawing-room, a sweet, white-gowned vision that came to meet him with outstretched hands of sympathy.

“We have heard all about it, Delmar, and oh, how sorry we all are. What a terrible difference it will make in your life!” she cried earnestly.

“Yes, just at first, Josephine, but not for long. Of course, we cannot be married so soon as we planned, dear, but you will be brave and wait for me a few years till I conquer fortune for myself, will you not, darling?” exclaimed the young lover, fondly trying to draw her closer to kiss the pouting ruby lips.

But to his amazement the brown eyes drooped coldly, and the graceful form drew back with slight hauteur, while Josephine replied quickly:

“Oh, Del, it’s hopeless to talk about that now! You could never make a fortune, and we can never marry! There’s—there’s an end to everything!”

“Josephine!” he cried in anguish, but although she paled at his reproachful glance, she went on firmly:

“Mama and I have talked it all over, and she agrees with me that I could never be a poor man’s wife. Oh, why were you so foolish, Del, so extravagant and dissipated, as to turn your father’s heart against you, and lose your inheritance?” she said reproachfully.

“I was never extravagant or dissipated, either. Byrd Barrington lied about me! I can look back into the past now, and see how he schemed to make my father hate me, but I waked up to the truth too late!”

“Too late!” his false sweetheart echoed dismally, and added: “What a little fool Maisie was, too, to let everything slip through her fingers as she did, when she might have been Mrs. Byrd Barrington, mistress of Castellane and five millions of money!”

“Perhaps you envy Maisie?”

“Yes, indeed! Such luck doesn’t come to every one, and almost any girl would have jumped at the chance!” she exclaimed.

“Would you?” he asked scornfully.

“Yes, indeed!”

“Without love?”

“One couldn’t help loving the man who could make one such a queen!” she replied with airy persiflage that cut him to the heart.

Oh, how cruelly she had changed to him!—the girl he thought so true and loving! He could not help groaning aloud:

“Surely you have never loved me?”

She answered in a softened tone:

“Oh, yes, yes, Del; I love you still—I can’t deny it! You are so handsome, you know, and your dark eyes, even when you look at me so angrily, are simply killing! But life isn’t all dark eyes and love! There must be gold in plenty, and I own the glamour of wealth made you dearer! So—although I shall miss you at first, and have the heartache when you’re gone—here’s your ring back, and—forgive me, and good-by! There’s no use begging me to change my mind!”

“As if I should try!” blazed Delmar Barrington bitterly, and he was turning from her when she followed him, whimpering like a spoiled child:

“You’re not going like this—without—without kissing me good-by, Del. You—you—may if you wish!”

Her voice betrayed the yearning heart that loved him still.

But now was his turn to be cruel.

He laughed mockingly:

“There are other lips!”

And he brushed aside the curtain, and was gone—with the madness of revenge in his heart.

Josephine stood like a statue with interlocked hands, a jealous frown on her beautiful face.

She muttered wildly:

“Did he mean Maisie? Will he marry her now that both are poor, and he is reckless?—I know she would jump at the chance! That was why she wouldn’t have Byrd, she has been in love with Del from the first; but the stupid fellow never guessed it, and if he finds it out now and marries her to spite me, how I should hate her, the little wretch! But mama says I must try for Byrd now! I wonder if I could teach him to forget Maisie! Oh, Del, Del, it breaks my heart to lose you!” and the girl threw herself weeping upon a sofa, fighting out the bitter battle between her love and the pride of gold that would not permit her to marry a poor man.

As for him, he flung himself out into the moonlight again, feeling like one to whom the end of the world had come all on a sudden—“whose sun had gone down while it was yet day.”

What a change from yesterday, as if golden day had turned in a moment to stormy night, as if the flowery grass had been suddenly overspread with a carpet of freezing snow, as if the stripling of yesterday, the youth of one and twenty, had become an old man in an hour.

Yesterday rich in friends, a bright future before him, heir to great wealth, betrothed to a beautiful, loving girl—now poor in friends, the future a blank, disinherited by his father, hated by his brother, his love faithless—the change was sudden and terrible enough to strike down reason from its throne or to drive him to suicide.

His worst enemy—even Byrd Barrington—might have pitied the boy—he was scarcely more—as he stood there in the moonlight, tearing from his breast the spray of white hyacinth, and trampling it savagely beneath his feet, with a stifled oath on his lips, as if he cursed his untoward fate. Poor Delmar! thus suddenly bereft of all that made life worth the living.

From this hour he would hate the odor of hyacinths. They would bring him back always this accursed hour so dark with fate.

He was robbed of wealth, hope and love, and Byrd Barrington had done it all. But he knew how to punish him. Why should he stay his hand?

Josephine was mistaken in her thought that Delmar was too stupid to guess at Maisie’s love. He had seen it long ago, and with generous pity left her much to herself, hoping she might forget. With his heart full of Josephine he had been blind to her girlish charms.

He had guessed also long ago that his betrothed was secretly jealous of Maisie, and there flashed over him quickly a wild scheme of vengeance just as he flung back the bitter words:

“There are other lips!”

He thought of them now as he hurried on—of ripe, luscious lips that always had a smile and a gay word for him, hiding behind a careless seeming a wealth of love. What would not Byrd Barrington give for the kisses of those honied lips? Perhaps his whole fortune!

Delmar Barrington laughed aloud at the thought, and the laugh was not good to hear. It was desperate, mocking, the laugh of an outraged heart that, failing of justice, wreaks revenge.

It was hours before he went home. He went hither and thither, aimlessly walking while the fires of rage burned hotter and hotter in his heart; he went to the cemetery and asked the dead, half-insanely, why he had wronged him so, but no answer came to him from the sealed lips beneath the mound of flowers. He went down into the town to the armory, and spent some time with his comrades, the Young Guards, then he hurried back to Castellane, and met at the gates, as it were by fate, a slight black-clad figure hurrying away with a little traveling-bag.

He caught her hand and detained her, crying eagerly:

“Maisie, what does this mean?”

“It means I am leaving Castellane forever! Do you think I could breathe under the same roof as Byrd Barrington another night? I am going to Washington to hunt for work. Don’t detain me, Del, it is almost time for the train!” she half-sobbed.

But he suddenly slipped his arm about her waist, and bent his head to press a kiss on her tear-wet cheek.

“Do you think I would let you go out all alone into the cold world, sweet, little Maisie, while I am alive to protect you? We are partners in distress, aren’t we, dear, so let us make common cause against the enemy. Little one, you wouldn’t marry Byrd with his millions—will you have me, the poor disinherited son?” he cried earnestly, pressing her so close he could feel the eager throbbing of her fond heart.

CHAPTER IV.
A HASTY WOOING.

To be raised all in a moment from depths of despair to heights of bliss, ah, how thrilling!

Maisie had been weeping her eyes out alone upstairs with her heart as heavy as a stone.

She had packed one trunk with her plainest clothes, leaving everything else behind, for what could a busy working-girl want with finery?

And she had written a note and left it on her pillow for Mrs. French, asking her to take care of her trunk until she could write back to her where to send it. She had not the heart to bid any one good-by—save one—and he, alas, was not there.

Her heart was aching for him, poor, injured Delmar! She longed to tell him how tenderly she sympathized with him, and how she hated Byrd.

But when she asked one of the servants where he was she was told that some one had seen him going in at the gates of Shirley.

A pain like a knife went through her heart as she crept back to her room to put on her wraps for her walk to the station.

“He has gone to see Josephine Shirley. Ah, it is plain to see that he loves her better than any one else. He has never even said he was sorry for me or asked me for one word of sympathy. He has gone to her to pour out his sorrows and find comfort in her love. He has not a word for poor Maisie!” ran her bitter thoughts as she gave way to a momentary passion of tears.

She was going out into the cold, hard world alone, and she should never see him again—not even to say good-by. She could not help hating and envying Josephine, on whom those dark eyes would gaze so tenderly and to whom that musical voice would murmur words of love.

She dried her eyes, took up her small hand-bag, and hurried with a heavy heart from the house—going out to seek her fortune, poor little Maisie, with only twenty dollars in her purse—a little sum she had been saving from her paltry monthly allowance toward the purchase of a girlish trifle. In her note to Mrs. French she had said that she declined to accept the paltry legacy of Mr. Barrington. She could make her way alone.

Stealing unobserved from the house, Maisie hurried to the gate, thinking to herself that as she passed Shirley she would peep over the fence and see if Delmar and Josephine were walking there together—so happy in their mutual love as to almost forget the sorrow of his disinheritance.

But, lo! he came suddenly in at the gate, and the girl almost fell into his arms, so sudden was the meeting.

And it was all one as if she had fallen, for Delmar quickly put his arm about her, quite as if he had the right.

And at his impetuous kiss and eager words Maisie was as deeply thrilled and startled as if the bright stars had fallen from the sky at her feet.

“I must be dreaming,” she cried in a fluttering voice as her heart throbbed wildly against Delmar’s, his arm had crushed her so closely to his breast.

“Dreaming, Maisie, dear? Then wake up quickly, and give me my answer. Will you marry me?” again exclaimed Delmar, drawing her back to a rustic seat in the shadow of some trees where they could not be seen.

She nestled fondly against him while she faltered doubtfully:

“I—I—oh, how strange this seems! Del, I thought—thought—you loved Josephine!”

He laughed recklessly:

“How blind you have been, sweet little one! Could you not see that you were the only girl in the world for me? And did you not guess that I only flirted with Josephine to make you jealous? Besides, there was Byrd, fairly glowering if I even looked at you! But after you said to-day you hated him and would not have him, with all his money, I took heart of hope to believe you would marry me!”

The words rang hollow, but she could not perceive it in the happy agitation of her heart.

By a word he had lifted her from depths of despair to heights of bliss.

And it is so easy to believe what we wish to believe.

His plausible sentences carried conviction to her wildly beating heart, and silenced the faint voice of doubt. The warm breath floating over her cheek as he bent so near seemed to enwrap her in the aroma of love and bliss.

“Was I wrong, Maisie?” went on the fatally sweet wooing voice of her lover. “Is it true that you love me as I hope, and that you will be mine in spite of my poverty, that might turn a more mercenary heart away from the poor, disinherited son?”

It needed but that touch of pathos to stir to express on sweet, true-hearted Maisie.

A sobbing cry, and the sunny head was pillowed against his breast.

“It only makes you dearer, Del—dearer, dearer!”

“And yet,” he mocked, pressing her closer to his side, “the worldly wise say, Maisie, that when poverty comes in at the door love flies out at the window.”

“Not a true love, Del, oh, no; only fancy parading in love’s guise. Why, ever since that crushing blow fell on you this afternoon I have loved you dearer than ever before. My heart ached for your pain; I wanted to put my arms around your neck and comfort you with kisses and loving words.”

“It is not too late, little one!” and he bent his dark head till her warm arms clasped his neck and their lips met in a long, clinging kiss that to her lacked none of love’s ecstasy, for she could not know that in that moment of her supreme joy he was thinking of another to whom he had said in reckless triumph:

“There are other lips!”

He was thinking of her still. He did not forget her for a moment, but it was with that cruel love that is turned to hate and triumphs in inflicting pain.

He denied her the longed-for caress—denied his own heart to punish her—and now he gave his lips to his new love, and rejoiced in the thought that if Josephine could but know, it would make her heart ache with jealous pain.

Revenge! revenge! It was all that was left for him now. He must gloat over it, make the best of it. Byrd Barrington and Josephine must suffer as he suffered—must writhe in fires of jealous pain that would scorch their hearts indelibly. It was retribution.

And he laughed aloud as he released Maisie’s lips from his betrothal-kiss, and the poor girl thought he was laughing for happiness. Perhaps it was—the happiness of gratified hate.

Down at the armory he had had several glasses of wine with his comrades who had been so kind and sympathetic over his misfortunes. His dark eyes were flashing, his cheeks burned, the blood ran like fire through his veins, but his head was quite steady. He knew what he was doing, and how he would work out his plan of vengeance.

“What comfort you are to me, Maisie,” he said. “What a dark hour this would have been to me but for your love. And you will not make me wait for my happiness? You will marry me to-morrow?”

She thrilled exquisitely, and faltered:

“To-morrow?”

“Yes, dear, because there is really no other way. We are poor now—both of us—you even poorer than I, Maisie, and you are too proud to remain at Castellane as Byrd’s guest. So we will be married to-morrow, and your future will be my care. So go back to your room, little one. You will not have to leave Castellane now, for you remember the will gave me a home here for life, and a man and his wife are one! Ah, Maisie, think how it will torture Byrd and—to see our happiness!”—laughing recklessly. “Now, good night. Sleep well, and be ready to change your name to-morrow!”

“It seems too strange to be true!” she murmured happily, walking by his side back to the house and parting from him with another caress before she went in, leaving him a miserable man under the starlight.

CHAPTER V.
“THERE ARE OTHER LIPS!”

Sleep well! Ah, how was it possible for her to sleep at all?

She was too happy, too excited to sleep. She lingered at the window for hours, breathing in the balmy air, and watching the starlit sky, going over and over in her mind every word and caress that had thrilled her heart with rapture so keen it was almost pain.

And in her joyous emotion she did not recall how evasive Delmar’s words had really been, and that, although he had so eagerly urged her to marry him, he had not once said, “I love you, Maisie!”

She believed in his love as truly as she believed in the goodness of Heaven. Had he not explained his seeming indifference by saying he had gone with Josephine to make her jealous, and because Byrd was angry when he showed Maisie any attention? That made everything clear now, and she was all the happier in her present joy for the doubt and pain of the last few months.

No, she could scarcely sleep at all, and the sunny golden head tossed restlessly all night upon the pillow, thinking of to-morrow’s happiness when she should be Delmar’s bride.

It was nearly day when she fell into a light slumber, and when the maid came in to call her for breakfast she had not the heart to do it, she was resting so sweetly, with a hovering smile on her rosy lips.

“Poor little thing, I don’t see how she can smile even in her dreams after yesterday,” she thought, with ready sympathy. “But let her sleep on and I’ll keep her breakfast warm. She’ll be sad enough when she awakes and remembers that she will have to go out into the cold world and earn her bread before she eats it. They do say that she told Mr. Byrd she would rather starve than marry him with all his millions, and I must say that seems very foolish, for, after all, he’s a likely man to my notion, though not young and handsome as his half-brother. Still, if she couldn’t love him, she couldn’t, and that ends it. ‘Every one to his taste,’ as the old woman said when she kissed the cow.”

And, seizing her duster, she slipped noiselessly out, leaving Maisie to her rosy dreams.

So it was high noon when the bright eyes opened in bewilderment at first, and then comprehension that made them gleam softly with tender joy as the red lips murmured:

“My wedding-day.”

Indeed, she had scarcely bathed and slipped on her morning dress before the maid came in, saying:

“Well, I never! I thought you intended to sleep till doomsday, Miss Maisie! I’ve been three times to look about you, but this time I meant to give you a little shake, for here’s a note from Mr. Delmar Barrington.”

How the roses glowed in her cheeks, and how her heart beat with excitement as she read:

“Dear: I have planned such a thrilling surprise for our friends. I have persuaded Aunt Constance to invite the minister for luncheon; also, Mrs. Shirley and Josephine. The minister is in the secret; no one else, and just before luncheon I want you to come down to the drawing-room in your prettiest white gown. I will meet you at the door, and lead you in, and the ceremony will begin, to the astonishment of all, who won’t be able to catch their breath until it is all over, and you are Mrs. Delmar Barrington!

“Ha, ha! Fancy Byrd’s rage and jealousy. Yes, and Josephine’s, too, for, after all, I believe she was a little sweet on,

Yours truly,

Del.”

Maisie caught her breath with excitement. It was but an hour before luncheon.

“Do you want me to take him an answer?” queried the maid.

“No, no—it will be all right. Is—is—there any company, Nancy?”

“The minister came a while ago, and Mrs. Shirley and her daughter. Mrs. French said they would be here for luncheon. Do you want me to fetch up a bit of warm breakfast before you dress, miss?”

“No, there will not be time. I can wait till luncheon,” and as soon as the girl was gone she began to dress with trembling fingers for her wedding.

How strange to be all alone at such a moment—no gay, chattering bridesmaids to help! But she only gave it a passing thought as she deftly arranged the shining waves of her bright hair, and slipped into a sweet white gown, an organdie trimmed with white lace and ribbons, that she had worn last June for her graduation at a famous college. A fresh white hyacinth in a window-jardinière she snapped off and fastened in her hair, while she murmured:

“I wonder where Del is going to take me on my wedding-tour? Not so very far, of course, since he is so poor, but then I can be happy anywhere with him, my darling!”

A light, impatient rap on the door made her start and quiver; it was Del, she knew, and, throwing it open, she faced him in all her delicate, girlish bloom and beauty, a sight to enrapture a lover’s heart.

“So you are ready, Maisie? I began to think you were not coming at all, and Reverend Mead began to look so anxiously at the door that I feared he would let the cat out of the bag any moment, so I came to hurry you,” he cried, laughing hoarsely as he caught her hand and drew her along the hall by his side.

He was deadly pale, but his eyes flashed luridly, and Maisie had never seen him look so handsome.

From some caprice he had chosen to be married in his uniform of the Young Guards, and the resplendent suit became him as no civilian dress ever could, setting off at its best his dark, brilliant style.

He seemed eager and impatient enough, certainly, but somehow, as they went down the grand stairway arm in arm, Maisie’s heart ached with a little childish pain because he had not kissed her when she opened the door, and had not even told her that she looked pretty in her wedding-gown.

She stopped in the lower hall as he was about to push back the drawing-room portières, and held up her face, faltering wistfully:

“Kiss your sweetheart for the last time, Del.”

He started and bent his handsome head, winding his arm about her waist.

“Certainly, of course, dear; you are right to remind me—ha, ha—not that I had forgotten it at all, Maisie. The fact is, I was just going to,” and he pressed his lips on hers with seeming eager passion.

She trembled and cried:

“Del, your lips are like ice! You—are—ill!”

“Only nervous, my love—like any man on his wedding-day—bah! where did you get that flower? You must not wear it!” With sudden passion he tore the white hyacinth from her hair, and threw it beneath his feet, muttering: “Excuse me, but—I—hate that odor. Come”—and he swept back the portières, and they were in the room.

But a moment before he had excused himself to the group of five—his brother, his aunt, the minister, Mrs. Shirley, and her daughter, saying carelessly:

“I will send a message to hurry Maisie downstairs.”

Josephine’s bright eyes followed him with yearning love.

“How grandly handsome he is! Oh, my love, how can I give you up?” she moaned to her aching heart, even while she smiled in answer to some light remark of the master of Castellane.

Suddenly the heavy curtains were swept aside, and her jilted lover reappeared with Maisie on his arm—Maisie, with that streaming love-light in her splendid eyes; Maisie, all in airy white—so strange that she had laid aside for this the deep mourning of yesterday.

But a stranger thing was to follow, for the minister quickly advanced to meet the handsome young pair with an open book in his hand, and the other four, all rising to their feet in consternation, found themselves witnesses to a wedding ceremony—a wedding whose responses rang clear and full through the room to the very last moment when he kissed the lovely bride.

But even as he bent over the golden head his eyes sought Josephine’s with a burning triumph that recalled to her the words of last night, still quivering in her proud heart:

“There are other lips!”

CHAPTER VI.
THE WORST FATE THAT COULD BEFALL.

Delmar had indeed avenged himself. Through Maisie he had pierced the hearts of those who had wronged him with the poisoned arrows of jealous pain. He read it in their wild eyes and blanched faces, and he laughed aloud as he exclaimed, with feigned gaiety:

“How startled you all look! We have stolen a march on you, haven’t we? But won’t you congratulate us?”

Mrs. French followed the minister in shaking the groom’s hand, and kissing the fluttered bride, and Mrs. Shirley came next with eager cordiality.

Indeed, nothing could have pleased her better than this match that removed at once from her path two dreaded incumbrances—Delmar, whom her daughter loved, and Maisie, whom Byrd Barrington adored. She could see her way clear now to making the heir turn to Josephine.

So her congratulations were earnest and cordial, and her face beamed with smiles even as she thought:

“What a little fool Maisie was to reject the rich brother for the disinherited one!”

She looked around for Josephine to follow her example, and was startled into dismay by the sight she saw.

The beautiful girl had sunk back into her chair pale as marble, with closed eyes and twitching lips, the terrible truth quivering like a sword-point in her heart. She had lost Delmar forever, and at this moment she realized that he was dearer to her than ever before.

Oh, they had loved each other so well, and had been so happy together in that love. In her heart she cursed old Barrington in his grave for the wrong he had done his younger son.

Suddenly her mother caught her hand and dragged her impatiently up to her feet.

“Come, Josephine, you must speak to our friends!” she cried.

She was trembling so, she must have slipped and fallen, but that Byrd Barrington quickly supported her on the other side, whispering gently:

“Come. Do not let them see how much you are hurt.”

A sudden elation at his notice helped to restore her self-possession, and, clinging weakly to him, she moved forward, uttering some meaningless words that were drowned in Byrd’s louder tones as he exclaimed:

“I wish you joy, Delmar, and I am sure that this gain will make up to you for the loss of fortune.”

“You are right,” his brother answered bitterly, again glancing at Josephine, whose cold hand he had just touched with one as icy. A sardonic smile curled his writhing lips as he heard Byrd go on frankly, to Maisie:

“I cannot say that I do not envy my brother, Maisie. He has won the prize I coveted, but I wish you all the happiness in the world!”

It was gallantly spoken from the depths of an aching heart, and the embarrassment of the next moment was fortunately broken by the announcement of luncheon.

Maisie, blushing and smiling in her bridal happiness, was led to the table, and all but the pallid, silent Josephine generously united in making her the heroine of the hour. Champagne was opened in her honor, and none could say but the disappointed host bore himself bravely in the hour of his defeat. Nothing was lacking in his cordial hospitality, and as for boisterous gaiety, of course it could not be expected in the house of mourning.

But Delmar had yet another surprise in store for them all that day.

He had been growing impatient for some moments, and pushing back his chair now, he exclaimed suddenly:

“This is delightful, friends, but I must not linger with you longer. I have kept it to the last to tell you that the Young Guards are ordered immediately to the front, and I leave here with my company within two hours.”

There were loud exclamations of surprise that drowned Maisie’s low cry of dismay as she sat staring wide-eyed at her handsome young husband, all the color stricken in a moment from her lovely young face, her heart leaping beneath her white bodice like some wild thing caged and struggling to escape.

Delmar, with his face flushed from excitement, his eyes blazing, looked at the pale, agonized face, and added lightly:

“You might have guessed it from my uniform, I think, and it is strange none of you had heard it. It is too bad, Maisie, is it not, that we are cheated out of our bridal-tour? But stay with Aunt Constance while I’m away, like a good little girl, and we shall go when I return.”

She sat speechless, gazing at him in a grief too great for words, and every eye turned on her face, reading plainly there her heart’s despair.

Delmar, in the passionate excitement of his emotions, went on recklessly:

“Do not look so sad, Maisie; I shall come back to you a captain, at the very least, with laurels of victory on my brow. Ha, ha! That will make you very proud, will it not, dear, faithful little heart that clings to me with devotion while false ones cast me off for lack of gold!”

His flashing glance fell on Josephine, and seemed to wither her heart with its angry scorn, so that she forgot for a moment all her folly and vanity—everything but her own despair, and answered wildly:

“If you are reproaching me, Del, I am not as bad as you think. I—I—had repented my foolish words of last night, and I thought to make up our quarrel to-day—but—but—you spoiled it all, marrying Maisie—so—so—you have no one to blame but yourself for your misery—and mine, alas!” and ending with a choking sob she hid her face in her jeweled hands.

“Josephine!” cried her mother in consternation, and jerking her angrily from her seat she hurried her from the room, reproaching her at every step for her frenzied outburst.

Alone in the dressing-room Josephine tore herself loose from the maternal grasp, and laughed bitterly:

“Let me alone, mama! Do you think I did not know what I was doing? I am more cunning than you think! I enlisted Byrd Barrington’s pity by my acting, and I punished Maisie for looking so happy by letting out what she didn’t know, it seems, that Del had just married her out of spite! Don’t you see how it will work? He despised me while he thought I was heartless, but now his heart will ache over my repentance, and he will wish he had waited a while longer for me to make up. And, of course, he will hate Maisie because she stands between us. Ha, ha! Of course I didn’t mean what I said about making up with him. I only said so to make myself seem less heartless in Byrd’s eyes, and to betray Del to Maisie. No doubt she will hate him now! I hope she will!” sobbed Josephine, divided between rage and wounded love as she tossed the light cloak over her shoulders and turned to go.

“Now that you have explained yourself it does seem very clever, although I was horrified at first,” Mrs. Shirley replied, then turning, as her hostess entered the room. “Ah, Mrs. French, what an unpleasant affair! I hope you will excuse poor Josephine. She is hardly herself after so much excitement. We are going home at once that she may rest.”

Mrs. French owned herself quite flustered also, and she exclaimed:

“It is all a tangle, and poor little Maisie has the worst of it on all sides! To be married for spite without a spark of love is the worst fate that can befall any young girl. I do not think she deserves it. Delmar has treated her shamefully, and how it will end I don’t know. She has rushed out of the room without ever speaking a single word to any one, and Byrd and Del are quarreling in the library. A pity Josephine made such a mess of her love-affair and brought about all this trouble!” she added resentfully, causing the girl to answer sadly:

“You cannot think any worse of me than I do of myself, Mrs. French. Last night in the first excitement I thought I couldn’t marry a poor man, but by morning I repented my selfishness, and meant to make it up with Del, only—only—I was too late! Oh, please forgive me, Mrs. French, and—and—won’t you ask Byrd not to be angry with me, either?” she sobbed as she took a hurried departure with her mother.

CHAPTER VII.
PURE GOLD AND GILDED DROSS.

The half-brothers were indeed having high words in the library. They stood glaring at each other, both tall, strong, handsome—Byrd, blond and stately bearing his thirty-two years with grace—Delmar, younger, of slighter build, with his striking Italian-like beauty of raven hair and flashing dark eyes.

But blue eyes can blaze, too, and Byrd’s were alight with scorn as he demanded:

“Is it true as Josephine implied that you married Maisie for spite?”

Delmar, in his passionate excitement, writhing under the sense of his wrongs, answered recklessly:

“It is partly true, but I had two reasons—the other was to revenge myself on you. I knew that all your ill-gotten wealth could not console you for her loss.”

The shaft struck home, and Byrd quivered under it.

“You were right. Her love would have outweighed millions to me! And to think you won it, and did not prize it, oh, God!” he groaned.

Delmar, driven mad by his own wrongs, simply gloated over his brother’s misery.

“I have paid you back in your own coin. By poisoning my father’s mind against me so that he left me poor, you robbed me of Josephine’s love.”

Byrd answered sneeringly:

“Bah, it was not worth having! Contrast her fickle fancy with Maisie’s womanly faith and love, and you have pure gold and gilded dross! Besides, how easy it would be to retaliate by marrying Josephine myself! Do you not see that two can play at the same game?”

There was dogged recklessness in the other’s reply:

“Oh, yes, easily. Josephine told me herself last night that she would jump at an offer from you, and that Maisie was a little fool for not taking you!”

“I agree with Josephine—under the circumstances! Better be the adored wife of a rich husband than the deserted, unloved bride of one who married her for spite!” Byrd answered cuttingly, and again they glared at each other.

For once Delmar did not seem to know what to say, and his brother, drawing a long breath, added scathingly:

“You have done innocent little Maisie a dastardly wrong.”

The charge put Delmar on his mettle. He cried out eagerly, in self-defense:

“It is not for you to prate of wrongs, Byrd Barrington! You whose accursed influence with the dead, whose revenge for your rejection made her penniless! As for me I have only done her a kindness. I met her last night when I came away from my parting with Josephine stealing away from this house, a forlorn little soul going out into the cold world to earn her daily bread, she knew not how. I offered to marry her, and she accepted willingly, owning that she loved me. She is happy, believing that I love her, and by and by everything will come right. In my absence she will have what my father left to me—a home and a small income. When I return we will take up life together, and having by then gotten over the pain of losing Josephine, I am sure it will be easy to learn to love my pretty little Maisie.”

Was it only their fancy, or did a long quivering, stifled sigh seem to follow the young man’s excited speech?

They started and gazed, questioningly, at each other, but after a moment’s hesitation Byrd said reassuringly:

“How like a sigh that sounded! But we are quite alone. It was only the wind in the pines.”

“Now I must go and bid adieu to my bride, for time runs short,” said Delmar, with an air of relief that the whole farce would soon be over. “I am sure that Aunt Constance will take care of Maisie, and as for you, Byrd,” with a short, mirthless laugh, “if you do marry that little cat Josephine, don’t for Heaven’s sake send me wedding-cards! I shall not have money enough to send a bridal-gift, and I had as lief not know when the sale comes off, so, adios!” and with a mocking bow he strode from the room and the presence of his elder brother, the proud master of Castellane.

He was proud, indeed, and in many things he had been most successful, but as he was left alone and the mask of pride fell from his face he did not look like a happy man. How indeed could any one look happy on whom the weight of an oath of vengeance had rested heavily from childhood’s hours?

He had kept his promise to the dead; he had been faithful to his vow, but did it recoil heavily on his own heart?

It looked like it, as he flung himself down with a groan into his favorite chair, and wiped from his high white brow the cold sweat of excitement, muttering to himself:

“Curses, like chickens, come home to roost.”

His eyes closed, and he fell into a deep and painful reverie, so deep and absorbing that he did not see a slender white-gowned form gliding softly from the room with a single startled, backward glance, fearful of detection.

It was Maisie who had been hiding in a curtained alcove in plain hearing of every word.

Not that she had gone there purposely to eavesdrop, but only to hide herself and her misery from mocking eyes until Delmar should be gone.

Josephine’s sudden revelation of the truth had for the moment almost driven her mad with shame and pain and humiliation.

While Delmar’s startled eyes had been fixed on Josephine’s hurried exit with her mother, Maisie had also fled from the room observed only by Byrd and Mrs. French.

Naturally they thought she had gone to her own room, but feeling too well that she would be followed there, and too furious with rage and grief to endure human pity in this hour of humiliation, the girl blundered into the library and concealed herself in the curtained alcove where she felt sure no one would dream of looking.

Angrily and authoritatively Byrd had called his younger brother to account in the library, where Maisie, crouching in her unwisely chosen concealment, had heard every word, too crushed and wretched to interrupt and betray herself.

Heaven only knew what bitter thoughts passed through her tortured mind as she listened to their quarrel, but as Byrd sank with closed eyes into that most unhappy reverie she stole from the room with a startling purpose in her mind.

CHAPTER VIII.
GIVE ME MY RELEASE.

Without meeting a soul Maisie gained her own room—the room she had left but an hour before with such joyful emotion that she did not seem to herself now like the same girl—this wan-faced, heavy-eyed creature, peering into the long mirror in wonder at her own metamorphosis.

Where were the roses that had blushed on her dimpled cheeks, the smiles that had curved her crimson lips, the love-light in the velvety violet eyes? All faded now into a pallid image of despair.

The door opened, and Nancy’s red head popped inside, while she called out eagerly:

“Yes, here she is, Mr. Del—here, in her own room!”

She disappeared as a tall, slim figure in showy uniform darted over the threshold, and her young husband came to her, crying out, excitedly, with burning eyes:

“Maisie, dear, I have just a few minutes left to say good-by! I’ve been talking to Aunt Constance. She has promised to be a mother to you while I am away. You’ll be a good girl, won’t you, little wife? Why did you shudder at that word, Maisie? Does it frighten you to remember you are my wife? Rest easy. I shall not claim you till the war is over, you know. Now one sweet kiss! How pale you are, child! Don’t grieve for me—I’ll write you often—and come back as soon as I can!”

She had turned around from the mirror, poor Maisie, and stood listening like a breathing statue to the torrent of his words. She even let him kiss her passive lips, but she neither spoke nor moved and her cold lips and hands chilled him like ice.

He cried out uneasily:

“See here, Maisie, don’t you worry about Josephine! I—I deceived you for your own good, that—that you might have a home, dear. She is only a treacherous cat. She threw me over when she found I was disinherited, and she means to get Byrd now. Foil her little game if you can, child—and—don’t dream but that the day will come when I shall love you better than I ever did her! Now, say good-by to your soldier boy!” lifting her arms and placing them about his neck, kissing her passive, silent lips again, and rushing from the room, glad to get the parting over, though he thought:

“Poor little one, she takes it hard, but I couldn’t have stayed, with my mind full of Josephine! Oh, Heaven, if I had waited a little longer; if she had but repented a little sooner! But the horrible mistake is made now, and it’s forever too late to go back! I had my revenge at least! Faugh, how bitter it tastes on my lips!” and driven mad by misery, he rushed from the house, eager to join his company, and hoping soon to be in the thick of war, where he might forget the madness of to-day.

As for her, there was one lurid flash from her splendid eyes as the handsome form disappeared; then she snatched up her tiny lace handkerchief and brushed it vehemently over her lips, as if to wipe off the stain of his kiss. But then the reaction came. Staggering toward a chair, she slipped and fell heavily to the floor like a stone.

She lay there a long time without motion, as though life itself had been stricken from her at one fell blow, and none came to her assistance, for it was thought best to leave her alone at first, in the sorrow of her separation from her young husband.

So she came to herself quite alone at last, and dragged herself in a dazed way to a chair, where she sat some time with her pale face buried in her cold, white hands, and her eyes fixed in a strange, inscrutable gaze upon nothingness.

When her strange self-communing was over she arose and returned to the library.

Her crisp white gown was rumpled where she had fallen and lain so long upon the floor, her wealth of golden locks were all in disorder, her face pallid, her great eyes fixed in a strange stare, but she gave not a thought to herself, only hurried on till she stood in the presence of the master of Castellane.

He was sitting with his head bowed over his desk writing a check, and as he passed the blotter over it and looked up, he saw Maisie coming toward him, with that gliding step that always seemed to him the very poetry of motion.

He got up quickly to his feet, with the paper in his hand, exclaiming:

“Ah, Maisie, my fair sister-in-law, you came just in the nick of time! I was writing you a check for a bridal present. Pray accept it, with my best wishes!”

He thrust it into her nerveless hand, and her bewildered eyes mechanically scanned his firm, bold writing where it was signed to a check that ordered his bank to pay to the order of Mrs. Delmar Barrington the sum of two hundred thousand dollars.

Even in her utter astonishment she could not help seeing how the firm hand had wavered over the new writing of her name, and her heart leaped with a certain satisfaction that made her feel confident of the success of her mission.

In a husky voice she said:

“You are very generous, and I thank you, but I cannot accept this!” with the words she tore the check in two and cast it at his feet.

“Maisie!” reproachfully.

“Sir!” proudly.

“You do me injustice. Will you believe when I tell you truly I was ignorant of that clause in my father’s will that left you penniless? I know he intended to provide for you, and—I understand now that it was pique at your rejection of my suit that caused him to disinherit you. I fear—I believe, that his intention was to drive you into my arms. As if”—with a proud toss of his head—“I would accept a bride thus won. No, Maisie, do not think so hardly of your new brother, who is willing and anxious to repair his father’s fault.”

Byrd stood at the back of his chair looking earnestly at the pale young beauty with something of compassion in his grave blue eyes.

She started in wonder and exclaimed:

“Delmar was wronged far more than I, yet you have not tried to make it up to him!”

He made a gesture as if of throwing off something unpleasant.

“Do not let us recur to that. I—I can offer no explanation. Come back to yourself, Maisie. I implore you not to refuse a wedding-gift from me. I have a right to make it. It is discourteous in you to refuse it. Let me write you another check—even larger, if you will accept it.”

To his boundless amazement, she answered hoarsely:

“I will not deny that I came here, Byrd, to ask you for a wedding-gift, but not of money!”

“Of jewels then, perhaps? No?” as she slowly shook her head. “Ah, I have it. A home of your own, where you can live with your husband when he returns covered with glory from the war? You would not wish to continue living at Castellane. How can I blame you? Very well, Maisie, you shall select for yourself a beautiful mansion, or shall I have one built for you? Your wish is my pleasure,” with a courtly bow.

But again the girl silently shook her beautiful golden head.

“Not that, my dear sister? Then I cannot guess any further—unless,” with a start, “you wish me to persuade Delmar not to go away—to remain here with you. Ah, that is it, poor child, is it not?”

He was scarcely prepared for what followed, though he had read on her pallid face the grief that was tearing her heart-strings apart, and pitied her with a yearning pity.

Beautiful Maisie advanced a step and sank on her knees at the feet of her tall, stately brother-in-law. She clasped her writhing white hands, and lifted great, pleading eyes to his pale drawn face.

“Ah, I was right,” he was saying to himself. “She cannot bear the absence of her heart’s beloved. There is grief and agony on her lovely face. She will appeal to me to bring him back to her side!”

The thought went like a knife through his heart, while he waited for the beautiful suppliant to speak.

She cried out to him in a voice strained with anguish:

“See, I kneel to you, Byrd, to pray for your kindness. I do not deserve it; you need not remind me of that, for I have been cruel and wicked to you! Yet somehow I feel that you will do for me what I am going to ask. Promise me beforehand.”

“I do not know how I could refuse anything you asked me, Maisie,” he answered gently, wondering at her passion for his brother that could drive proud Maisie to the humility of this moment. “Speak out frankly, my dear child, I will do what I can!”

But in his secret heart he wondered if it would be possible for him to persuade the young soldier to come back to live with his unloved bride, with his heart full of another. Oh, the pity of it!

Yet he promised himself that he would try, even if Delmar repulsed him, rather than betray the confidence of the beautiful suppliant kneeling at his feet, praying for his kindness.

His heart seemed to beat in his ears as she began to speak:

“You know all about the law, don’t you, Byrd? You are a lawyer yourself, aren’t you, although so rich that you need not practise it? So you can help me easily, I know. It isn’t much I ask of you—not near so much as your gift of two hundred thousand dollars that I wouldn’t accept; not near so hard as to go and beg your angry brother to return to his heart-broken bride, which I’m not asking you to do, ha! ha!” with an awful mirthless laugh. “No, no, Byrd. The only wedding-gift I want from you is that you will secure for me—immediately or as soon as the law will act—a divorce from your dastard brother!”

She laughed aloud at the great start of surprise he gave, as if an earthquake shock had moved him from his feet.

“Maisie, are you mad?” he demanded hoarsely.

CHAPTER IX.
“LEAD US NOT INTO TEMPTATION!”

No wonder he thought she was losing her senses—the appeal was so strange, so sudden, so unexpected!

“Maisie, are you mad?” he asked her again, in consternation, and she answered most bitterly:

“Yes, maddened by wrong and injustice, and driven to bay! Do not pretend to be surprised, Byrd, for you see I understood what Josephine said—and, I may as well confess it, I was hidden in this room and heard all that you and Del said to each other. Was that not enough to drive me mad?”

He faltered, reproachfully:

“You were hidden here? You listened. Was that right, Maisie?”

“Was it wrong when it concerned me so nearly? But I am not in a mood for discussing an ethical question now. I repeat I was hiding in the alcove there, crushed with the humiliation of Josephine’s words. You came in together, and I learned all—that Del had married me for spite, with his heart full of another—vilely deceived me! Was it not enough to turn love to hate?”

“It was cruel, poor child, I do not deny it, but it cannot be helped now! Try to be brave, believing that all will soon come right. Delmar’s heart in its rebound will surely turn to his beautiful, charming bride!”

“I do not wish it so! I hate him now for his treachery! I must, I will be free of the tie that binds me to Delmar Barrington!” she raved, with blazing eyes, her white hands beating the air with anguish, and struggling to get free as Byrd caught them tightly in both his own, dragging her up forcibly to a seat.

“Sit down there, Maisie. You must not kneel to any but your God! Calm yourself, poor girl, you are unduly excited now, and may by and by repent your present haste.”

“Never! Never! Oh, Byrd, will you get me that divorce; will you—will you—will you? I cannot bear my life unless I get free! Oh, think of the horrible humiliation! Married without love, to spite his brother, who loved me; to pique a girl who was false! Not a scruple for my fond heart broken, my young life wrecked, as cruelly as if he had thrust a dagger in my heart! Oh, the pity of it that he was so unworthy, while I loved him so! Those dark, flashing eyes, I only saw heaven in them, while they were false as hell! Those lips, how honey-sweet they were; but their kisses were lies; they all belonged to Josephine, his heart’s love!” Again, with a gesture of loathing, she brushed the false kisses from her writhing lips, and went on hoarsely:

“A forsaken bride, deserted at the altar; a thing for all to pity, for Josephine to laugh and mock at, the light coquette! I tell you, Byrd Barrington, I cannot bear it; I will not! I must get free from these fetters that chafe like iron bands! I can have no self-respect left if I wear his name an hour longer than I can help it! Oh, Byrd, for God’s sake, say that you will set me free?”

While she raved on he was pale as death, a cold dew beaded his high, white brow, her words pierced his heart like arrows.

But he answered with forced calmness:

“My dear sister, I would do anything in reason, but this is impossible!”

“No, no!” she denied violently.

“Impossible!” he repeated, sadly but firmly. “You married Delmar of your own free will, Maisie, and he has not given you any cause for divorce. Many husbands have left loving brides to answer their country’s call to arms, but the law does not recognize that as a legal cause for divorce, so you really have no case in law.”

Despair overmastered her so that she could not speak, and he feared for a moment she was going to faint. He put a glass of water to her dry lips and she swallowed a few drops, still speechless, in her terrible disappointment.

Barrington took advantage of her silence to attempt to argue the case with her, to soothe her, to predict again that all would be right soon. Delmar would quickly learn to love her, and her own love would return. He did not blame her much for her anger now but it would not last, and when she grew calmer she could look at the case from both sides. She would pity Delmar for his madness, and forgive him, remembering how desperate he must have been, losing love and fortune all at one fell blow.

To his eloquent pleading she listened in silence and with a growing wonder, until at last she made a gesture for him to pause.

“You fill me with amazement!” she cried angrily. “I thought you would be eager for revenge on Del. I thought you would take my part! I cannot comprehend why you refuse to help me! I never suspected you of being goody-goody.”

“But I have told you, Maisie, that what you wish is impossible; that there exists no legal cause for divorce from your husband!”

“You have said so, but I do not believe you. Rather, I suspect that you are glad of my disillusionment, secretly rejoiced at my punishment, laughing in your sleeve at my despair. It is your sweet revenge because I would not love you!”

He put out his hand, as if to ward off a stinging blow, but the angry, desperate girl continued to speak, playing now her last card, one on which she counted confidently to win.

“Come, I will test your goodness, Byrd; I will tempt you through the love you profess for me!”

He started violently, and she raved on:

“People say you are very clever, and I do not doubt it, else how could you have influenced your own father so cleverly and turned his heart against his younger son! I am sure that if you chose you could manage that divorce for me, and I am willing to pay the price. I thought revenge on Del would move you, but since it will not, what of love? Do you—love—me—still? Will you get me free of Delmar’s claim if I promise—to—marry—you—the—moment—I am free?”

She paused and waited for his answer, with a gleam of triumph in her great pansy-purple eyes, never doubting for a moment what his answer would be.

As for him, he caught his breath with a thrill of rapture, so keen it was positive pain.

Ah, to take her at her word—the lovely creature he had coveted so madly; to have her for his own; to take her unrebuked in his arms, to press those pouting scarlet lips with his own—the delicious joy of the thought made his heart leap wildly.

It was he who was stricken speechless now. He could only look at her with silent, agonized passion in his sparkling blue eyes.

Maisie gave a light, mocking laugh, chill as the ripple of a streamlet just released from icy bondage, and held out her beautiful white hand, exclaiming:

“I have won!”

But Byrd Barrington recoiled, answering huskily:

“No.”

“You refuse my offer?” furiously.

“Maisie, I must.”

If a look could have slain, the lightning anger of her glance must have stretched him dead at her feet. He quailed before it, but he did not retract his words.

Then a slow, scarlet wave crept up over the pallor of her exquisite face and flooded it with blushes, as she began to realize what she had done in her fury of rage and despair.

She, a married woman, had deliberately offered her hand to this man as the price of her freedom from another, and she had been refused. She would never get over the shock, the humiliation, to her dying day.

She got up slowly to her feet and faced the silent man, her cheeks burning, her eyes flashing, her whole form trembling, her hand outstretched, while she denounced him:

“I hope that you are enjoying your revenge to the utmost, Byrd Barrington! I see that you never really loved me! I shall never forget how cruel you have been to me, how you refused the prayer I made to you on my knees, and I shall hate you from this hour quite as bitterly as I hate your cruel brother, and, mark me, if I live you shall rue this hour!”

She rushed from the room in an agony of resentment, leaving him there alone gazing after her, with a deathly white face and anguished eyes, while over his blanched lips faltered in tense accents the prayer:

“Lead us not into temptation!”

In her passion of anger and humiliation, Maisie scarcely knew how she ever reached her own room again.

But once there, she did not take time to think twice before carrying out a suddenly formed resolution to leave Castellane forever.

She locked the door, slipped off her dainty wedding-gown, and tore it into a dozen fragments, that she left in a litter upon the floor. With the same reckless haste she dressed herself in a plain black suit and close hat and veil.

She had a hand-bag ready, that she had packed for last night’s flitting, and in her desk was the curt note she had written telling Mrs. French that she was shaking the dust of Castellane from her feet forever. It would answer just as well now; so she fastened it on her pincushion in plain view, took up her hand-bag, and fled from the house, wretched and self-exiled, a bride whose love had turned to hate in an hour, whose dearest wish was never to see her husband’s face again.

She knew that the north-bound train was leaving very soon, and hurrying on over the mile of distance between Castellane and the station, she found herself too late to purchase a ticket, and got into a seat in a day-coach, just in time to settle herself before the train started.

Sinking back in her seat, with a sort of bitter triumph, Maisie watched the flying landscape through eyes that were blurred with angry tears, till startled by the conductor’s voice asking for her ticket.

She started and looked up, faltering:

“I—I did not have time to buy my ticket. I will pay my fare. How far can I go for—about ten dollars?”

“To New York, miss.”

“Very well,” and she handed him a crisp ten-dollar bill.

CHAPTER X.
MAISIE’S FLIGHT FROM HOME.

“All the world before me where to choose,” murmured Maisie, drawing down her veil and closing her eyes, oblivious to all but her own thoughts, wondering vaguely how she was going to earn her own living in the great city. She would have to find employment directly, for she had but ten dollars in her purse. But there were her jewels and her watch. She could sell them if driven to bay by poverty.

At dusk the train reached Washington, and large numbers of the passengers got out there, but the half-distracted girl did not notice either those who went out or came in—the latter only three, a bride and groom beginning their wedding-tour, and wholly absorbed in each other, and a slender young woman in shabby black, who sat down opposite to Maisie, and regarded the apparently sleeping girl with some curiosity.

She could see that she was young, well-gowned, and lovely, despite the thick black veil, against which her crinkly yellow hair shone like gold.

“Looks like a runaway schoolgirl?” she muttered, and presently she leaned across the aisle and touched her arm.

“Can you give me the time, please, miss?” she murmured.

Maisie, startled from her reverie, thrust her veil back and touched the spring of the small chatelaine watch at her waist. The stranger caught the gleam of diamonds on the back as she shut it and answered:

“It is half-past eight.”

“Thank you, very much. Going far?” continued her interlocutor.

“To New York,” Maisie answered carelessly, turning her heavy eyes on the speaker, and discovering a young woman with a bold, handsome blonde face and thick masses of rich golden hair.

The stranger exclaimed flippantly:

“Ah, then I shall have some one to talk to all the way; so glad, don’t you know? Desperately lonesome for pretty young girls like us to be traveling alone at night, isn’t it? I never did it before but once. That was when I ran away from boarding-school. Strikes me you look like a runaway schoolgirl yourself, eh?” with an ingratiating laugh.

“You are mistaken,” Maisie answered coldly, though the color flew to her face as she reflected that, after all, she was a runaway, though a bride, not a schoolgirl.

She did not like the young woman’s bold, pretty face and flippant way, so she pulled down her veil and turned her head again, as a sign that she did not care for conversation.

“Humph! unsociable!” commented her neighbor quite audibly, but Maisie took no notice. She was, indeed, beginning to get dull and drowsy, the natural effect of last night’s vigil, when she had lain awake through sheer happiness, thinking of her handsome lover, who was to be her husband on the morrow.

She was his wife now, and she was flying from that lately coveted happiness as fast as steam could carry her, eager to escape her fate.

Despite her troubles, she presently found blessed oblivion of them all in healing sleep.

The new conductor, who had taken the train at Washington, came through and collected the fares of the new passengers, then retired, and everything was very still, except the tender murmurs of the young bridegroom in the ear of the pretty bride, whose brown head rested on his shoulder. They did not seem to be aware that there was any one in the coach but themselves.

The young woman that Maisie had snubbed fidgeted a great deal in her own seat, and at length moved over in front of the girl.

But if she wished to resume the conversation, she was not gratified. She found that her neighbor was sleeping heavily—so heavily that when she reached over and touched her hand she did not move from her trancelike sleep. A curious smile curled the stranger’s lips, and she glanced up covetously at the small leather satchel that Maisie had placed in the rack overhead.

On and on ran the train through the balmy April night, but Maisie slept on through all the jar and rumble, and stoppages at stations, and getting on and off of passengers, and still her sinister neighbor in front watched her with grim satisfaction, until the lights of a great city came into view, and the guard coming through mumbled indistinctly:

“Philadelphia! Philadelphia!”

Poor Maisie, with her golden head pillowed uncomfortably in the hollow of her small gloved hand, dreamed on without stirring, but the woman in front buttoned up her jacket, pulled down her veil, and made ready to leave.

Several other passengers were going out, too, and in the bustle and confusion the woman reached up and possessed herself of the satchel in the rack, without in the least disturbing the owner. She had already filched Maisie’s watch from her belt and her little purse from her jacket pocket, and now, with a little mocking, triumphant laugh, she hastened to leave the train, and it went flying on in the darkness of the night, bearing penniless Maisie on to her destination.

“Cab, lady?” cried a dozen men, crowding around to carry her satchel, but she clung to it, saying coolly:

“It isn’t heavy. I’ll keep it myself, but one of you fellows can take me to a cheap lodging-house.”

After a wrangle among the cab-drivers, she found herself pushed into a cab, and leaning back against the cushions, the wheels rattling over the stony streets, while she chuckled:

“What a rare haul, this watch! The three diamonds on the lid are not worth less than a cool thousand, I know. Mighty little in the purse, though—only a tenner and some change! But there must be more in the bag; and probably jewelry. A girl like that, such a high-stepper, wouldn’t be traveling on a little sum like ten dollars, to be sure!”

The cab stopped before a high brick building in a side street, and the driver got down and opened the door, saying:

“Here you are, now, ma’am, the William Penn lodging-house—cheap, but genteel. Shall I carry in your bag for you?”

“No; here’s your fare.” She paid him from the loose change in Maisie’s purse, and, clutching the bag, entered the office, where she asked for a room, and registered as M. V. Allen.

She had seen the initial M. V. A. on the bag, and muttered grimly:

“Adams or Allen, what? I’ll chance the last. It will do as well for an alias as another! And I’ll get away from here before daylight, before the girl can put any one on my track!”

She asked for a light supper and bottle of wine to be sent to her room, and retired quickly, eager to be alone, that she might go through the satchel’s contents, saying again to herself:

“What a haul! even if I hadn’t got anything but the watch! But here’s this money, and”—wrenching open the satchel, whose key she had found in the purse, “here’s underwear, a new black gown, and jewels! Dear me, what a necklace! Three rows of pearls clasped by a diamond. Three bracelets! Two pearl ones and a turquoise! A diamond ring! How they all shine! I wish I dared wear them! But it’s too risky! I’ll have to sacrifice them to the second-hand dealers. As for the underwear, I need that badly enough! I’ll have a bath and get into the dainty rig before I sleep. Whew, a photograph! What a handsome fellow, upon my word! Like to know him, really! That girl’s sweetheart, of course!” and she thrust back a very fine picture of Byrd Barrington, that, strangely enough, had accompanied Maisie in her flight.

She discussed the supper and the wine with gusto, then regaled herself with a cigarette or two; so that it was quite midnight before she was ready to retire.

Casting off with some contempt her own soiled and shabby clothing, the woman rolled them into a tight bundle and threw them down to the bottom of an air-shaft, after which she donned with satisfaction the dainty lace-trimmed lingerie she had purloined, and surveyed herself with pleasure in the narrow mirror over the dressing-table between the flaring gaslights.

“How pretty I look! Fine feathers make fine birds!” she laughed gaily. “What a chance for a woman flying in terror, without a rag to her back, from a poky husband, and who threatened her with death! Well, he ought never to have married me! I was too pretty! So here’s the end of it! I’ve fled from him at last, and to-morrow I’ll enter on the life I prefer. It’s true I was making for New York, but that girl tempted me—so here I am—a runaway wife and a thief, besides. Ha, ha! But nothing matters so that I don’t get caught! Ah, fire, fire, fire!” she ended, with a shriek, as she clapped her small white hands to her head.

All at once a most terrible tragedy had happened.

While leaning forward to the mirror, gaily apostrophizing herself, the heat of the gaslights had been concentrated on a small white carved celluloid comb that held in place the rich coils of her rippling golden hair. The highly inflammable character of the celluloid caused it to ignite from the heat with an explosive noise, bursting into a clear flame above her head, and involving in its destruction the mass of hair.

With an awful frenzied shriek of despair, the woman clutched at the burning comb, tearing down the heavy coils of long hair till they wrapped her form like living serpents of flame.

Then the blaze caught the light laces of her snowy night-robe, licking it up with tongues of fire, as she rushed to the door and tore it open, shrieking for assistance, a ghastly monument of flame.

CHAPTER XI.
ONLY TO SUFFER AND ENDURE!

Byrd Barrington remained long in the library where Maisie had left him, his head bowed on his desk, his broad shoulders heaving with a strong man’s stifled emotion.

It would seem as if the triumph of keeping his vow to the dead had borne heavily on his own heart.

Bravely, silently, he was fighting the battle with his strange love—the battle against temptation.

He knew well enough that he could take Maisie at her word—that by some legal quibble he could gain her freedom from his brother—the freedom that she craved.

He knew quite as well, also, that since Josephine had relented, his brother would not greatly care, might even welcome release from the fetters he had unwisely forged in a moment’s madness.

And yet, dare he take her at her word? Clasp to his breast an unloving bride?

Had he not seen enough in his late father’s two marriages of marriage with love on one side only?

Had he not sworn to himself never to enter the nuptial state save at the promptings of mutual love?

A stifled groan escaped him. “It cannot be; I must hold back my hand. In a little while she will change her mind and learn to be patient while waiting for Delmar’s heart to turn from Josephine to its true allegiance. All will—all must—come right in time between the wedded pair. It is not for me to meddle—only to suffer and endure!”

There was a hurried step by his side, an agitated voice:

“Oh, Byrd! Byrd!”

He lifted up his ghastly face from his folded arms impatiently.

“Well, Aunt Constance?”

“Can you believe me? Maisie has run away!”

“Impossible!”

“But here is her note!” and she held out to him the scrap of paper where Maisie had written:

“Dear Aunt Constance: This is to thank you for all your kindness to me since I came to Castellane, a lonely little orphan girl! I am going away to earn my own living. Some day I will write you where to send the small trunk I have packed with my plainest things. The others would be no use to a working-girl. Tell all the others good-by for me. God bless you!

“Maisie.”

While he read and reread it with dazed eyes, Mrs. French explained:

“I went to her room, to speak a few words of comfort to the poor child, and the first thing I saw was her pretty wedding-gown torn into fragments and scattered over the floor. Then the note on the pincushion caught my eye. I rang the bell for Nancy, and, on making inquiries, I found that several of the servants had seen Maisie going out more than an hour ago, with a little leather satchel on her arm.”

“She has gone on the afternoon train. I heard it whistle some time ago,” he said blankly.

“Oh, how dreadful! But you will follow and bring her back, Byrd?”

“You forget that I do not know where she has gone.”

“It cannot be far. She never had any money but her monthly allowance of twenty-five dollars, and it must have been partly spent.”

A shudder ran over him at the thought of Maisie, so young, so fair, so gently nurtured, alone in the world trying to earn her daily bread.

“But what can we do?” he cried helplessly. “Even if I followed her, she would not come back with me!” and he poured out all that had passed between them.

Mrs. French was simply horrified.

“The poor child must have lost her senses, indeed!” she cried. “I do not deny but that it was a cruel blow to find out that Delmar had married her from such unworthy motives, but she should have tried to make the best of it, poor child. Of course, you are right; she would never return, even if we went down on our knees to her, so we can do nothing but wait. She may get sick enough of her folly, and soon come home.”

“God grant it!” he cried fervently, for, though just before she came in he had been telling himself he could not remain any longer under the same roof as Maisie, that he would go away upon a long journey somewhere, it cut him to the heart to know that she was gone. The grand mansion all at once seemed bare and empty as a tomb.

“I will write to Delmar. He ought to know about it,” she said.

“Yes, he should know,” Barrington agreed. “But do you not remember he gave us no address? He is off for the seat of war, and would write us first, he said.”

So there was nothing to do but wait and hope, those hardest duties of all; and meantime Aunt Constance confidently believed that the hard realities of life would weaken Maisie’s desperate pride and send her flying back to the home-nest.

“She doesn’t know what poverty is like! When she meets the grim specter all alone, she will pocket her pride and fly back to Castellane,” she declared grimly.

But their suspense did not last long—only through the evening hours and a restless night, dream-haunted for both with visions of the dear one adrift on life’s wide sea, struggling with the wild waves of destiny that perhaps would engulf her soul, or perchance cast her back, weary and storm-driven, on the safe shores of home.

While the morning sun was just piercing the gray clouds of dawn, the master of Castellane was awakened to greet an untimely visitor—the affable postmaster of the little town.

“Beg pardon, I’m sure, for disturbing you, sir, but I heard that Miss Van Allyn had gone away, and I’m afraid I have bad news of the poor little girl.”

In his hand was an open telegram, and his tone was reproachful. Everybody in town knew that Barrington had succeeded to all his father’s money, leaving Delmar and Maisie out in the cold.

Barrington struggled quickly into a long dressing-gown, and held out his hand for the message.

He read with staring eyes:

“To the Postmaster of Rosedale, Va.: A young girl, who registered here to-night as M. V. Allen, became the victim of an accident by fire, and is dead. Her only luggage, a leather satchel, is marked in black letters: M. V. A., Rosedale, Va. Can you communicate with her friends?

John Joynes,

“Of the William Penn House, Philadelphia, Pa.”

“My God!” Barrington muttered, reeling into a seat, with his hand before his eyes.

“Remorse!” thought the postmaster sagely, and turned as Mrs. French came in with alarm depicted on every feature.

“What is the matter with Byrd?” she cried, and he handed her the telegram that had fallen from Byrd’s nerveless hand to the floor.

“Dead, dead! Our little Maisie! Oh, it cannot be!” she shrieked, and fell into Byrd’s arms, moaning and sobbing in the shock of grief.

He could only hold her tight, with his ghastly face bowed upon her gray hair. He was a man; he must hide the anguish that consumed his heart.

“I—I—will go—on the first train,” he said hoarsely to the postmaster, adding: “Thank you for coming at once. We were troubled over her flight, but we did not know where she had gone.”

The misery of his face moved the man’s heart to sympathy, and he said:

“I shall be very glad if I can help you any way.”

“I thank you; there is nothing. I shall go, as I said just now, on the first train, and—and—bring her home!” he said hollowly.

“I shall go with you!” sobbed Mrs. French.

So in the late afternoon they came to the cheap but genteel lodging-house in Philadelphia where that tragedy of death had been enacted the night previous, and when they were strong enough to bear the horror, they were shown in an upper room something lying very still under a white sheet.

But first they had been shown the satchel, the contents, the jewelry, all of which they fully identified.

There was not the least hope of mistake. Byrd Barrington opened the lid of the watch, and there was her full name, with the date and a motto: “Always true”—he himself had given it to Maisie on her birthday, when she was just sixteen and the fairest little beauty the sun ever shone on, the fairest and the sauciest, for, even while accepting his gift, she had laughed his love to scorn.

“You are too old to be my lover!” she had declared cruelly.

He was fourteen years older, it was true, and he had answered bitterly:

“But not too old to make a fool of myself loving you!”

Here was the watch and the few jewels, all of which he knew too well, and Aunt Constance identified every piece of the clothing. Had she not always ordered the girl’s things and marked them herself? No, there was not the slightest room for doubt.

Then the people at the house told how fair and pretty she was, with bright blue eyes and golden hair, and how her shrieks had brought every one rushing to the scene, to find her wrapped in flames that quickly destroyed her life. Of the origin of the accident, none could tell. They thought it likely she might have been combing her hair before the mirror, and the draft must have blown her sleeve against the gas-jet; that was the most plausible theory; so she had been swallowed in the flames, they thought; but, anyway, her burns were so terrible before they could put out the fire that she died without ever speaking again, save for piteous moans, enough to break one’s heart.

That dreadful thing swathed in linen and burned out of all semblance to Maisie, save for a few wisps of yellow hair still clinging to the fleshless skull, Barrington and his aunt took home, coffined, to Castellane and buried, amid the tears of the whole neighborhood, for bonnie Maisie Van Allyn Barrington.

CHAPTER XII.
THE DIE WAS CAST.

Through the din of the train’s arrival and departure from Philadelphia, Maisie never stirred from her deep slumber, she was so tired, poor child, from all she had passed through—last night’s vigil of happy love, as well as the sorrows of to-day.

Meantime, the empty coach was half-filled now, having been invaded by a theatrical stock company that immediately owned the train and made themselves at home in the genial ways of these merry folk, cracking jokes at each other’s expense, playing games of cards, singing, and altogether making things so lively that none but a Rip Van Winkle could have slept amid their merry din.

In consequence, Maisie was aroused long before they reached New York, and, sitting bolt upright, with her veil pushed back, she stared at her environments with a dazed look in her great, pathetic orbs.

She could not comprehend where she was for the moment, and it frightened her to find herself in such a jolly company, all chattering like magpies, except one, a rather handsome young fellow, who was sitting apart from the rest, trying to sing loud enough to drown all the other voices, and but poorly succeeding in the attempt. Yet it was a very pretty barytone, and Maisie listened with drowsy pleasure to the strain.

At last a voice bawled over his shoulder:

“Shut up your infernal racket, Stuart! Don’t you see you are waking up that pretty young lady?”

As if that were not exactly what Stuart had been trying to do for want of some other diversion.

But he gave a start of pretended consternation and bowed toward Maisie, exclaiming:

“Beg pardon, I’m sure, for disturbing you, miss; my intentions were quite the reverse. These gabies back here were making so much noise I thought my song would prevent you from being annoyed.”

“Hear, hear!” cried a chorus of sarcastic voices, and Maisie, slowly coming to herself in the good-natured hubbub, began to realize everything, and with a wan smile murmured:

“You’re very kind, I’m sure; but it does not matter!”

Then, wondering how long she had slept and how late it was, she put her hand to her belt, feeling for her pretty watch.

A startled cry came from her lips as she realized that it was gone.

“Oh, my watch!”

She stood up and felt in her jacket pocket for her purse, ending with another cry:

“My purse!”

Frantically she stooped down, searching the floor to see if they had fallen there.

“You have lost something? Pray let me assist you!” cried the singer, coming eagerly forward.

But Maisie now lifted her eyes to the rack where she had carefully placed her satchel, and answered in a sort of hopeless despair:

“There’s no use searching! I’ve been robbed of everything I had in the world! My purse, my watch, my hand-bag, with my clothes and jewels.”

At that the men and women all came trooping out of their seats and closed about her, with eager sympathy and curious questions, but she could only sink back in her seat and sob hysterically in her despair.

“Let her alone, poor dear, for a few minutes, till she composes herself,” one woman said gently, putting a kindly hand on the girl’s shoulder, to assure her of her sympathy.

And, indeed, every one was so kind that presently, they had it all out of the weeping girl—that she was an orphan going to New York to support herself, and that she knew no one there, and had not a penny in the wide world.

She had no idea who could have robbed her so heartlessly—she had spoken to no one except a young woman who got on at Washington and asked her the time. She had told her it was half-past eight, and then fallen asleep and never waked until now.

“A woman asked you the time, eh? She probably walked off with your time-piece afterward, and the rest of your property,” said the musical Stuart promptly.

Maisie felt it was but too true, and bitterly reproached herself for having slept at all.

The conductor now came up to hear the story, and said:

“The thief must have made her escape at Philadelphia, or before you reached here, for I took the train at that point, and I saw no woman in the coach answering to your description. Shall I not telegraph back along the line, to have the bold thief arrested?”

She looked at him with her great wistful eyes swimming in frightened tears.

“I—I—would it not get into the papers?” she sobbed.

“Very likely, miss.”

She hesitated, and a bitter thought came to her mind.

Byrd Barrington, and perhaps Delmar, would see it, and laugh at her for a little simpleton who had run away to make her own way in the world and had not sense enough to keep from being robbed on the train. No, no; she would rather die than have them know it.

So she faltered:

“You are very kind, and I thank you very much, but—but—if you please, I’d rather not make any sensation over it. The truth is”—crimsoning hotly—“I have run away from a home I hated, and if they saw that in the papers they would be able to trace me.”

The conductor eyed her pityingly.

“My dear young lady, let me persuade you to return to your home,” he cried. “Ah, you don’t know the pitfalls and snares of the great world you’re rushing into. If you will go back, I’ll gladly lend you the money to buy a return ticket.”

He never forgot the pathos of her look, or the passionate vibration of her voice as she cried:

“I will never go back! I would rather die!”

He passed on, with a shake of the head, to take up the fares, and Maisie, aching with shame at finding herself the object of such pitying interest to so many strangers, again bowed her head and wept.

A gentle, womanly arm stole around her shoulders, and a sympathetic voice whispered:

“But what will you do, my dear, when you reach New York? Where will you go?”

“I do not know.”

“Ah, my dear, I am frightened for you. You are so beautiful it is not safe to venture penniless into the great city. I offer you my friendship. Be my guest until you get settled.”

Maisie started and looked up in wonder at the handsome, noble face of the lady, who continued:

“I will tell you all about myself before you accept my offer. I am an actress—the leading lady in a stock company going to New York to play an engagement of several weeks. The members you see around you—gay comrades all, but good, honest people, whose friendship you need not disdain. My husband is the manager, and if you would like to act, we could give you a place in our company, or assist you to obtain any other employment you were fitted to accept. What do you say to my offer, dear?”

The beautiful eyes flashed with gratitude, and Maisie answered in a voice choked with tears:

“That you have saved me from despair, dear madam, for I was actually planning to spring from the train and end my wretched life. Not that I wished to do it, for I know how wicked it would be, but there seemed no other way, and no room in the world for a friendless girl.”

“Then you accept my offer? You will let me help you?”

“Thankfully, dear lady, in the hope that I may some day repay your great kindness.”

“Do not trouble over that, dear. Now, I would like to introduce you to my husband and the members of my company. Your name?”

Maisie crimsoned and hesitated. She had sworn to herself never to claim the name of Barrington, and she did not wish to be traced by her own name. She was done with her old life forever.

She recalled her mother’s maiden name, and felt that she had a right to that, murmuring faintly:

“Violet Summers.”

“A pretty name. It suits you, with your purplish-blue eyes and golden hair. You are a raging beauty, my dear, and I think you ought to go upon the stage. It is an animated life, and will help you to forget, if, as I fancy, that is your desire.”

She called the others, and they came eagerly.

“Miss Summers, this is my husband, Mr. Warren. Mr. Stuart, our leading man, and a clever pianist, by the way. Miss De Barr, a very young lady, who takes our old-woman parts,” and so on, until Maisie knew all their names and had been cordially shaken hands with by each.

Then Mrs. Warren added suavely:

“Miss Summers is my guest for the nonce, and as she is looking for employment, I hope she will join our company and be an actress. I think we can all coach her in the part of our ingénue who deserted us in Philadelphia to marry her cousin, and I think it is quite fortunate I have the place open for our pretty Violet.”

Maisie started and paled at the name, thinking how strange it was that she was never to hear herself called Maisie again, never to go back to the old life from which she had fled with reckless haste and passion. But the die was cast; there was no looking back. Farewell, Maisie Van Allyn; welcome, Violet Summers, actress.

CHAPTER XIII.
JOSEPHINE’S LITTLE GAME.

Was it any wonder that Byrd Barrington fell ill of nervous shock the day after the funeral?

Heaven alone knew all that the man had borne silently in his heart for years—his life overshadowed by his terrible vow.

Now all was ended; his father and Maisie dead, his brother impoverished and exiled. He had kept his vow, but the fulfilment was bitter on his lips.

How changed and still everything was at Castellane with those three gone—the stern, cold father, the gay, rollicking younger son, the lovely, happy-hearted girl.

In vain the sun shone, the flowers bloomed, the birds sang now. The pall of death and despair hung heavily, like a black cloud, over Castellane and its proud owner.

Outraged nature reeled before the successive shocks of fate, and finally gave way beneath the awful strain.

On the morning after the funeral he was found in bed by his man, burning up with fever, raving in delirium.

Poor Mrs. French! It seemed as if the good lady’s trials were never to have an ending.

In her way she, too, had been feeling very unhappy, and Byrd’s illness seemed like the last stroke of misfortune.

“With my brother and Maisie dead and my nephew gone off to be killed in the war, while Byrd is likely to die of brain-fever, what is to become of me?” she cried, wringing her hands and never reflecting, good soul that she was, that in the event of those two last deaths the Barrington wealth must all fall to her and the several heirs on her brother’s side.

She was a kind, simple soul, who had never shared her brother’s greed for gold, and, without thinking of any advantage accruing to herself by the deaths of her nephews, she bewailed their condition with honest grief.

The best physician was called in, and a trained nurse brought from Baltimore, so that Byrd Barrington began his struggle for life with the best care and attention, aided by a strong physique.

In spite of everything in his favor, it was a battle royal he waged with death.

Weeks slipped away while he lay in the grasp of the fever, so low that his end seemed but a question of time.

Meanwhile, the war with Spain was on, and Delmar Barrington had gone with his regiment to Cuba.

Mrs. French had not failed to write him the particulars of his young bride’s death, and afterward of his brother’s illness, but to neither letter did the young soldier make any reply. It was not natural he should grieve much over either piece of news. He had not loved his forsaken bride, nor yet his elder brother. Perhaps it was but natural he should feel a guilty sensation of relief at the news of his freedom from the fetters so hastily forged and so quickly regretted—and as to Byrd’s illness, well, he certainly owed him no solicitude, and if he died it would mean to his brother only good fortune—wealth, love, and happiness.

He did not write to his aunt, but he did to Josephine, reminding her of the words she had said that day of his fatal wedding, asking if she had truly meant them, and if she would stand by them, now that Maisie was dead.

The deceitful girl was caught in her own trap. She had no idea of marrying Delmar now that he was penniless, unless his brother died.

So she waited several weeks before she replied to the letter, and then wrote guardedly.

She begged him to excuse her delay in replying, as she and dear mama had been so busy helping poor Mrs. French nurse Mr. Barrington, who still lay at the point of death. How could her unkind Delmar doubt his poor Josephine? If anything ever came between their hearts again it would be mama’s fault, because she was always nagging her about loving a poor man, etc. But perhaps they ought not to be writing to each other like this just yet, and poor Maisie only dead a few weeks. Wasn’t it better just to correspond casually, as friends, until his period of mourning had expired?

All this was to gain time, while Barrington’s recovery remained doubtful, for Josephine, under her mother’s efficient tutelage, was daily at Castellane, on the excuse of helping Mrs. French, who really required no help, being surrounded by efficient servants and the most skilful of trained nurses; but she could not repel the sympathy that Josephine served up to her in sugar-coated doses, thereby gaining a firmer footing at Castellane.

If Byrd recovered, she hoped to work on him in his convalescence and win his heart. If he died, she was sure of Delmar. Thus she almost felt sure of success in her daring plans.

But as for helping to nurse the invalid back to health, Josephine privately hoped that he might surely die. Of the two, she preferred Delmar for a husband. His dark, dashing beauty was ineffaccably printed on her heart. If he only had Byrd’s money, she would be willing and glad to marry him to-morrow.

So the days came and went, April slipping into May and May into June before the crisis of Byrd’s illness was reached, and then death withdrew his shattered forces and left life conquerer on the field they had valiantly contested through long, long weeks of uncertainty and doubt.

Josephine wrote the news to Delmar. She knew he would be glad, she said, to know that his brother was convalescing, even though, of course, it made a difference in his own prospects.

When Delmar read her letter he ground between his white teeth a bitter oath. He scarcely realized till now how he had counted on Byrd’s death.

Fate having removed Maisie and struck his brother down on a bed of illness, he had dared to dream wild dreams of happiness again—dreams in which Josephine played the central figure always—coquette Josephine, on whom he could not count, he knew, without money to back him in his wooing.

He studied her letter closely. How evasive it was; how incomprehensible; every line guarded lest she should write one word too much, and ending artfully:

“Poor Maisie has been dead just two months now. I would not think I was doing right corresponding with so recent a widower if it were not we are such old friends!”

“She is playing the prude—trying to keep friends with me and angling at the same time for Byrd’s heart!” he muttered furiously, and in an access of rage tore the letter to fragments, vowing he would write to her no more.

“What is there left to me in life? Nothing! It is no matter if I fall in the ranks of war! Life holds nothing for me but disappointment, poverty, and blighted love. And I owe it all to his treachery—that cursed brother of mine!” he ground savagely between his teeth, his whole soul on fire with his sense of injury.

Josephine did not grieve over her unanswered letter. She felt the correspondence embarrassing, now that the master of Castellane was slowly convalescing and sure to hold his own.

“Poor Delmar! I am very sorry for him, and just as sorry for myself, for, even if I marry Byrd, I can never love him,” she said to herself, although none the less for that did she withhold her hand from trying to win the desperate game she was playing.

“I am bound to win,” she cried to herself desperately. “Mama says that papa is on the verge of failure, and that a rich husband is my only salvation. Some girls, if they had been in my place, loving Del so dearly, would never have let his brother get well. They would have dropped something into his medicine—ugh! what a wicked thought! But I couldn’t help thinking it, time and again, and—well, I’m glad they did not let me have the chance! That trained nurse was always on guard, and so my foolish temptation wrought no harm.”

She grew pale at her own thought, and hurried into Byrd’s room with the bunch of sweet June roses she had brought from Shirley.

“Good morning. How bright you look to-day!” she cried, as she tendered the flowers to the invalid, who sat at one of the windows, breathing in the sweetness of the rare June day.

He thanked her for the roses, and held them listlessly in his hand while he said:

“Yes, I feel stronger daily, and my physician has ordered me to White Sulphur Springs, to complete my cure.”

Josephine laughed out loud in happy excitement.

“Why, what a coincidence!” she cried. “Mama and I were just planning this morning to go to the White Sulphur Springs soon. So we can make a party, can we not?”

“I suppose so,” he replied carelessly, as if it were a matter of no importance.

“I would like to pinch him black and blue!” she thought viciously, but her lips smiled as she said:

“We should have missed you so if you had gone without us. It would not seem like home at Shirley with Castellane shut up and you away.”

“You are very kind,” he replied absently, laying the flowers down on the table, and seeming to forget that they would wither in the warm air. He was thinking that Castellane did not seem like home to him, either, with Maisie gone—lying out yonder under the grass and flowers in the Barrington plot.

Josephine was bitterly piqued. She almost fancied she could read his thoughts, and she cried out, with childish pique:

“I will go home; you are tired of me! You will never care for me as you did for Maisie!”

CHAPTER XIV.
WHAT BLISS HAD SHE ONLY LOVED ME.

Barrington looked at beautiful Josephine in frank astonishment at her vehement outburst.

Her large brown eyes were flashing, her full crimson lips pouted enchantingly, and in her tasteful white gown she made a fairer picture than any he had ever seen, save one that was indelibly imprinted on his heart.

His surprised glance assured her that she had gone too far, and catching a rose from the table, she pulled it to pieces with trembling fingers, her lashes drooping in seeming embarrassment as she faltered:

“I beg your pardon for my childish complaint. Of course, I cannot expect you to care for me as you did for poor Maisie. She was almost the same as your sister—your sister, as I expected to be once, but never can be now! You see what a jealous girl I am—wanting to be loved best by every one!”

She threw the stripped rose from her pettishly, with a long, quivering sigh, and Barrington smiled indulgently, as at a child, while he answered:

“A laudable ambition, if you mold your actions according to your wishes. The lovable must be loved.”

Josephine answered daringly:

“Why, then, did not Maisie love you?”

“I do not count myself lovable,” he returned coldly.

Josephine said not a word. She simply rolled her great eyes at him in a way she had when doing her most effective work on the susceptible male heart. He was not vain, but he could not pretend to misunderstand her meaning.

He looked away from the sparkling face, with its cloud of scented dark hair, at the distant hills in their blue haze, with the sunshine above their misty peaks, and thought of another face—fairer, younger, even—lost out of his life forever. Ah! if she would but have loved him, he thought, how blessed his life would have been.

He could read the wretched little coquette before him like an open book, and her treachery filled him with secret disgust.

But he did not betray it in the musing smile with which he turned back to her presently, saying:

“I did not understand your saying just now, Josephine, that once you had expected to be my sister, but never could be now.”

“Of course, you know I was once engaged to Delmar?” she faltered.

“Yes, and broke faith with him on his disinheritance—repenting your folly afterward, as you told him just after his marriage. Do you intend to tell me you did not mean what you said, Josephine?” cried Barrington, with more sternness than he was aware of in his excitement.

The arch coquette cowered and hid her face in her jeweled hands, sobbing:

“How can you be so hard on me? Of course, I meant every word—but—but—perhaps I oughtn’t to have openly confessed it before Maisie—only—only—I couldn’t bear his reproaches!”

“He was wrong to taunt you, and you were equally wrong to tell him the truth when he had married another. But it is too late to take back anything now. Among us all we drove sweet Maisie to her death with despair and heartbreak, and Delmar is free again. So there is no reason why you should not yet become my sister.”

“There are reasons that—that—you do not understand!” she murmured.

“You mean his disinheritance? That your parents would never consent to your wedding a poor man. Listen, Josephine, the day you marry Delmar you will go to him rich. My wedding-gift to you will be a check for two hundred thousand dollars.”

She was dumb with amazement for a moment; then she rallied herself, thinking disdainfully:

“Two hundred thousand dollars! While he is worth five millions! Bah!”

Her great eyes flashed mutinously.

“You would bribe me to marry Delmar!” she cried reproachfully.

“No, no; I would only make smooth the way to your marriage. Tell your parents what I have told you, and they will readily consent.”

“Oh, how noble you are!” she murmured admiringly.

“Then I have made you happy, Josephine?”

No answer but a long, tremulous, heart-broken sigh.

He said questioningly:

“Are you afraid that Delmar will not forgive you—will not come back to you gladly?”

“It is not that—oh, no!” she sighed with down-dropped lashes.

“Was my offer too small for your expectations?”

“How can you think so? You are most generous,” with a tender, grateful glance.

“Then I am all at sea. I wished to make you happy, but I cannot find the way.”

Josephine turned her head aside, and faltered:

“I am ashamed to tell you the truth. You—will—think me—fickle! And that would break my heart.”

He said to himself impatiently:

“What is the girl hinting at? I cannot imagine, and I vow I will not ask the little torment another question!”

Josephine felt the change in the air, and looked up at his bared face, so thin and pale from recent illness. In fancy she contrasted it with Delmar’s dark, brilliant beauty, to Byrd’s great disadvantage.

But she saw that he would not help her out with any more questions, so she sighed:

“I will tell you the truth if you hate me for it, for I cannot bear to seem deceitful to one who has my happiness so greatly at heart. I—I—can never marry Delmar now—not if he had fifty millions—because, since he went away, I find I do not love him any longer.”

The lie was out. How strange that it did not sear her beautiful, rosy lips!

She waited coweringly for his sentence, her perjured lips trembling as he exclaimed:

“That is very strange!”

“Do you think so? But I cannot help it. Think how badly he acted, deceiving poor Maisie into marrying him. She was so sure of his love, poor, injured girl. It was not manly to marry her for spite, was it, Mr. Barrington?” anxiously.

“No, it was not manly,” he agreed, and Josephine continued eloquently:

“He did wrong, although, of course, one must consider the provocation. It is not for me to throw stones; I was not blameless myself, but—but—somehow, since poor Maisie died I cannot help but despise him, and wonder why I ever fancied I was in love with him. It was only a fancy for a pair of bright eyes, I’m sure now, for lately he seems so weak, so shallow, so immature—a dozen years too young for me! Did you know I am quite a year older than Delmar, sir? Yes, it is true; I’m twenty-two—and—and—rather than marry a younger man I’d really prefer one ten or twelve years older.”

He did not nibble at the tempting bait of flattery as she hoped, but gazed at her in astonishment, wondering at her self-confidence, thinking so transparently to deceive him.

She stole a glance at him under her lowered lids, but she could not read his thoughts, as he did hers without an effort.

“You are angry with me for my frankness!” she cried resentfully.

“Not angry; oh, no, Josephine!”

“But—but—why did you draw your brows together in that frown that frightens me so?” she persisted.

“I was merely thinking—I am sorry I frightened you.”

“Please tell me what you were thinking?” coaxingly.

“Only about the strangeness of women—wondering if they really have any hearts,” he replied cynically.

“I wish you could look into mine, and you would soon find out, but I could never bare its secrets before your cold eyes.”

To her amazement and anger, the invalid suddenly lost his temper, and exclaimed curtly:

“Josephine, go to my aunt, do, for the rest of the day! I’m tired; I want to be alone!”

She sprang up, with rage in her heart and tears in her eyes, sobbing resentfully:

“Tired of me! Oh how rude, how unkind! When I have tried so hard to amuse your lonely hours!”

Barrington gave a savage, sarcastic laugh.

“You have amused me very much indeed, thank you, for the time. But now I am tired of your little fibs and coquetries, and I can see through you as plainly as if you were glass. You are not twenty-two at all, Josephine; only twenty! I can remember the day you were born, and Delmar was a year old then. Don’t think I should like you any better for being almost as old as I am. I loved Maisie better than my own life, and she was barely eighteen, so don’t cherish impossible hopes, and don’t deny again that you love Delmar. I don’t believe you, and I feel certain that you will eventually take him, with my wedding-gift thrown in the balance to make smooth sailing!”

She lowered her lids, to hide their murderous gleam of hate, and rage held her speechless before him for a minute, before cunning came to her aid, and she half-sobbed reproachfully:

“You despise my love; you mock at it! You are cruel—unmanly!”

With the words, she darted from the room, but outside she shook her small clenched fist at the door, hissing under her breath:

“I hate you, hate you, hate you! I should like to stick a knife in your heart, you brute! I wish you were dead, so that Del and I could get all your money and be happy!”

Too bitterly humiliated, at her failure to marry five millions, to meet Mrs. French, she hurried home, while Barrington, at first heated and angry, recovered himself presently, and said to himself with a little laugh:

“She was right. I was unpardonably rude, but the little cat irritated me with her bold scheme to marry me, while her heart, I know, is still my brother’s. Then, too, my illness has unstrung my temper. Well, well, it will be easy to make up the quarrel, anyhow, and then she will understand, even if she follows me to the White Sulphur Springs, that I’m not in the market for a heartless coquette!”

CHAPTER XV.
IN THE CLASH OF HOSTILE ARMS.

How gaily life went on at the Springs, despite the war!

Dancing and flirting and jollity ruled the hour with most, and Josephine felt herself in her native element.

She had come with her mother on the same day as Barrington, and by many of the Springs’ visitors she was supposed to be his betrothed, although many said she certainly neglected him in the enforced quiet of his convalescence, and flirted shamefully with other men.

It was not Josephine’s fault, but, of course, the gossips could not know it. She was eager enough to devote her time to Barrington if she could have made herself welcome, but she did not forget the scolding she had got, although Barrington lightly apologized for it next day, saying that Josephine must not take his badinage seriously. She must remember the proverbial crustiness of convalescents and old bachelors.

This concession was even more than Josephine had dared to hope for, and she accepted the olive-branch eagerly and gushingly, saying she was willing to take all the scoldings she deserved and more, so that he would remain her friend.

The breach thus healed, she and her mother went with Barrington and his aunt to the Springs, and Josephine not only did not try to correct the impression that had got about of her engagement to him, but brought all her arts to bear to make it true.

True, she hated him in her heart, but she was none the less dazzled by his millions and eager to win his hand.

And, piqued by Delmar’s silence, for he had never yet replied to her last letter, she tried to thrust him from her heart.

Barrington, not strong enough yet to take part in the social life of the place, eschewed dancing and late hours, and surrounded himself with a coterie of cultivated, intellectual men, within whose charmed circle Josephine did not care to enter. She contented herself with showing him all the attention she judged would be welcome, and gave the rest of her time to gaiety, eager that the invulnerable bachelor might see how other men hung upon her words and glances, only too glad to win a smile from the brown-eyed belle.

The weeks slipped into the memorable July of 1898, and even amid the gaieties of the pleasure resort little else was talked of but the glorious victories of the American arms over the Spanish—victories following so fast on each other that the end of the short, decisive conflict was already in sight.

Still Delmar Barrington, in the thick of the war at Santiago, never sent home a line to the hearts that eagerly though silently longed for news of him. He might be dead already, lamented Mrs. French, to whose entreating letters he deigned no reply.

Could she have read his tortured heart, she might not have blamed him so much.

He shrank from home news, lest it should bring tidings of Byrd’s marriage to Josephine.

He could never forget his brother’s half-threat to do so in retaliation.

And, fancying his false love to be as charming to others as to himself, he did not doubt but that he had kept his word.

Poor little Maisie, whom he had so rashly wedded and believed now to be resting in her untimely grave, was recalled but seldom, and then with a pitying tolerance mixed with relief at his freedom.

For with freedom, Josephine again became possible to him—Josephine with a long if.

For he comprehended that the fickle beauty was trying to ensnare Byrd’s heart, and, if she succeeded, Delmar would be remorselessly thrown over.

In spite of her unworthiness, he loved her still—he could not tear her image from his heart.

Was it any wonder that his passionate, undisciplined nature writhed under the shocks of untoward fate? That he threw himself with ardor into the war, and gained a reputation for reckless bravery? In the clash of hostile arms was the only relief for the warring passions of his own heart.

“Send me on the most dangerous missions you choose; I do not value my life a straw,” he said recklessly to his commander, with a moody flash of his great dark eyes.

So it came about that in every engagement he was noted for conspicuous bravery, and soon promoted from the ranks to a lieutenancy.

No one saw the least signs of pride in his elevation. It was not glory Delmar Barrington was seeking, but death.

She was not worth such love and such despair, false Josephine, but he had given his love, and he could not take it back. Lacking her, the whole world seemed empty as a tomb. He would welcome a hostile bullet in his heart.

So, while she danced and flirted at White Sulphur Springs, her jilted lover courted death in the front of battle.

How suddenly it all came to an end—the mirth, the gaiety. For, although Delmar had so rigidly held his peace, the newspapers were not so reticent.

With the news of the splendid victories of El Caney and San Juan came the lists of the dead and wounded.

Ah, the hearts that ached with the terrible tidings! None more bitterly than a few at White Sulphur Springs when they read:

“Mortally wounded—Delmar Barrington, Young Guards, Virginia—died later in hospital.”

Dead! And the woman he worshiped dancing while he died! Grim mockery of fate!

CHAPTER XVI.
SUCH A TRAGEDY OF WOE.

In far-away Chicago another pair of eyes scanned the news from El Caney—a pair of lovely eyes, large, deep, and purplish blue, like velvet pansies growing in the shade—and from Maisie’s lips came a startled cry of commingled surprise and dismay.

“Mortally wounded—Delmar Barrington, Young Guards, Virginia—died later in hospital.”

Her lovely face grew lily pale, her heart throbbed wildly, her white hands trembled so violently that the newspaper fell from her grasp to the floor.

The past rose up before her mind’s eye, conjured up by the sight of that name—the years in which she had loved him with the romance and passion of first youth—when she thought that heaven lay in the depths of those dark, flashing eyes.

She remembered the feverish night when she had kept a waking vigil, dreaming of her happiness, recalling the kisses that had burned her lips, the words he had spoken, the joy of to-morrow, when she should be his bride.

Could anything ever blot from her mind that to-morrow when it came; the agony, the pain, the humiliation that had almost driven her mad!

She was his bride, the fate she had dreamed of as most blissful under heaven, but from the hour of her wedding she had worn those fetters as iron bands that chafed night and day; fetters she loathed and hated, but could not throw off though they ate into her heart.

Often she felt that she could not bear her life thus bound—that she could almost die if there were no other way to get free.

And, strangely enough, she had never contemplated Delmar’s death as likely to occur; never calculated the chances of war in her own favor.

She had thrown herself with ardor into the new life that had so strangely opened before her because it offered surcease from torturing memory. The work was wearisome, the emoluments small, but she developed an unexpected talent for theatricals, and threw all her energy into the parts she acted, glad to merge her own personality into that of another than poor little Maisie, the desperate bride who had been married for spite and in her agony had rashly offered to marry another man if he would get her released from his brother. The shame of it almost drove her mad at times, remembering how firmly she had been refused.

So the time had dragged along. In the company her position was assured, and, in spite of her quiet, reserved manners, she was a favorite. They came to understand that she was secretly unhappy, that she had a shadowed past somehow, but she withheld her confidence, and they did not seek to force it.

After their stay in New York they had made a summer tour of the West, not caring to disband for the season, and now they were in Chicago, making their way East, playing in all the larger towns several nights each as they traveled. It relieved the tedium of the journey and put money in their purses besides, for it was really a clever company, and drew good houses whenever they stopped. By the last of July they expected to reach Washington.

Maisie sat alone, with great, startled eyes of wonder, trying to grasp the situation, trying not to exult over the death that left her free at last of the fetters she hated.

“I did not wish him dead; I could never, never desire any one’s death for any good it might bring to me; but oh, oh, I am glad I am not his wife now!” she panted, and burst into low, hysterical sobs that shook her whole frame with their violence.

She had dropped her heavy burden at last, and her joy and relief found vent in wildest emotion.

Hushing her sobs at last, she moaned self-reproachfully:

“God pardon me if I am glad that he is dead! I do not mean to rejoice, though I despised him. Why did he wrong my fond love so cruelly? Why deceive me so shamelessly? He might have said: ‘Maisie, I loved Josephine, and she has proved false. I am going to try to love you now. Will you help me, so that I may forget that other?’ I would have listened and pitied him; I would have said: ‘Del, I shall be proud and glad if you will learn to love me, but I cannot marry you till your heart is truly mine!’ Then, perhaps, all might have gone well! But to be married for spite! Ah, Heaven, it was too bitter to tamely endure! Married for spite and deserted on her wedding-day! I wonder did such a tragedy of grief ever happen to any young girl before?”

So she raved on in her reawakened excitement, her thoughts flying back to Castellane and that other—the man who had loved her long, and at whose love she had laughed in scorn—who had had his revenge when he threw back in her face with his calm words her offer to become his wife if he would divorce her from his brother. Yes, no doubt, he had enjoyed his triumph well. Who could blame him?

She wondered with a spasm of writhing shame if he had told false Josephine the story.

Of course, he had married Josephine. He had threatened Delmar he might do it, in retaliation, and, no doubt, the vain coquette had got him into her toils by now, and was queening it at Castellane. Well, let them enjoy their triumph. She did not care.

“I—I hate them all!—I almost hate everybody in the whole world!” sobbed poor Maisie from the depths of her wretched heart.

And then, by some chance of fate, she began running over the paper again, and chanced upon a society-letter from that popular watering-place, the Greenbrier White Sulphur Springs, in West Virginia.

“There are over a thousand guests here from all parts of the country,” she read, “and,” following, “among the Virginians here are the millionaire Byrd Barrington and his aunt, Mrs. French; the beautiful Miss Shirley, with her mother, and——” but Maisie read no more. Her eyes danced through their mist of tears.

“So he has not married her yet,” she said gladly.

CHAPTER XVII.
THE ONLY ROMANCE OF HIS LIFE.

When they reached Washington, the first of August, two members of the company fell ill from the torrid heat, and the Warrens decided to disband for two weeks and scatter out into the country round about for an interval of rest.

Maisie elected to remain in the city at a cheap boarding-house.

“I have never been in Washington before, except for a day at a time, and I shall stay and take in some of the sights,” she said.

So they all flew away like happy birds on their outing, and left her alone, all save one, the genial young man who played the villain’s parts.

She was frankly annoyed when she found that he had also remained and taken board in the same house.

“I have never seen Washington, either,” he said. “We can enjoy the sights together.”

Maisie answered curtly:

“I must decline your company!”

“You prefer to go it alone?” he laughed incredulously.

“Yes.”

“But see here, Miss Summers, it will be very lonely for you, don’t you know?—and—and—hang it all, I’d as well own the truth now as ever! I love you, my dear! Will you marry me?” and his bright, dark eyes flashed with eagerness.

Maisie could not help taking it as a joke. Every unmarried man in the company had proposed to her by now, with more or less earnestness, so she laughed aloud:

“That is very amusing!”

He flushed to his temples, but answered in the same tone:

“You find it amusing—really? So shall I if you accept me!”

“Nonsense!” she chaffed lightly.

“But, Miss Summers, I am in actual earnest! I beg you not to treat my offer with such levity—I love you devotedly. I have loved you since the first moment we met on the train that night. Your beauty and distress touched my heart, lured it forever from my keeping. I entreat you for your favor!” and he began to grow impassioned, his face lighting up with emotion.

Maisie repressed her careless smile, seeing that he was so painfully in earnest, and answered, with gentle candor:

“I am very sorry for this, for—I do not love you!”

Her admirer exclaimed eagerly:

“But see here, Miss Summers, I am really a very good match for you! I am not dependent on my beggarly pay for acting, but have an independent fortune of my own! It is true; I can give you proofs from my lawyer. I’m only in theatricals for a lark—stage-struck last year, you see—that’s honest truth! But I’m dead sick of the biz, and just when you joined the company I was planning to quit—fact! I stayed on just for your sake! Isn’t that devotion enough to touch your heart? Come, if you’ll only say yes, we can get married to-day, and right off to New York, and on a wedding-tour to Europe in a jiffy!”

Maisie gave a kind of gasp as his words flowed on, but at the first pause she lifted her eyes sadly enough, faltering:

“I cannot!”

Burton Kingwood was almost dazed. He cried incredulously:

“You refuse me! when I offer you the dream of every young girl’s life—a wedding-tour to Europe?” and he glared at her in amazement, while she faltered:

“I am sorry to grieve you—I have the deepest sympathy for disappointed love, but I have no heart to give you, and I would marry no man without love—not if he could place a crown on my brow and endow me with a kingdom!”

“Then you are a very foolish girl—the only poor girl in the world, I should say, who would refuse a rich man when she might never have such another chance!” her admirer cried resentfully, rushing from the room.

She could only bow her head in her hands and weep.

“Is it true? Am I the only girl who would not sell herself for gold? I cannot believe it!” she said to herself, and her thoughts flew back to one who could have made her life a dream of luxury if only her perverse heart could have owned him for its lord. It seemed to be her fate to win love from all but the one to whom she had given, unasked, her silly girl’s heart, to be trampled on and thrown aside as of little worth.

She mused on him a little sadly—now that he was dead—wondering if they had brought him from that foreign land where he had died, back to his old home, to rest among his kindred.

“Would Byrd be so kind to the brother he did not love?” she mused, and a strong yearning seized her for the old scenes—to go back to them for a day and see the old home once more, and perhaps Delmar’s grave, so that she could feel more certain of her widowhood and her freedom.

“I will go—I can make up so that no one will ever recognize me,” she decided.

Burton Kingwood having gone off alone in wrath, she went that very day—the longing was so great she could not ignore it.

When she had left home she had thought in her anger that she never wished to see the old place again, nor any of the old familiar faces. Now it was going on four months since she went away, and her heart was aching for the old scenes and the old faces, even to look upon them by stealth, so that they should never know.

Rosedale was but a few hours’ ride from Washington, and all the way her heart was beating with great, muffled throbs of excitement and joy—joy that she could not herself understand.

She thought it was because Rosedale was so beautiful a village and Castellane such a charming home! In fancy, she could see the grand old mansion, with its tall towers and its windows alight with sunshine, the home of the Barringtons for generations. She knew how the roses were blooming in the spacious grounds, how her favorite lilies would be standing up tall and stately, how green the grass would be, how the cool breeze would be whispering in the giant trees, telling stories, perhaps of those who had passed away while the happy birds sang their joyous songs with no one to listen now, perhaps, for Aunt Castellane was old and prosaic, and Byrd so cold and grave, with not a weakness, perhaps except that he had once loved a pretty young girl with the only romance of his life—alas!

It all grew on her as the train sped on its way, and when she reached the station she could have cried out with an inexplicable joy that she was at home again.

She meant to go to the graveyard first, but she went out of her way to pass by Castellane, she was so eager just for one glimpse, and she was not afraid, for her darkened skin and black, curly wig would preclude recognition.

She loitered slowly past, with her heart in her throat, but there was not a soul to be seen in the grounds but the gardener, pottering about with his shears, clipping off the fading roses, so she stopped at the gate, and asked him in a hoarse voice for a few flowers to put on a friend’s grave.

While he clipped them she stood waiting eagerly, scanning every door and window, but no familiar face appeared to her yearning vision.

“I shall come back and peep in the windows to-night. I cannot go away again without seeing some of their faces!” she thought, with a silent sob in her aching throat, as the gardener presented her with a large bunch of exquisite flowers.

“Thank you kindly,” she faltered, hurrying away, lest she burst into sobs before his curious eyes, for in spite of her disguise he had caught in her voice a tone of one he believed long dead—fair little Maisie, the sunshine of Castellane.

She clasped the roses to her bosom, murmuring: “I will keep some of them always, for memory’s sake! And the others I will put on Del’s grave, in token of forgiveness, now that he is dead!”

CHAPTER XVIII.
A PAINFUL DISAPPOINTMENT.

“How strange!” Maisie said to herself, as she walked along with the great bunch of roses clasped to her breast. “I am only eighteen years old, but I am a widow, and I am going to my husband’s grave!”

She wondered if Delmar had repented his marriage as bitterly as she had done, and the thought came to her that perhaps his dying hour had been welcome because it brought him release from his irksome fetters.

The keen humiliation of the thought made her wince with pain, and big tears sparkled in her eyes so that she could scarcely see where she was going as she stumbled along through the lonely cemetery until she came within a few yards of the large green plot of ground where Barrington was laid between his two wives, with the tall white monument towering grandly in the center of the space.

Maisie stopped still, with a little choking gasp, thinking of all that had come and gone since that changeful April day almost four months ago, when she had last stood here, watching the grave-clods falling on him who had been her friend eight years, then turned against her at the last, reaching out from the grave for his vengeance.

She stood still, looking at the three green graves, almost hidden in flowers, at the tall white monument keeping guard over the quiet sleepers, and at the old negro, with his shock of white wool, moving about with a green watering-can, refreshing the grass that was so green and lively despite the sultry August heat. Mechanically, her eyes followed his slow movements, and then she discovered a new grave in the most distant corner of the plot—a mound that was a bed of rarest flowers below a beautiful monument—a broken marble shaft entwined with lilies, gleaming whitely in the afternoon sunlight.

“Delmar’s grave!” she thought, with a violent leap of the heart.

She turned aside, and sat down to recover herself on the low stone coping around a grave, and as she rested, the old negro moved away from the plot with his watering-can.

“He is going to the spring for more water. I will look at it while he is gone,” she thought, not caring to risk detection by the old man, in whom she recognized one of the servants of Castellane.

She tottered tremblingly forward to the plot, and walked across the damp green grass to a rustic chair that was placed close beside the new grave, as though for the accommodation of some one who came often to commune with the dead.

“Josephine,” she thought quickly, remembering how she and Delmar had loved each other.

She sank into the chair, thinking:

“How her heart must ache over the bitter result of her treachery, and the feeble repentance that came too late.”

Then she ventured to lift her eyes to the monument, to read the words in which Delmar’s death had been commemorated on the broken shaft, fit emblem of his short life, so violently ended on the red field of battle.

A long, slanting sunbeam pierced the green shrubberies, like a golden finger, pointing out the words cut deep in the shining white marble.

She read with dazed eyes:

“Maisie Van Allyn,
“Wife of Delmar Barrington.
“Died April 21, 1898, Aged Eighteen Years.
“Somewhere with God.”

Her great, staring eyes darkened and dilated with fear and wonder, her face went death-white, she trembled like a wind-blown leaf, and from her pallid lips came a gasping cry:

“What horrible thing is this? I—I—do not understand!”

Nature, warm, lively, palpitating, recoiled in blind terror from the awful shock, and Maisie’s senses reeled so that she fell face downward presently among the odorous flowers, and lay there, still as the dead below, until the old man came pottering back and found her thus.

Naturally, he made much ado at finding the young stranger there in such a plight, but as soon as he could rally his scattered wits he concluded it was a swoon, and set to work to revive her, not finding it difficult when he plunged her little hands into his can of cold spring water.

Maisie gasped, shivered, and opened her great, startled eyes in wonder on his wrinkled, kindly black face.

“Dar, now, set up, honey; you’se all right ergin!” coaxed her rescuer cheerily, lifting her back to the chair, while he wondered how she came there and who she was, anyway, with those eyes that had given him such a queer start when she looked at him, seeming to stir some chord of memory in his mind.

But he could not remember any one he had ever met just like this dark-skinned, violet-eyed young girl with the mass of thick, curly dark hair under her little black turban with its close veil.

Everything came back to Maisie in a moment, and she struggled to recover her self-possession, saying tremulously:

“Yes, thank you; I’m all right now. I must have had a sunstroke, it is so very warm to-day.”

“Dat’s a fac’, missie,” assented the old man, mopping his perspiring brow with a red bandanna, while he regarded the girl with puzzled curiosity, struck with something indefinably familiar about her voice and face that made him continue curiously:

“Does you lib hereabouts?”

“No, I am an entire stranger. My name is Violet Summers, and I stopped off the train just to spend a day at Rosedale on my way—home, because I had been told it was such a pretty place. But as I knew nobody, and hadn’t any place to go, I thought I would go through the cemeteries. I’m fond of reading strange things on monuments,” explained Maisie, humoring his curiosity because it did her good to look at a familiar face from Castellane, even though it only belonged to a servant.

Besides, she must find out from him the meaning of that tombstone that recorded her death when she stood here reading it with the warm tide of life bounding through her veins.

She pointed a trembling finger at the stone, and continued:

“I was just reading that when I had—that sunstroke. It was very sad for a young wife to die so soon. Perhaps you can tell me her story?”

“Dat I kin, missie—en er sad story ’tis,” returned the old negro, swallowing something like a sigh in his throat, and brushing the back of his hand across his dim old eyes as he rambled on:

“She was my young missie, she was, an’ libbed yander at Castl’ane, whar you see dem towers risin’ high. She war married one day ter my young Marse Delmar Barrin’ton—en de same day he went off ter de war wif his comp’ny, de Young Guards, gran’ as a lord in his new uniform. But dat bruk pritty li’l’ Maisie’s heart, him goin’ on ter de crewel war, whar he might git kilt any day, en she mos’ los’ her mind wif trubble, so she runned away dat same day—mebbe er follerin’ Marse Del, dey finks, but, enyways, she went ter a great big city—Philadelphy, dey calls it—I mind I had a great aunt oncet named Philadelphy—en she stop at a hotel, pore li’l’ Maisie, en dat night, whilst she’s ondressin’, she cotch fire to her gownd sleebe, en burnt all up, en died in a li’l’ while.”

“Heavens!” cried the girl, in wonder, and, encouraged by her interest, the old man added, with moist eyes:

“Yaas, burnt cl’ar up, pore pritty chile, ’twell de flesh fa’r drap offen her bones, en mos’ all her pritty yaller ha’r burnt offen her skull ’twell dey wouldn’t er nebber knowed who de gal was but fer her knapsack wif her name on ter it, en her gole watch wif her name inside, en her name on the scraps o’ close dey tore offen her body—so dey just tallygraffed back here, and Marse Byrd Barrin’ton en his aunt dey went ter Philadelphy en fetch home de remains en bury her here, pore li’l’ chile, fer she war so young en small—she warn’t sca’cely growed up.”

Dumb with horror, Maisie listened and looked, comprehending very quickly who was buried here in her place.

It could be no other than the young, fair-haired woman who had robbed her on the train going to New York. Alas, she had met with a terrible retribution.

She looked at her own name on the broken marble shaft and realized that she was virtually dead to all her friends—dead and in her lonely grave. She could not understand why it hurt her so cruelly to know it. Had she not cut herself off from them forever by her own will? Had she not vowed never to go back? Living or dead, what did it matter, anyway?

She said hoarsely:

“It was very dreadful, and no wonder you feel so sorry over it. Was poor Maisie’s husband much grieved?”

“He was gone away ter de war, yer know, missie, en dough dey writ him de news, o’ co’se, I hear um say dat dey don’t nebber git no answer, en dey ’fraid he hain’t nebber ceabed dat letter. Mebbe he was already kilt—I done tole you Marse Del war kilt endurin’ de war, didn’t I?”

“Yes, yes,” she answered absently, and he added:

“Yaas, pore boy, kilt in de war, an’ his brudder Byrd he done gone off ter Cubia ter fetch home de corpse for ter bury longside pore li’l’ Maisie.”

So Byrd had gone away!

She should not see him when she went back to peep in the windows at Castellane to-night as she had planned to do.

A keen pang of disappointment pierced her heart.

All at once a shadow seemed to gloom over the fair summer day and a chill struck coldly upon her heart. She could not understand why it was so; she did not realize yet that her feelings toward him were subtly changed; that she had longed—yes, longed—to see him again.

Almost without her own volition, it seemed to her, she faltered:

“Was your Mr. Byrd sorry about poor little Maisie?”

“Sorry, missie, sorry? Good Gawd, hit almost kilt him, dat’s de trufe! I ain’t tole yer, has I, dat bofe dem brudders war in lub wif Maisie? Yaas, indeed, but she hate Marse Byrd, en say she wouldn’t marry him fur all his millions. Nance, de red-headed maid, say dat young missie was er fool, dat Marse Byrd much de fines’ man er dem two. En so says I. Howsumdever, Miss Maisie wouldn’t hab him, nohow! But Marse Byrd he jist lubbed de groun’ dat girl walked on, you hear me! Laws-a-mussy, after he brung her home en buried her he war tuk down wif de brain-fever, and laik ter die for long weeks, en everybuddy say ’twan’t long o’ nothin’ but grief fer li’l’ Maisie! So den de doctor say he mus’ go ter White Sulphur Springs fer ter strengthen hisself. He went, long er his aunt en Miss Shirley en her datter Josephine, which dey do say is er try in to cotch Marse Byrd, but she’s wastin’ her time, now I tells yer; fer when he put up dis monyment en went ter de Springs, he say:

“‘Nicodemas, listen now: I want you to keep dis grabe like a flower-garden ebery day, en if you fails ter water de grass one single day I gwine break yo’ hade, you hear? You knows how I lubbed dat li’l’ gal, and when I comes back I’ll sit here ebery day en think erbout my li’l’ angel in hebben.’ So I promised him, en I’se kep’ my word, you see, doan you, missie?”

“Yes, you have been very faithful, Uncle Nick, and I’ve found your story very interesting. Here’s a dollar to buy you some tobacco. Good-by!” exclaimed Maisie, pressing the money into his eager black palm, and hurrying away lest she betray herself and break down into genuine sobs of self-pity at the story the old man had told.

Her feelings were so chaotic that she did not know yet whether she ought to reveal herself or not. Her most coherent thought was one of cruel disappointment at Barrington’s absence.

CHAPTER XIX.
A SUSPICIOUS LOVER.

Somehow Maisie did not care to stay at Rosedale any longer when she heard that Barrington was away.

The charm of the place was suddenly gone, and she went straight back to the station, eager to catch the return train to Washington.

She was just in time, and she hurried into a coach without perceiving that she was followed by a gray-haired, middle-aged gentleman who had, in fact, not lost sight of her since she had left Washington—no other than her discarded suitor, Kingwood, who, full of pique and angry curiosity, had vowed to ferret out the baffling secret of the young girl’s past.

Easily disguising himself as an elderly gentleman, he had followed her to Rosedale, but without getting the least satisfaction, for she appeared to be just what she pretended, a stranger to the place.

“But why on earth,” he asked himself, “did she choose to disguise herself in that black wig, and darken her skin? There is surely some mystery about this girl that I cannot understand. It must be true as she confessed on the train that night that she had run away from home and was fearful of being traced. Is Rosedale her home, and if so, why did she only visit the cemetery? Why did she fall down in that deathlike swoon among the flowers?”

Lurking near-by among the concealing shrubberies of white crape myrtle he had not dared venture near enough to overhear her conversation with Nicodemas, or he might have gathered enough in which to base some suspicions of the truth. He had not indeed had a chance to find out the name on the stone that had seemed to excite her painful interest, but he made up his mind to return on the first opportunity and satisfy his curiosity on this point, besides having a conversation with the negro.

What he hoped to gain by learning her secret he could not explain to himself unless to get her into his power and force a reversal of her rejection.

His pride chafed bitterly under her indifference, and the yearning for her love grew into a master passion.

Meanwhile Maisie, all unconscious of his burning regard, gave herself up to some very unhappy musings while the train whirled her back to Washington.

She wondered why she had felt so strangely elated while going, and at the heaviness of heart that signaled her return.

“What did I wish or expect?” she asked herself impatiently. “I did not from the first intend to reveal myself to any one. Why does it pain me to leave without seeing him? Why this painful interest in Byrd Barrington ever since the moment I heard him bravely taking my part against the brother who had wronged me? True, I realized from that moment he was nobler than I had deemed him, and that the good in him was incompatible with the wrong he did Delmar. For he did not deny himself that it was his malign influence that had caused his brother’s disinheritance. Yet he would have somewhat atoned for that wrong by his generous wedding-gift to me! How bravely he bore himself at my marriage! How nobly he took my part against Del! How inscrutably calm he was in our thrilling interview afterward! I never saw before how grandly handsome he was with his clear, steady blue eyes, his noble white brow, with the bright chestnut locks curling about it in careless luxuriance. How his deep voice thrilled me. I felt like a scolded child, I was mad with pain and wrong, and I did him a cruel injustice, throwing back angry words into his face because he would not take me at my word. I was cruelly humiliated, believing that his heart had turned against me, that his boasted love was dead! For long, long months I have believed the same, but it seems that I was blinded by my anger and could not see the truth. What a thrilling story that old man told me there by that grave supposed to be mine! He almost died of grief after my supposed death; he placed the beautiful stone there, and the fragrant flowers, even the chair to come and rest in while he mused on poor little Maisie, now an angel in heaven. Ah, what a love, so strong and deep, it lasts beyond the grave! How strange that I never knew him truly before, that, blinded by a girl’s romantic fancy for a pair of dark eyes, I scorned the truest heart on earth.”

Under her close veil her face was all wet with burning tears that threatened to wash off the dark dye that stained her fairness, and her bosom heaved with emotion. She was looking at herself now and contrasting the picture with what might have been—contrasting the lonely, penniless young widow with what she might have been as Barrington’s bride, the queen of a happy home and an adoring heart.

Then followed a thrilling thought.

“He loves me still; that old man said so! Delmar is dead, and it may not be too late to retrieve the past. I—I could easily learn to love him now.”

The pain of disappointment gave place to tremendous hope.

“I will go back some time, not now, because Delmar is too lately dead, and the world will expect me to grieve for him, but how can I when he killed my love at one blow, stretched it dead at his feet by his cruel falsehoods! How can I grieve? It seems now as if I really never loved him, so quickly was my innocent love turned to hate! Not that I hate him now, poor Del, in his bloody grave. He suffered, too; he was driven mad by Josephine’s perfidy; I realize it fully now, and I forgive!”

The tears dried up in her eyes and a tender smile curved her rosy lips—lips that had seldom smiled since Delmar Barrington had pressed on them his perjured bridal kiss.

She murmured again:

“I will return to Castellane some day, when months have passed. Oh, how glad, how surprised he will be! He will take me for a ghost at first. Perhaps he will be glad to see even my poor, wandering spirit, and when I have explained all, when I have proved to him that I am Maisie in the flesh, will he not rejoice over my restoration to him—to him, thank God! Oh, I can scarcely wait for my happiness! I long to go back now, and beg his forgiveness for all my waywardness and folly that grieved him so sore.”

A voice in her heart seemed to clamor, passionately:

“Go back now; go back now! Wait with Aunt Constance for his coming.”

But a warm blush rose to her cheek.

“No, no, not yet,” she said to her clamorous heart, “it is such a little while since I—thought—I—hated him! Could he believe I had changed so soon? Might he not believe me fickle, or deceitful, dreading lest I was angling for his money? I would to Heaven that he were poor as I am; I would turn back to-morrow!”

No wonder Burton Kingwood from his seat just back of her wondered what was going on in her mind. At first he saw her weeping silent tears of grief, and anon smiling happily to herself as if at some great, good news. And such a smile! so full of tenderness that he was mad to bask in its enchanting glow, only that he dared not betray himself.

“What a mysterious, adorable girl, changeful as an April day! now smiles, now tears, and equally beautiful in both!” thought the infatuated lover, never taking his eyes from the object of his thoughts until the train rolled into the Washington station.

With a sigh Maisie stepped from it to return to the life of the past few months, wondering how she was going to drag through it in patience until she could feel that the time had come for her to return to Castellane.

Alas, why did she turn a deaf ear to her heart’s eager promptings to go back now?

CHAPTER XX.
“FORGIVE THE PAST; I LOVE YOU NOW!”

Maisie returned to her quiet boarding-house, and her round of sightseeing in Washington, filling in as best she could the time that dragged on leaden wings now that it had become a period of waiting between hope and a future thrilling joy.

To her infinite relief her rejected lover left the city the next day, saying he was going to the seashore for a while, and might not join the company again, as some of his people desired him to go abroad with them in September.

Maisie hoped that he would go so that he might the sooner get over the fancy for her that was making him unhappy.

She bade him good-by with cordial good will and good wishes that he accepted with a moody brow and injured air, so deeply was his pride wounded by her refusal of his suit.

When he was gone Maisie forgot all about him in the whirl of new emotions that possessed her mind, making her so restless that she was glad to take up the drudgery of her stage life again when the company got together to play a September engagement in Philadelphia.

True to his word, Burton Kingwood did not join them again. Mrs. Warren said he had written her he was going abroad, so they secured a new villain for his part, and Maisie felt secretly thankful he was a married man, so that she need not go through the farce of refusing him as she had all the others.

She was not a bit of a coquette, and it only gave her pain to hold a man’s heart in her hand to accept or reject. Her sympathies were too keen, her heart too tender, to enjoy such triumphs as please more heartless women.

There was but one heart in the world for Maisie now—the true and tender heart she had once slighted in her blindness.

Ah, but she would make amends now, she thought thrillingly, as the slow days slipped away bringing the wished-for end ever closer, the day when she could go back to Castellane and her true love, saying:

“Forgive me all the past. I love you now!”

Oh, how hard it was to wait—to let a few months of conventional mourning for Delmar pass away when her heart was burning to go back, when her eyes were aching for the sight of one dear face and her little hand eager for the strong, restful clasp of a dear absent one.

Nearly four months slipped away while they were touring in Northern cities, and still she had not made up her mind when it would be proper to go back when the sudden illness of Mrs. Warren made it imperative to decide at once.

The star fainted on the stage in one of her most thrilling impersonations, and was so ill afterward that in a few days her physician declared it was nervous prostration.

“You have worked too hard. You must not act again for a year. Go abroad with your husband and idle away the hours on the vine-clad hills of Italy until you grow strong again,” was his verdict.

The Warrens were rich enough to take his advice, and they announced that the company would be disbanded.

Maisie’s heart beat with a rapture akin to pain, it was so sweet and thrilling.

“I must go back now. It is fate,” she said gladly, to herself.

“My dear, what of your future?” Mrs. Warren said tenderly.

Maisie blushed and faltered, and the kind-hearted actress continued:

“I have been thinking what is to become of you, my dear, for it will not be easy to get another engagement just at this season. Besides, I cannot bear to part with you, you have grown so dear to me, as my companion, dear.”

Marking her confusion and hesitation, the lady added sweetly:

“I will make it an easy position, Violet; you shall be just like a daughter to me, only with a salary that will make you more independent.”

Maisie’s beautiful eyes filled with grateful tears.

“Oh, how good you are to me, my dear friend,” she cried. “Do not think me ungrateful, but I cannot go with you because—because——”

“You don’t mean to say you are going to get married, Violet?” cried Mrs. Warren banteringly.

She hit on the truth so nearly that Maisie crimsoned with confusion, she knew the charge was true; that is, if Barrington were not changed, perhaps, next year—who could tell? ran her blissful thoughts.

But she answered bashfully:

“You know I told you I was a runaway from home? Well, I have repented my folly, and—and—mean to return.”

“My dear girl!” beamingly.

“So that is the only reason I cannot go with you, dear, dear friend, because I am homesick and cannot bear it any longer!” sobbed Maisie, giving way to hysterical emotion that aroused all Mrs. Warren’s ready sympathies.

“I—I have my trunk packed,” added Maisie, “and I shall leave for home to-day, so that I may reach there for Christmas.”

“And what a charming surprise and Christmas gift you will be to your friends, my dear!” cried the lady, though she did not dream, indeed it would be like one coming back from the dead.

But a strange instinct made her add, affectionately:

“Still, if you are not satisfied when you get there, if there may be changes that you do not like, remember that my offer holds good till I sail, which will not be for several days yet, you know, not until you have time to write back and tell me of your happiness, dear.”

“Oh, I shall be happy, indeed,” murmured the girl gladly, adding, “and I shall write directly and tell you all about it. You have been so kind to trust me with my past all a secret, but I shall write fully, and then you will understand.”

Maisie felt as if she should almost die of her happy excitement as she boarded the southern train at Wilmington that evening, thinking that by the next night she would be at Rosedale.

She wondered if Barrington would be greatly shocked when she came stealing into the library, like a forlorn little ghost, holding out her cold, little hands to be warmed in his tender clasp, while she cried out in loving accents:

“It is Maisie herself, not a ghost. Forgive me all the past. I love you now.”

She could fancy how he would hold out his arms, how she would creep into his warm embrace, pillowing her golden head on his broad breast, sobbing for very joy, how everything would be quickly explained between them, and happiness come to both at last. Then he would lead her to kind Aunt Constance, and what a welcome she would receive from the dear, loving soul! In these rapturous fancies the hours flew fast until she reached Rosedale in the gloom of the early winter twilight, just three days before Christmas.

Fortunately, it was fair, clear weather, with neither snow nor sleet, and a lovely crescent moon in the purple sky. Maisie decided that she would walk to Castellane to make sure of not being recognized by any one until she had seen him—her heart’s beloved!

How near her happiness seemed as she hurried along the familiar streets to her old home, thinking of the glad meeting so near at hand.

What a shock it would be to him, poor, unhappy Byrd, mourning her as dead! Perhaps after all she ought to have written and broken the news to him gently.

But no, no, she wanted to see his startled surprise and dawning joy, to be near him in that ineffably joyous moment.

So her light feet flew over the frozen streets until she was at the very gate.

Then she paused in something like wonderment, for the street was full of carriages, and from the windows both of Castellane and Shirley streamed forth brilliant lights.

In and out of the gates of Josephine’s home she saw people coming and going—guests going in and servants coming out on various errands.

“The Shirleys must be giving a ball! What if he should be there and not in the library, after all,” she thought, with keen disappointment, and unlatching the gate she flew up the walk and peered into the window.

No, he was not there. The lights burned brightly in the library, but it was deserted. She could not carry out her pretty plan of surprising Barrington.

Her heart ached with the bitterness of her disappointment. She turned away.

“I must seek him at Shirley. Perhaps he will come out to smoke a cigar. If not, I will have to come back to Aunt Constance. It is too bitterly cold to remain outdoors,” she cried, while the tears came out on her cheeks and sparkled like frosty pearls in the clear moonlight.

She reached the gate. Her hand was on the latch when two men passing paused abruptly, and she drew back into the shadow of a large magnolia-tree while their words came clearly to her ears.

“Why, what is all this? What is going on at Shirley? A ball?” one said curiously, to the other.

The man’s answer was like a death warrant to Maisie’s eager, throbbing heart.

“If you hadn’t been away a month, Jones, you wouldn’t need to ask that, for nothing has been talked of for three weeks by the women but the marriage of Barrington to Josephine Shirley. Hark! do you catch the wedding-march? It is a home wedding on account of poor little Maisie’s so recent death, I am told, but they go to Europe on their bridal-tour.”

CHAPTER XXI.
ONE GLIMPSE—ONE ONLY.

The two men at the gate passed on, but it was strange that they did not hear the moan of pain with which Maisie sank down so close to them beneath the large magnolia-tree in a very madness of despair, realizing the terrible truth.

She had come too late!

While she had remained away, starving her heart for the sake of mere conventionality, Barrington mourning her as dead, had found surcease of sorrow, had permitted himself to be comforted by wily Josephine.

The treacherous little coquette by wily arts had wormed herself into his heart. To-night she was his bride in yonder among the lights and flowers and music, while she, poor Maisie, who had learned to love him too late, crouched out here in the dark and cold, a broken-hearted girl.

As in a flash there came to her Delmar’s parting words:

“She is a treacherous little cat. She will try to marry Byrd for his money. Foil her little game if you can!”

Delmar loved Josephine, but he knew her at her worst—weak, vain, mercenary, and he had prophesied truly.

She had tried to marry Barrington, and, alas, she had succeeded!

It was more bitter than the pain of death to the girl crouching there in the darkness, heedless of the cold damp ground where she knelt, conscious only of the terrible blight that had fallen on her life.

It was enough to make reason totter on its throne, the sudden reaction from the glad anticipation of the last few months to the cruel shock of blank despair.

Dazed with the unexpected blow, she knelt there, trying to collect her scattered thoughts, asking herself what she should do next.

The answer came quickly from her wounded heart:

“Return to Mrs. Warren. Remain as one dead forever to him who forgot you so soon.”

A bitter pride nerved her up to her feet as she murmured:

“I must think no more of him, now that he belongs to Josephine!”

She came out of the gate slowly, as Eve must have departed from Paradise, and turned her high fur collar up close about her throat to shut off the bitter, freezing wind as she went slowly along until she was in front of Shirley, and could look up at the lighted windows and see figures moving in the dance to the sound of merry music, that grated painfully on her heart.

Some impulse moved her to slip inside the gates and peer into the windows as she had done at Castellane for one glimpse—one only—ere she turned away forever, leaving him to his happiness.

She drew near where the curtains were drawn back and the light gleamed out upon the wintry scene, and then it seemed to her as if fate itself had guided her to that spot.

Within the window stood Barrington and Josephine talking together, the bride resplendent in her wedding-robes, and rarely beautiful, with her dark, uplifted eyes that met Barrington’s gaze brightly enough, but alas, as the watcher saw too plainly, with no love in them for the man she had wedded—the tall handsome man who smiled down at her, indulgently, as she gave him a rose from her rare bouquet.

Maisie gazed at the pair as if fascinated, and a hand of ice seemed to close round her heart so keen was its despair, so bitter its jealousy of the girl who had twice come between her and the love she craved.

That burning gaze seemed somehow to draw Josephine’s troubled regard. An uneasy expression dawned upon her face; she abruptly turned her dark head and stared out of the window. For one awful, thrilling moment her glance and Maisie’s met.

A wild, frenzied cry burst from the bride’s lips, and she clung to Barrington without moving her eyes.

But before he could turn his head the vision faded and Josephine was gazing on empty air. Maisie had fled in terror from the scene.

They all crowded around the shrieking bride, who was pale as death and trembling with fear.

“What is it? are you ill or frightened?” some one cried, and took her from Barrington, clasping her tenderly in his arms.

She turned and clung to him, sobbing wildly:

“Oh, Del, it was a face at the window—a dead face—Maisie’s!”

And if Maisie had only lingered she would have seen with startled eyes what must have seemed as ghostly as she did to Josephine—the figure of the real bridegroom, Delmar Barrington, alive and in the flesh, holding Josephine in his arms and soothing her fears.

“It was only your fancy, Josephine! Come, come, you must not give way to jealous thoughts of the dead! You know that I never loved Maisie, but only you! And she is dead and happy in heaven. Why should she return to haunt you on your wedding-night?”

“She is jealous of our happiness!” moaned Josephine, and, though they made light of her fancy, they could not persuade her that she was mistaken.

She could tell them just how the white anguished face had appeared, how goldenly Maisie’s hair had gleamed under her close, black turban; how the dark fur collar had outlined the picture. She could never forget it, she wept wildly.

And when the story got noised about there were others who claimed to have seen Maisie, too—one or two servants at Castellane who were ready to take oath that the dead wife had come from her grave that night to attend her lord’s second wedding. Had they not seen her pale, lovely face, with great, haunting eyes, peering into the windows of Castellane, and disappearing again into the shadows of the wintry night? Two gave notice to leave next day, saying they were afraid of ghosts. They had heard that the first Mrs. Barrington walked, but they had never seen her, but in this case seeing was believing, and Barrington could not persuade them to stay.

In his heart he envied them. He would have rejoiced at the sight of even her spirit face, so passionate and faithful was his love.

“Why did she not come back to me?” he thought, most bitterly and yearningly. “Does she not know in the spirit land that I alone of all the world would welcome her back to life again?”

The happy consummation of Delmar’s love dream only made his own life more lonely by contrast.

There was a pain deep down in his heart that Delmar had not showed Maisie the respect of a year’s waiting before he married again.

But all expostulations had been swept aside like chaff by the lovers. His marriage to Maisie was an episode barely remembered now in the joy of their reunion.

If Maisie had been a more attentive reader of the newspapers she would, perhaps, have seen long ago that the story that had gone the round of the mistake that was made in reporting Delmar’s death in the hospital.

Though severely wounded and in an unconscious state when taken to the hospital at Santiago, he had slowly rallied, and though at death’s door when Byrd arrived to bear his body home for burial, his brother’s careful nursing and unlimited means of procuring comforts for the invalid resulted in his tedious convalescence and recovery. If with returning health he wondered at his brother’s tardy devotion, he made no protest, but accepted it gladly enough in his terrible strait, owning frankly at the last that he owed his very life to Byrd.

“Though why you have endangered your own health by constant attendance on me passes my comprehension. You never pretended much fondness for me, you know, Byrd, and you can’t deny you played me a dastardly trick at the last,” he said, recklessly, and with apparent ungratefulness.

It was the day after they had come home to Castellane—the war ended, the treaty of peace made, and in the chilly November weather Delmar lay smoking on a sofa in the cheerful library where in April they had had that bitter quarrel that sent Maisie flying from home to her untimely death. Byrd had told his brother all that passed afterward, and Delmar answered that he always suspected that Maisie was very high-spirited, but did not dream she could let her anger drive her to madness. He was very sorry she had met such a cruel fate, but he did not really feel himself to blame. She should have obeyed him and remained at Castellane till his return.

After that Byrd spoke no more to him of poor dead Maisie. Where was the use?

But at Delmar’s cutting words that day his brow grew very grave and sad, and he answered impulsively:

“I see no harm, Delmar, in unfolding to you the mystery that has puzzled you so much—the mystery of my blended love and hate of you all your life. Listen to the story of a woman’s wrongs and her jealous revenge.”

The early autumn twilight was filling the room when the thrilling story was ended, and Byrd said sadly:

“Now, you know it all—how my oath to the dead was kept, and how I could not do otherwise, painfully as my heart yearned to my brother in secret. You understand how I am still bound to my mother’s memory—but I have told Josephine that on the day she becomes your bride she will receive from me a gift of two hundred thousand dollars to make smooth her wedded life. I believe this will make your happiness possible.”

CHAPTER XXII.
BROTHERS AT LAST.

Delmar Barrington had listened in deep silence to every word that fell from his brother’s eloquent lips.

It was the strangest story he had ever heard—the story of a woman’s revenge consummated by her child after her broken heart had found rest in the grave—the story of a legacy of hate and the keeping of a solemn vow to the bitter end.

It threw a brilliant light on the darkness of the past.

It showed him Byrd Barrington, not as a mercenary wretch, but in the character of a hero—a faithful heart that had suffered martyrdom in keeping its vow to the dead.

“Do you think my heart did not yearn over you—my only brother?” Byrd said, with a strange dew in his deep eyes. “Do you think I cared for sordid gold, that I was willing in my heart to strip you of all for my own gain? No, no! Rather would I have gone forth penniless into the world myself! Ah, what nights I have lain awake trying to see some way out of my miserable vow, wondering if my mother were not half-frenzied when she made it, and if in the other world she might not repent the bitterness of her revenge thus taken on those who were not accountable for my father’s sins! I have prayed for a sign; I have begged her to return and release me from the burden of my vow that with every year bore heavier on my heart! Alas, to me there came no token, although the servants of Castellane have whispered that she haunts her old home in distress and grief. But I cannot believe it, since all my longings for her visible presence are in vain.”

He paused and wiped away the fine dew that beaded his high, white brow, and Delmar, half-rising from his couch of weakness, held out an eager hand.

“God bless you, Byrd,” he cried tenderly. “You are one of those silent heroes of whom the carping world never knows. I realize all your goodness and greatness. We are brothers at last.”

And in a moment all bitterness had passed from his heart, and it thrilled with a yearning sympathy for the man who had so revered his mother’s memory that he had made himself a secret martyr for her sake, warring against his own loving instincts in his bitter inheritance of that legacy of hate.

Tenderly, fervently, they clasped hands over their reconciliation. The vow had been kept to the bitter end, and now there was no bar at least to love if Delmar could be great enough to forgive.

He was weak and impulsive, but he was not wicked, and he saw at once the greatness of Byrd’s character, so there was no bar to their future love—there could not be when Delmar saw how eagerly anxious his brother was for his happiness.

“You will marry Josephine, of course, next spring, when poor Maisie has been dead a year,” he said gently. “I am sure that she loves you still, and I have told her what I shall do for her if she marries you.”

Delmar flushed and cried:

“I wish you had not told her, Byrd! I—I—distrust Josephine as much as I love her. I should have liked to test her love—to see if she would come to me for love alone.”

Byrd turned aside his head to hide a cynical smile.

He would not grieve his brother’s heart by one word against his love. He had confidence in Josephine’s love for Delmar, believing that mutual love must bring them happiness in the end.

So he said cheerfully:

“It is not alone Josephine we have to consider, but her parents. They are quite too ambitious to give their consent to their daughter marrying a poor man—especially as it is privately known that Shirley is on the brink of failure and just keeping his head above water now through a loan I made him a month ago.”

“I am not sure that I wish to marry her at all now,” Delmar said reflectively, but his brother laughed and answered:

“Wait until you see her again!”

It was some time before that came about, for Josephine and her mother were away visiting friends in Boston, and when they returned the first snow of December lay white upon the ground and Delmar Barrington was going about again, although very pale and thin as yet, for there was an injury to one of his lungs that made recovery tedious, and which the doctors were frank enough to say might very likely shorten the young man’s days.

Josephine knew well enough that Delmar was at home, but she had not hurried back for that. Having given up the hope of winning Byrd, she had been angling elsewhere for a rich parti, mama having declared that Delmar and a two-hundred-thousand dowry were not to be thought of except as a last resort.

They did not succeed in their designs while away, and on their return mama gave a reluctant assent for Josephine to renew the old love-affair with Delmar since nothing better offered.

When Josephine first saw her lover it gave her quite a shock, seeing him so pale and altered.

“He is not as handsome as he used to be. I do not find myself so much in love with him, after all,” she thought, and at first she was cold and shy.

Delmar was on his dignity, too, although the very first sight of her made his heart throb furiously with a joy he would not have let her see for worlds.

So in the first few days they did not come very near together.

Delmar was waiting for Josephine to humble herself, and she was coquetting, wondering if, indeed, there was no hope of getting the elder brother, with his five millions.

There was no telling how long she would have kept up her fencing had not something very startling suddenly transpired.

Mrs. French, kind soul, who was somewhat outside the pale of all this maneuvering, came to call one day and let the cat out of the bag—a very interesting piece of news, indeed, that set Josephine’s heart beating with a sort of ecstasy.

“I oughtn’t to tell it, but I cannot keep it,” the good lady said, all in a flutter. “It has been in the air a day or two, but Byrd and Del are keeping it close as wax. Still, as you’re such old friends, and must know it soon, anyway, I’m sure they would not mind my telling you.”

“Of course not, my dear Mrs. French,” cooed the mother, while the daughter twittered:

“I’m just dying to hear it!”

“It’s about poor, dear little Maisie. Who would have dreamed of her being a great heiress!”

“Oh, Mrs. French!”

“Impossible!”

And they almost devoured her with their eager eyes.

“It’s true,” she answered. “You see, Byrd has just been going over all his father’s papers—he has had so much to hinder him since April, you know—and so it seems that my poor brother, who, alas, was too fond of money, held a large fortune in trust for poor Maisie, and—and there being no one to look after the child’s interests, he dishonestly appropriated it all to himself. Oh, how it grieves me to know that my poor brother could do such a dreadful thing!” Mrs. French exclaimed, wiping her eyes, that were full of tears.

“Maisie an heiress! Well, wonders will never cease!” cried Mrs. Shirley, encouraging the old lady to add:

“Yes, indeed; a great heiress! Gold-mines, stocks, and bonds, amounting to four million dollars! And to think of the poor dear being dead and never knowing it!” and this time she sobbed aloud in distress.

“Four millions, oh!” cried Mrs. Shirley in a rapture, adding: “And Delmar was her husband. By law he must come into it all!”

A quick glance passed between her and Josephine as Mrs. French replied:

“Yes, every dollar of it. Byrd says so, and oh, you could never guess how honest and upright he is. He might have kept it secret when he found it out and held on to the whole fortune, as his father evidently intended for him to do, but, no! like an honest gentleman, he says:

“‘I will redeem my father’s injustice. I will not keep anything not lawfully mine. Delmar was Maisie’s husband—he has the best right to it, and so I will put him in possession at once!’”

“How grand, how noble!” cried Josephine, clasping her pretty hands, her brown eyes shining like stars, with bright dreams of the future.

But her mother drew down her lips and raised her eyes in a sort of dismay.

“Oh, Mrs. French, my dear, good friend, I fear you have made a great mistake telling us this great and interesting secret!” she cried.

“A mistake!” faltered poor Mrs. French bewilderedly.

“Yes, yes—not but that we appreciate your confidence and are delighted to hear of Delmar’s good fortune, but—perhaps—they would have preferred to keep it secret yet a while longer. So, if I were in your place I would not tell any one else, and I would not even let Byrd or Delmar know you had told us. They might be very angry—who knows?”

The kind old lady was frightened and faltered:

“I—I—perhaps you are right. They cautioned me not to tell a living soul. But somehow I couldn’t keep it from old friends like you. But you’ll never betray me?”

“Never! never!” both promised fervently.

When she was gone they looked at each other with radiant faces.

“Josephine Shirley, you must be engaged to Delmar Barrington before to-morrow night,” cried her mother emphatically.

“I will,” she replied laughingly.

“Only think!” her mother added, “out of Byrd’s reputed five millions he will have nothing but one million and Castellane left. He was a fool not to keep it, say I. He had as good a right to it really as Delmar, who treated poor Maisie shamefully. But it is a fine thing for you, my dear, that everything happened as it did!”

All was eager self-congratulation—not a word of pity for poor Maisie in her lonely grave under the cold December snow, not a word of admiration for Byrd’s honesty. He was a fool, but they were glad of it, they agreed.

CHAPTER XXIII.
THE WEDDING-BELLS.

Josephine, like the enchanting witch she could be when she chose, lost no time in making up with Delmar, whose heart in secret was yearning for her with a mighty rush of emotion.

A morning call on the convalescent soldier, a moment alone together, a sigh, a melting glance, a little show of humility, and the end was gained.

The glance was caught and answered by her lover, the sigh reechoed, and, thus encouraged, Josephine came very close, faltering:

“You are very cruel, Del. Can you never forgive me for one night’s folly?”

“If I were only sure of your love, Josephine!” he exclaimed in a wistful, pleading tone, and she raised her radiant brown eyes to his face with a glance that melted his heart like snow on fire.

He caught her jeweled hand and drew her close.

Love, tortured and repressed for weary months, could not bear repression now. Delmar clamored for an immediate marriage, without realizing that Josephine herself had artfully put the idea into his head.

“It breaks my heart to see you so thin and pale, my own dear love,” she cried, adding sweetly: “Mama thinks that an immediate change of scene would do you more good than anything else, but—I can never let you go away without me!”

Delmar laughed happily.

“We can be married at once and go together on our bridal-tour.”

And it did not occur to him in his infatuation that he was having a change of scene now in his recent return home from the exciting scenes of war, and that the sweet influences of home were the best adjuncts to his recovery.

He was dazzled by his sudden accession to power and wealth, dazzled by Josephine’s charms, and he saw everything through her cunning eyes.

She was so afraid of her prize slipping through her fingers that she determined to make sure of it as soon as possible.

“What a dreadful hurry you are in to be married,” she cried encouragingly.

“And I mean to have my way!” cried Delmar, seeing clearly that she was fully as eager as himself.

“I would not agree to it only that we have to humor and spoil invalids to aid their recovery,” she said gaily, with a caressing touch on his white brow as he pleaded:

“Then name the day, sweetheart.”

“Suppose we saw next June?” coyly and mischievously.

“Nonsense! this day week.”

“Preposterous!”

“And we can go abroad on a wedding-tour—for a change of scene!”

“Oh, Del, how you tempt me! But—but—perhaps that would be too soon!”

“Well, let us say two weeks hence, my darling. Surely that would give you time enough to get ready?”

“Yes, for I needn’t get my trousseau proper until we reach Paris. Fancy shopping in Paris!” cried Josephine cunningly, for she knew that if there were any trousseau it must come out of Barrington’s coffers, for the Shirley funds were very low.

When they told Barrington what they had decided upon he frowned in surprise.

“There is something that you both seem to have forgotten,” he said gravely.

“What can you mean?” cried Delmar impatiently, and shrugged his shoulders as Byrd replied solemnly:

“Your wife, Maisie, has not been dead a year until April.”

Josephine pouted prettily, and Delmar answered resentfully:

“No, I had not forgotten, but it really does not make any difference. It is just the same as if I had never married Maisie!”

Byrd’s blue eyes flashed with swift indignation.

“I beg your pardon, it makes all the difference in the world, and you are ungrateful if you show this contemplated disrespect to her sweet memory. Remember that to that brief marriage ceremony, so fatal to her life, poor girl, you owe all your present prosperity—love, wealth, happiness!”

Josephine made great eyes of surprise, protesting:

“Why do you make such absurd charges? Del is not rich. We shall be poor together, and I don’t think any one ought to delay our happiness.”

“You may tell her now if you choose, Delmar,” said his brother gravely, so the young soldier took her hand and explained:

“It has been discovered, Josephine, that Maisie was a great heiress, and I inherit all her money. I did not tell you any sooner because I wished to win you as a poor man—to be married for love alone.”

Josephine’s surprise was beautifully acted, and she applauded her lover warmly.

“You were right, and I am glad that I stood the test so well. Of course, I am glad for your sake that you will have Maisie’s money, but I could have loved you quite as dearly as a poor man!”

Delmar thanked her with a radiant glance and neither noticed Byrd’s coldly cynical smile. He knew how false she was, but he held his peace. Delmar loved her and the Barrington love ran its roots deep down into the heart.

“But,” he said gravely, “surely you will agree with me, Josephine, that Delmar owes a year, at least, of mourning to Maisie’s memory.”

The girl laughed heartlessly:

“As to a year, I don’t think Del ever gave her a day of mourning. He hated her for coming between our hearts, for taking advantage of his moments of reckless despair. But, of course, if he wishes to make a pretense of grief, I am too proud to offer any protest. If I let him persuade me into an early marriage it was for his own good; not that—that——” she broke down and sobbed, and Barrington understood she was pretending to be jealous of the dead.

“Byrd, I don’t thank you for fretting my darling so!” Delmar cried, with a convalescent’s sharp impatience. “I shall not let any sentimental fad over Maisie’s death hinder my happiness. It was all a grievous mistake, but a year’s mourning would not bring her back—nor do I want her back.”

“You are more heartless than I could have believed,” Byrd cried hotly, in his anger.

“Not heartless—only half-way ill yet, and very much in love—and a man in love is always half a fool, isn’t he?” rejoined Delmar, smiling at Josephine, who was now emerging from behind her lace handkerchief with bright, triumphant eyes.

They remained at Castellane till after Christmas, and each day was the scene of some joyous festivity, while not a sorrowful thought flew to the dead save from two hearts—Byrd’s and tender old Aunt Constance.

They two, in the cold of the Christmas morn, slipped from their guests for a little while to the lonely cemetery lying under a shroud of glistening white snow, to bear the rarest floral treasures from the conservatory to the dead, and their bitterest tears fell on Maisie’s grave, while Aunt Constance sobbed:

“Last Christmas she was with us—so beautiful, so sweet—poor little one! Ah, Byrd. I can’t help wishing she might have loved and married you! How different all might have been now!”

“How different!” he echoed bitterly, while deep down in his heart ran the thought:

“Even if I had taken her at her word that day in the library, how different it might have been! Who knows but that, freed from Delmar, I might have caught her heart in the rebound. Alas, in my eagerness to be just to my brother I made a terrible, an irretrievable mistake!”

So, from the lonely little grave under the white drifting snow, he turned sorrowfully away, whispering to the flowers he kissed as he laid them down: “I will go back to them in their happiness, darling, but all my heart I leave behind with you.”

He led Aunt Constance back to the carriage, and they were soon at home again, their absence scarcely missed by Delmar and Josephine, who could think of no one but each other, though the bride often thought within herself:

“He is not nearly so handsome as he was before he went to the war! How pale his face is still, and how hollow his big, dark eyes! And they are not gay and laughing as of yore, but have a solemn gaze as if somehow in the dreadful war they looked on things that took all the gladness out of them. Of course, I am proud that he is a lieutenant now, but I had as lief that he had never gone to the war and come back so altered for the worse.”

It was pitiful to see so shallow a nature, and so fickle a heart given in exchange for Delmar’s devoted love that recked of nothing but its idol.

But he was happy in his blindness. How pitiful would be the awakening if it ever came; how he would curse the hour he first saw her fair, luring face.

But that time was not yet, and Delmar was very happy in his honeymoon—the first week at least, for when they sailed, the last week in December, Josephine was so ill of sea-sickness all the way over that she was a positive thorn in the flesh, peevish, petulant, and irritable; a sore trial to her husband, who, still weak and ailing himself, preferred not to divide the privileges of invalidism with another. He would have been bitterly disappointed of all the care and coddling he needed if it had not happened that Byrd and Aunt Constance bore them company.

The old lady had taken a sudden notion to the trip, but would not agree to go without Byrd, to whom she confided, privately:

“Delmar needs more care and petting than he will ever get from his spoiled little wife, and I ought to go along to watch over him, I think, but I should be lonely without you. Please come, dear Byrd.”

He had never denied her a wish in his life, and he could not now, so they joined the bridal-party, not obtrusively, but for Delmar’s sake.

The hand of fate was in it, for Maisie had sailed with the Warrens three days after her ill-fated visit to Castellane.

CHAPTER XXIV.
I COULD NOT BE HAPPY WITHOUT LOVE!

Mrs. Warren would never forget the day when Maisie returned to her so suddenly—a wan, sad-eyed phantom of the blooming girl who had gone away but two days ago—a month’s illness could scarcely have changed her more.

“Don’t make me tell you the cruel truth, dear friend,” she moaned. “Everything was changed at home. It almost broke my heart. So I will never leave you again.”

“Until some handsome young man carries you off from me,” bantered the lady. “Maisie, why did you refuse Burton Kingwood? He was really a good match—rich and of good family.”

The girl raised her heavy eyes with a pathetic smile.

“I loved another,” she said frankly.

“Another!” cried Mrs. Warren, and Maisie added simply:

“But it is quite hopeless. While I was away he—married—some one else.”

“My poor darling! No wonder you came away! But you must not brood over your sorrow. Forget the false one and try to think kindly of Kingwood.”

“I can never forget. He was the sort of man that once loved, could not be forgotten. Alas! noble, kingly. Oh, why do I dwell on him now? I must not, for he is lost to me forever,” and Maisie wept in her despair.

Mrs. Warren was full of generous sympathy. She did all she could to win Maisie from her secret sorrow, painting eloquent pictures of the good times they should have abroad, and presently the young girl smiled again, too proud to show to any one the dark depths of her aching heart.

But to think he had been won by Josephine—the vain, fickle coquette, who could never appreciate the depths of his noble nature, the warmth of his true heart—who would care only for his money! It was madness to think upon; she would have given any price to forget, to thrust that haunting memory from her heart.

A few more days and they were upon the ocean. Fortunately, Maisie was spared the horrors of sea-sickness, but her friends, the Warrens, were not so fortunate, especially the lady, who was not able to leave her berth until the day before they landed in Liverpool.

If anything could have soothed the sadness of a tortured heart it must have been the great kindness of her generous friends. From the beginning she was treated as kindly as a daughter and never reminded that her position was merely that of a paid companion. Her fellow passengers admired her beyond measure, awarding her unanimously the palm of perfect beauty. More than one man looked on her with eyes of eager admiration, but toward their advances she showed the coldest indifference. Her wounded heart lay heavy as a stone in her breast, and she felt she could never love again.

Bravely she tried to put the past away and throw herself into the new life opening brightly before her, crowded with new scenes and experiences. Having always longed for such a trip, the opportunity was hers at last, and it would be most ungrateful to her benefactors not to make the most of it.

It was most fortunate that Mrs. Warren’s delicate health required so much sympathy and petting, for it took Maisie out of herself and helped to drown the memory of her pain. They traveled about as the invalid’s health permitted, made pleasant acquaintances here and there, and Mrs. Warren grew perceptibly stronger, declaring that the change of scene was indeed doing her good.

In Paris they were surprised to find that Burton Kingwood was an inmate of the same hotel, and but for Maisie’s repugnance they might have felt truly glad to met him again.

But her careless greeting had no effect on his happiness. The first moment in which he found her alone he renewed his suit.

“It seems as if fate itself has brought us together again,” he cried. “Ah, I cannot tell you what I suffered over your coldness, but it did not kill my love. Have you no pity on such devotion?”

“The greatest pity and sympathy in the world,” answered the poor girl, who knew all the sorrow of hopeless love, and the gentleness of her voice encouraged him to hope.

“Then you will try to love me!” he pleaded. “You will give me a little hope?”

She was sorry for so true a love, but she knew that her heart could never respond to it, and with eyes full of tears she refused him again.

She could not help seeing that he was angered at her refusal. His conceit was hurt as much as his heart.

His dark eyes flashed as he cried:

“You are the strangest girl I ever met! You reject rich men as carelessly as if they were every-day affairs, when one would expect a poor girl like you to jump at their offers.”

She grew crimson with anger as she answered:

“I am not poor enough to sell myself for sordid gold.”

Her pride and independence only made him more eager to win the peerless young beauty.

“Do you not care for wealth and all the pleasures it can buy?” he asked in wonder.

“Ah, yes, indeed I do. Like any other young girl, I long for jewels, fine gowns, horses and carriages, and all the varied pleasures of life. But I believe in marriage for love alone. I could not be happy in a palace without love,” she answered with gentle frankness.

“Again I repeat, you are the very strangest girl I ever met,” cried Burton Kingwood.

“I am sorry you think so. I am sure there must be many other young girls of the same mind with me,” declared Maisie firmly, and, seeing that he could make no impression on her feelings, he left her presently in bitter chagrin at his second failure.

He took the Warrens into his confidence and begged them to help him in his love-affair.

“It is more serious than you think,” he said. “I can never be really happy without that girl, she has so grown into my heart. I shall not give her up yet. Promise to keep me informed of your whereabouts, so that I may see her some time again.”

Mrs. Warren was almost tempted to betray Maisie’s hopeless love for another, but she knew it was not right to violate the girl’s confidence, so she only shook her head while promising to do as he asked, adding frankly:

“Not that I think it will ever do you any good, Burton, much as I could wish that Violet would love you.”

“Do all that you can for me; I shall not give up hope yet,” he replied stubbornly, and, though he removed from the hotel that day and came to call on them no more, they knew he was not far away, for daily gifts of flowers came to Maisie through the long, cold, February days, and she could not help but guess at the donor, although there was no accompanying card.

“I wish he would not send them. I wish he would go away and forget,” she sighed, out of her secret sympathy for hopeless love, because she knew the sorrow.

She might not have pitied him so much had she known how he had followed her to Rosedale that day, and how he had returned alone afterward and wormed all her pitiful story out of Uncle Nicodemas, the old grave-tender.

When he said to Maisie: “You are the very strangest girl I ever met,” he had all that in his mind.

He knew that she was a widow; he knew why she had run away from home, as far as the old negro could elucidate the matter; he guessed also how her reputed death had come about through the robbery on the train, but he could not understand why Maisie chose to keep silence over the truth and remain away from her home. Surely she must have seen in dozens of newspapers the report of her young husband’s death. Why did she remain away from her friends, and let them believe that she was dead? He felt that there was some mystery under her strange masquerading, and he was half-tempted to threaten her with exposure unless she would buy his silence with her hand, but he did not feel sure enough of his ground yet to resort to such high-handed measures. He would wait and watch, hoping for success in the end.

In the meantime, he withdrew himself from her presence, but continued to remind her of his love by the flowers he sent, with now and then an imploring letter to which he got the coldest and briefest replies.

So the days slipped away, and one day while out driving with her friends one bright March noon, Maisie saw in the crowded boulevard a face and figure that made her heart leap wildly like a startled bird in her breast—Byrd Barrington!

He was alone in the crowd, and he passed on without seeing the great, startled, haunting eyes that watched him from the carriage, while a flash of memory came to Maisie, reminding her that while she crouched within the gates of Castellane in her keen despair that night of the wedding, she had heard the passers-by saying that the wedding-tour would be to Europe.

“They are here—Josephine and Barrington—in the same city with me. Oh, my heart—how can I bear it?” she thought, with silent pain.

CHAPTER XXV.
A WRETCHED MEETING.

From that moment Maisie was on her guard lest they should meet face to face.

Wherever they went she wore a veil, explaining to her friends that March winds were bad for the complexion.

She dreaded every day to blunder upon Barrington and his bride, and she did not wish to shock them with her likeness to one they believed long dead.

True, it did not really matter to them whether she were living or dead. Either way it could have no effect on their lives or their happiness, but a bitter pride and jealousy made Maisie shrink from recognition.

In a few more days her haunting fear was realized—they met again.

This time it was in a famous art-gallery.

Tired of strolling about, the party sat down to rest in convenient seats before a noted picture.

Mrs. Warren nudged Maisie and whispered admiringly.

“What a handsome pair! On your right hand, in front of that portrait that looks so much like you!”

Maisie lifted her eyes and stifled the low cry that rose to her blanched lips.

She could have put out her hand and touched them, they stood so close—Josephine and Byrd Barrington—before the full-length portrait of a fair young girl, violet-eyed, golden-haired, and gowned in white.

As he answered some low remark of his companion his deep, musical voice thrilled Maisie’s heart with blended pain and ecstasy, so dear were its remembered accents.

“Yes, poor fellow, I am so sorry he was too sick to accompany us. I know how much he would have enjoyed this, he is so fond of art. He is not improving as fast as I would like to see. Are you going on? I will follow in a moment. Somehow I cannot tear myself away from this lovely portrait. It—it—reminds me of Maisie.”

“I do not see the least resemblance,” Josephine returned with a shrug of her shoulders that she had deftly caught from the gay Parisians.

She was looking beautiful in a costly French gown and big picture hat whose white plumes drooped picturesquely against the rich waves of her dark hair as she lifted her big brown eyes to the tall, handsome man with a jealous frown on her low white brow.

How Maisie’s heart had leaped at his tender words. So he remembered her yet. Oh, why had she not gone home a little sooner ere Josephine caught him in her toils? How tender his voice had sounded, how his eyes dwelt on the portrait! He must love her memory very dearly, else he had not dared speak of her to his jealous bride.

What if she should reveal herself to him now?

Would his heart leap to her as of old?

Would he regret that he had placed Josephine as a barrier between their hearts?

Would life become to him, as to her, an empty waste, where one walked listlessly in weariness of heart and silent despair?

For one wild moment she was tempted to put it to the test—to rise up in her seat and put out her hand to him, saying:

“I am Maisie! There was a mistake made when you thought I was dead! I can explain it all!”

She could fancy the gleam of joy in his dark-blue eyes, and the angry frown of Josephine, who would be furiously jealous because his old love had returned from the grave.

She half-started from her seat to obey the passionate impulse, then sank heavily back, crushed by the bitter thought:

“He is married! Married! What is the use of disturbing his peace, of becoming an element of discord between their wedded hearts? Nothing can undo what has been done, and I have my own folly to thank for all my misery!”

“If you two are rested enough, suppose we go? I feel like luncheon,” Mr. Warren remarked at this juncture.

Maisie rose quickly, and Barrington and his bride moved on also, without dreaming who had stood so near them, within reach of their very hands. As for him, he was oblivious of the crowd, his heart full of bitter memories evoked by the portrait with its subtle likeness to the loved and lost. The living women thronged about him like shadows. The dead alone was real.

Maisie could not resist looking furtively back presently, and she saw that the pair had stopped and were talking to a man who must have been an intimate acquaintance from the arch, coquettish look on her face. The girl started somewhat when she saw that it was her desperate lover, Burton Kingwood.

“If he should betray me!” she thought with sudden fear; then laughed at herself.

“How nervous I am growing! He knows me only as Violet Summers.”

The crowd closed in between them, and she turned her head away, murmuring half to herself:

“After all, I am tired of Paris!”

“To tell the truth, I am, too,” cried Mr. Warren, catching the plaintive murmur. “I am longing for Italy. One grows tired by and by of all this rush and glitter and gaiety. Besides, I am not at all sure but that ‘dear’ has too much excitement.”

“I have been thinking so myself for several days, but Paris dazzles me so that I hate to tear myself away—but we will start for Italy to-morrow,” “dear” returned sweetly, and Maisie sighed thankfully to herself. It was wearing to her nerves, the torture of knowing that Byrd Barrington was breathing the same air as herself. She would have preferred the whole width of the world between herself and the lover she had lost.

In the concentration of her thoughts upon Byrd she almost forgot Delmar, the husband of an hour, the object of a girlish fancy, afterward more bitterly hated than he had been tenderly loved. It seemed to her now that all her passion for Delmar had been little more than girlish pique at his indifference, and that if Byrd had been harder to win she must have loved him from the first. He had petted and spoiled her too much, had let her see her power too plainly, so that she had turned away to sigh for the unattainable. When her love for Delmar died a violent death in the hour of her terrible humiliation, her heart had turned to Byrd with a constancy startling even to herself.

Poor Delmar, there was a shadow on his happiness, after all the gifts the gods had granted him—the shadow of weakness and illness.

Contrary to his hopes and belief, the marriage and journey into which Josephine had so artfully hurried him, had delayed instead of hastening his recovery.

The worry of travel wore on his nerves, and he was unable to enjoy any sightseeing save such as was taken from an open carriage.

But was Josephine a fond, devoted wife, remaining by his couch to soothe his pain the many days when the pain in his breast was too severe for him to leave his room? Ah, no, indeed. Aunt Constance, dear soul, was ever so much better a nurse than she was, and didn’t have to shop so much, and didn’t care to see the sights, so why wasn’t dear Del safe with her, while Byrd could pilot her around until she made other friends?

Delmar, growing very pale about the lips, assented to all her questions, and bade her go and enjoy herself—he would get on quite as well with Aunt Constance.

Josephine paid him in gay kisses for his patience, and proceeded to enjoy herself in the way that appealed to her most—scattering money like water in all the shops, loading herself with jewels and finery until Mrs. French asked her ironically why she didn’t buy out a whole shop at once and be done with it, instead of frittering away so many useful days.

“I enjoy it better buying piece by piece, and Del doesn’t care how much I spend—he has loads of money!” she replied with gay good nature, in her exquisite self-satisfaction.

She never seemed to see the wistful light in her husband’s hollow black eyes when she was leaving him; she paid no attention when he said one day regretfully:

“I am sorry we came away from home. I believe I should have gotten well sooner there. I needed rest and quiet, not bustle and excitement.”

“I am sure of it!” his aunt said quickly. “If I were you, Delmar, I should get out of this great dazzling city to a quieter place. You have been talking every day about Italy with its vine-clad hills and peaceful, sunny glens. Why don’t we go there?”

“Josephine is not ready yet,” he answered with a long sigh.

“Josephine is acting selfishly,” she replied tartly, glancing at the young wife, who was seated at the window, drawing on her pearl-gray kids before going out with some American friends whom she had met the day previous. She pouted prettily and answered:

“Dear auntie, I don’t mean to be selfish, but I fear I have been thoughtless. I’m just crazy over Paris, and I hate to leave it. So—so—if you were willing, Del, I would stay here a few weeks longer with my old friends from Boston while you go on to a quieter place with your aunt and brother.”

Her voice was honey-sweet, but she avoided his eye. She knew how it could flash with indignation.

He made no answer, and, fastening the last jeweled button on her glove, she fluttered toward him with a swish of silken draperies, murmuring:

“You don’t approve of my suggestion?”

He answered with latent sternness:

“Could you be satisfied here without me, Josephine?”

“Why, yes; of course, dearest, for who could be dull in Paris? Besides, I should have my old friends, the Bonners, and I could feel easy over you—in such good hands as auntie’s and Byrd’s.”

“Then stay!” he answered in a muffled tone of indescribable bitterness, and her heart leaped exultantly.

Her invalid husband was growing tiresome, and she was in the midst of a charming flirtation with a new acquaintance, handsome Burton Kingwood.

CHAPTER XXVI.
LIKE AN ENVENOMED ARROW.

A blue lake, a blue sky, a blue haze on distant hills, golden sunshine, a land of roses, languorous airs full of sweetness—nowhere but in southern Italy could be found such a paradise.

“Dear, you will get strong and well here,” cried Mr. Warren. “I am told that this spot is a paradise for invalids as well as pleasure-seekers.”

“I should judge so, from the crowds of people at the two hotels,” said Maisie, charmed with everything—most of all to get away from Paris and Barrington.

Vain delusion! It was barely a week before Barrington arrived at the other hotel with his sick brother and aunt, having left Josephine alone in Paris under the care of the Bonners, to pursue her heartless course of pleasure-seeking and flirtation.

Maisie was on the verge of an éclaircissement of which she little dreamed, but not the slightest suspicion of it crossed her when, one morning, Mrs. Warren, coming in from a walk with her husband remarked:

“Violet, you remember that extremely handsome couple we saw at the art-gallery the day before we left Paris—in front of the portrait like you, you know?”

“I hope they have not followed us here,” cried Maisie, with a sharp note of anxiety in her sweet voice.

Mrs Warren laughed.

“If you call it following, he has. But I must have been mistaken about the bride. The brown-eyed beauty is not with him now.”

“Oh, there was no mistake! She is his wife,” cried Maisie thoughtlessly.

“But how do you know that, Violet? Why, what is the matter with you, my dear girl? Your face has grown scarlet. Why are you blushing?” cried her friend in wonder.

Then Maisie saw that she had betrayed herself so that, in fact, it would be better to confide in her friends, now that they could help her to shield her secret.

She would not run away from Barrington again—where would be the use? The world did not seem wide enough to keep them from meeting. So hereafter he must know her, if at all, as Violet Summers, a girl who had a striking resemblance to one he had loved and lost—that was all.

She would avoid him if she could. In the gay throngs he might never notice the one girl, yet she must be on her guard—she and her friends.

So she answered gently:

“I blushed because I thoughtlessly betrayed myself. That man is known to me, and I never wished to see him again. Listen, and I will tell you why.”

Mrs. Warren dearly loved a romance, and when she had listened with eager attention to the young girl’s story she declared it was more thrilling than any novel she had ever read.

“But, oh, the pity of it that you stayed away too long—that you let him marry another! He must have loved you well! That was why he lingered so long by the portrait that resembled you so much. Perhaps even now your memory is dearer to him than even his living wife,” she exclaimed.

“If so, it is all the more imperative that he should believe me dead, my dear friend, so I shall depend on you and Mr. Warren to keep my secret,” Maisie answered firmly, eliciting a ready promise to do as she wished.

Then Mrs. Warren continued:

“I do not know where the pretty young wife can be, but she is not with her husband. I heard some one saying that the rich American came to the other hotel yesterday with a party consisting of a sick young man, an elderly lady and two servants.”

“They cannot belong to Mr. Barrington’s party,” said Maisie decisively, believing Delmar dead, and never dreaming that staid, home-keeping Aunt Constance would venture abroad.

And she knew no better for some time, for though not far apart, they did not meet.

Delmar Barrington, the young lieutenant, was rather worse for a while, ill and feverish, and so irritable that he was a sore trial to the patience of all who had anything to do with him. It was Josephine’s absence and heartlessness that preyed on his mind, but he was so proud and indignant he would almost have died before he would admit the truth.

He missed her daily, hourly—longed for the flash of the brown eyes, the touch of the soft white hands, the kisses of the rosebud lips, the sound of the musical voice, and the loss of them all was poison to his heart.

Yet in secret he knew that Josephine was unworthy of his worship; that she was light and vain and shallow, and made but a poor return for all he gave. It was bitter, bitter, when he looked back on his own unfaltering devotion and contrasted it with her fickleness.

“I could almost believe that she had married me just for gold’s sake if I had not kept it secret from her about poor Maisie’s money,” he said to himself, with a half-regret for the poor girl he had driven mad with his deceit.

“Poor little Maisie, I never meant her to find out the truth. If she had lived until I came back to her I would have tried to be faithful to her and forget Josephine,” he thought remorsefully.

It was well he did not guess how Aunt Constance had betrayed the secret of his wealth to Josephine or it would have driven him mad with rage.

He was bitter enough as it was, seeing how little his bride cared about him now, how she deserted him in his weakness to revel in gayer scenes, never hesitating to accept other men’s attentions. He knew this, too, and it added the burning pangs of jealousy to his pain.

He would drag himself to a mirror and stare moodily at his thin face, so pale and colorless, and his hollow, dark eyes, muttering:

“Not a trace of the good looks that won her girlish fancy. No wonder her fickle heart was turned away!”

All his brooding and fretting only made the pain of his shattered lung worse, and moved Byrd to deepest sympathy with the pain that he knew lay deeper than the wound.

He cried impatiently one day:

“Let me send for Josephine to come to you. It is fretting for her that makes you worse, and no one can wonder. Her place is by your side.”

“She shall come when she gets ready, of her own free will, or not at all!” Delmar responded stubbornly, with flashing eyes.

“As you please,” Byrd answered quietly, but as he went out to snatch a little recreation by the blue lake, breathing in the balmy air, he thought bitterly:

“There is no rest for any of the Barringtons in love. It comes to their hearts like an envenomed arrow, poisoning peace and rest.”

His wistful thoughts dwelt on the tragedy of love that had shadowed his own life—on Maisie, the well-beloved, the sadly lost. He held himself most bitterly to blame.

“If I had but taken her at her word that day, all might have come out right in the end,” he thought. “Patient, devoted love like mine must have won a return. It was strange, passing strange, that, although she vowed she hated me, there was found in her hand-bag a picture of me—of—me—not Delmar, her husband. Why did she carry it away with her into exile?”

The wonder of it, the gladness of it, had filled many a restless hour.

He stood still, watching the blue lake and the little boats going up and down with gay parties in them—pretty girls and jolly young men—and he prayed God that love might never come to any of them as it came to those of the Barrington race—with grief and despair in its burning train.

His eyes singled out a little boat with a solitary occupant—a white-gowned girl pulling swiftly for the shore. The lithe grace of her movements excited a languid interest, and he put up his field-glass to examine her more closely.

A startled cry came from his lips.

It was almost as if the dead had come to life, the girl in the boat was so strangely like poor dead Maisie.

His heart leaped wildly in his breast, his breath came quickly over his parted lips.

He thought of the portrait that had charmed him so in Paris.

“This young girl must be the original! How strange to find Maisie’s counterpart at the other end of the wild world!” he thought, waiting in feverish impatience for her to land, devoured with the eager impulse to behold her nearer.

How skilful she was with the oars, how cleverly she steered her way through the fleet of little boats that crowded her so close. But surely she must collide with that one so near, crowded with bungling women who did not seem to understand the simple art of rowing. They were bearing clumsily down upon her. Could she escape?

His heart leaped into his throat.

Others were watching beside himself. He heard anxious voices all around him, and one exclaimed:

“Heavens, those foolish women are going to upset her boat! I wish Violet had not gone out alone! I begged her not, but she only laughed at me.”

“She will hold her own, dear,” was the consoling answer, but at that moment the air was filled with frightened shrieks, for out there in the deep blue lake, under the deep blue sky, in the golden sunshine, a terrible accident had happened.

The two boats had collided and overturned, throwing all the occupants into the water.

Barrington heard the anxious voice behind him again:

“Oh, Heaven, Violet will be drowned! She cannot swim!”

Barrington threw off his coat, and leaped into the water like an athlete. The girl that looked like Maisie should not lose her sweet young life!

CHAPTER XXVII.
THE MIGHT-HAVE-BEEN.

“Dear Mrs. Warren, what has happened? Why am I lying here in bed?” murmured Maisie, opening her heavy eyes in wonder, and half-lifting her golden head from the soft pillow where it rested.

“There, now, you are not to ask any questions yet, dear,” returned the lady fondly; but presently Maisie remembered of herself, and cried in a tone of horror:

“Oh!”

“Don’t think of it, dear,” was the soothing reply; but the girl shuddered and moaned:

“Oh, how can I help it? I thought I was drowning. I sank deep down into the blue water with a dazed feeling and consciousness left me; I shall never forget my awful sensations!”

“Poor darling! no wonder! Nor can I ever forget my own feelings of horror and despair when I saw the two boats colliding, and all those helpless women thrown out into the water! I cried out in anguish, and Mr. Warren would have gone to your assistance had not another sprung into the water before him—a splendid hero whom I could have hugged and kissed when he dived down into the water and brought you back to the surface.”

Maisie’s eyes were big with inquiry, and the lady added smilingly:

“I suppose you can almost guess the name of your rescuer?”

A faint blush tinted the pale cheek. The girl faltered:

“Could it have been—Mr. Barrington?”

“You are a good guesser, my dear, but then, of course, I gave you a hint. Yes, it was Byrd Barrington.”

Maisie flushed and paled, whispering half to herself:

“Yet the last time we met I told him I hated him, and vowed to be revenged because he would not accede to my demands! What a noble return!”

“Noble and heroic, though of course he could not know it was you he saved—not that I think it would have deterred him. On the contrary, he would more likely have been that much more anxious. He has called twice since yesterday to ask about you,” exclaimed Mrs. Warren.

“Since yesterday?” Maisie cried, in surprise.

“Yes, it was yesterday that the accident happened, and you have only just recovered consciousness. You see, when you fell into the water you got a blow on the head from the keel of the overturning boat. It stunned you, and you sank immediately—never to rise again, perhaps, had not Barrington dived for you so quickly, bringing you safely to shore.”

“And—the others?” cried the girl eagerly.

“They all were saved—except one! That fat old woman, Mrs. Warner, you know. Her body has not even been recovered yet. It was a mercy any of them were saved, there was such a scene of confusion! So many men jumped into the water that it almost seemed like they hindered more than they helped. But they were awfully brave, and very soon had all the women out, except, as I said, Mrs. Warner. She sank like a stone, and never came to the surface again. Must have got struck on the head like you did. Oh, Violet, what a scene of excitement! If I live to be a hundred I shall never forget it. There were so many boats, and all rowing so quickly to the scene of the accident, made the water so rough, it was harder for the rescuing men! And the shrieks of everybody—the poor drowning ones, the women in the boats, and the ones on the shore, they seem to ring in my ears even now!” concluded Mrs. Warren, shuddering at the very recollection.

Maisie shut her eyes again, and lay quietly thinking how narrowly she had escaped death, and how strange it was to owe her very life to Byrd Barrington—strange and sweet.

And yet of how much value was life after all, spent away from him whom she had learned to love so dearly?

A long, long sigh breathed over her lips, and Mrs. Warren exclaimed, with ready sympathy:

“You are thinking, dear, of how embarrassing it must be to have to meet him and thank him for saving your life; but I have made the rôle of Violet Summers as easy for you as possible.”

The beautiful eyes opened with a questioning glance, and she added:

“Mr. Barrington showed so much curiosity over you that I diverted any possible suspicion by telling him we were actresses, and that you had been with my company a long, long time. He asked some leading questions, but I was quite clever enough to throw him off the scent, though he said to me quite sadly:

“‘I am painfully interested in the girl whose life I saved. She is the perfect counterpart of one I loved, now long since dead.’”

Again a passionate sigh from the listener, who realized more and more the terrible mistake she had made in staying away so long from Castellane. The might-have-been quivered like a sword-point in her heart.

She said mournfully:

“We must not meet again, as long as I can postpone it. It will be too painful for me to meet him, with Josephine between us!”

“Yet you must not seem ungrateful, dear.”

“No, no; I would not wish it; but I can keep my room several days yet, while I am getting my courage to the point of an interview.”

“Yes; there could be nothing strange in that,” agreed her friend. So when Barrington called again that day he was told that she had recovered consciousness, but was so prostrated from the shock as to be still confined to her bed.

Thus affairs progressed for several days.

CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE THORNS OF REGRET.

But Byrd Barrington’s eager interest only increased.

The likeness to Maisie had aroused a tenderness that would not be quelled.

It found expression in daily inquiries and gifts of rarest flowers that made sweet the confinement to her room.

“Humph! almost too attentive for a married man! Perhaps I had better take you away!” cried Mrs. Warren banteringly.

“Oh, if you only would! Could we not slip away without seeing him? I could leave a note of thanks,” implored Maisie.

“It would seem ungrateful. Receive him just once, Violet; then we will fly from the danger.”

“It shall be as you say,” she sighed, with unwilling resignation; and the day came when she could put it off no longer.

It was more than a week since the accident.

She was quite well and strong again. The delicate rose-bloom had returned to her cheeks, the radiance to her beautiful eyes. They were full of a restless fire at the thought of meeting him again.

She took the greatest pains with her toilet that day. She wished to appear to him even more beautiful now than the Maisie he had loved and lost. It might be coquetry to wish him to regret her more bitterly, but she could not help it.

“He should not have been in such haste to marry Josephine,” she thought, with bitter anger and jealousy.

She arranged her beautiful golden hair in the most becoming fashion, and chose a white gown, because it was more becoming than any other; but while she pinned on her ribbons her small hands trembled with nervousness, and her poor heart went pit-a-pat with emotion.

“Dear heavens! How shall I ever meet him calmly?” she sighed, when the moment came, and Mrs. Warren came to tell her that Barrington was in their private parlor chatting with Mr. Warren.

Mrs. Warren had to steady her footsteps along the hall, she trembled so visibly.

“Courage!” she whispered, kissing the changing cheek as she led her across the threshold.

Barrington sprang forward with eager pleasure, his blue eyes radiant, as he was presented to her.

“My friend, Miss Summers.”

Their hands touched—hers cold, Barrington’s burning—their eyes met.

“I am very glad that you are well again,” he exclaimed confusedly.

“How can I thank you?” she faltered, with equal embarrassment, and sinking into a chair.

Then suddenly they found themselves alone.

The Warrens had considerately slipped away.

Maisie ventured to lift her eyes to him again where he sat in the very nearest chair. She began bravely:

“I cannot find words strong enough to thank you for saving my life. It was brave, noble, to run such a risk for me—an entire stranger!”

“It is true, as you say, we are entire strangers, Miss Summers; but pardon me, you do not seem thus to me, because—you strangely resemble one I once knew.”

“Yes?” she answered, feigning a gentle, languid interest, and Barrington continued:

“A fair young girl I once knew and—loved. To-day has been a most sad one to me, crowded with sorrowful memories, because it is the first anniversary of her death.”

Maisie started with a thrill of recollection.

“Yes,” she said to herself, “it is indeed the twenty-first of April—the date I saw engraved upon that gravestone.”

She looked at him with a new interest—at the handsome, high-bred face, pale with the memories he was evoking—at the fair clustering locks, tossed back from the intellectual brow; at the grave, brooding eyes. How little she had admired him in the past, blinded by a fancy for a pair of dark eyes; how fatally dear he was to her now.

She was frightened at her own emotion, in terror lest some inadvertent word might betray her identity. She wondered if he noticed how the white lace rose and fell upon her bosom, stirred by the agitated throbbing of her heart; she feared that he would be surprised at her tremulous voice, and the blushes that came and went upon her cheek in the gladness of seeing him again—gladness that was almost a sin, now that he belonged to Josephine.

Was there not a lurking triumph in the thought that her rival had not filled his heart? That his tender thoughts still clung to her he believed dead?

She could see that he was as deeply moved as she was; that the sight of her face had stirred cruel memories in his heart, and she could not help exulting in her power. It was his punishment, she said bitterly to herself, for marrying too soon. Had he but waited a little longer, how different all might have been; what rare happiness might have come to him now.

She wondered where his wife was, why he had come on here without her; but she did not dare to ask him, or even to hint that she knew he was married, lest she should give away her own identity.

So with a violent effort of her will she forced herself to apparent calmness, and answered to his last words:

“It is almost a pity that one cannot forget such anniversaries. There is so much sadness in them.”

“I do not wish to forget,” answered Byrd Barrington earnestly, and gazing fixedly at her, he added:

“Suppose you had been drowned out there in the blue lake last week—would you wish your friends to forget you?”

Maisie laughed a little bitterly.

“They would very likely do so, whether I wished it or not. You see I am an orphan, with no near relatives, so there would be no one to remember long.”

“No lovers?” he asked, still very earnestly, watching the quick blush that burned her face as she responded carelessly:

“I suppose there would be no use denying that—almost every girl has men admirers; but I said none to remember long!”

“I am sure that you do your charms injustice, Miss Summers. A face like yours is sure to be engraven indelibly on some true heart, never to be forgotten,” he answered warmly, thinking of the face so like her own that even in death he could not forget.

And as she hesitated for an answer he continued:

“Your likeness to the girl of whom I was speaking becomes even more pronounced from what you have told me. She, too, was an orphan, with no near relatives; but now that she is dead, poor little Maisie, she is not forgotten. Her memory is most tenderly treasured in my heart.”

It was sweet to hear such words, but she could scarcely keep the tears from her eyes. She felt sure she should betray herself unless the subject was speedily changed.

So, swallowing the threatening lump that was rising in her throat, Maisie exclaimed:

“I shall not let you cultivate the blues, Mr. Barrington, sitting in this darkened parlor, talking of the dead! Do you know that I have been shut up indoors for a week, and am pining for the sunshine? Let us go out and walk!”

CHAPTER XXIX.
TRUE LOVE IS ETERNAL.

She thought she could soon get rid of him outdoors.

They would be sure to see people they knew, so that they would become mixed up in general conversation, to the exclusion of the sad subject that engrossed his mind—the anniversary of Maisie’s supposed death.

Then presently she could feign weariness and ask him to take her back to the house. She could bid him good-by at the door, and all would be over, for it would be easy enough to persuade the Warrens to leave here to-morrow.

But Barrington paid no attention to other people; he devoted himself to his lovely companion.

“I beg your pardon for choosing so sad a subject for conversation,” he said. “I will try to make amends now. Will you come with me for a row on the lake? Or are you afraid, after your accident?”

“Oh, no; I am not afraid,” she replied, and they were soon skimming over the blue lake together, beneath the beautiful Italian sky.

As they sauntered down to the shore a man had nodded and asked him:

“How is the lieutenant feeling to-day?”

Barrington nodded back and replied:

“Thank you; he is a little more cheerful than yesterday, and his wound not so painful.”

Maisie quickly guessed that it was the invalid who had come with Barrington, but, engrossed in her own troubles, she took no notice, and Barrington, who had felt a sudden impulse to tell her the story of his brother, forebore to do so, thinking:

“She has already chided me for harping on sad themes, so I will try to be cheerful.”

And as he handed her into the boat he resolved to put away his sad thoughts, and bent himself to the task of amusing the lovely girl. It was impossible to forget Maisie, indeed, in the presence of one so like her; but his new acquaintance was charming enough to lull grief into forgetfulness after a while.

She responded eagerly to his efforts at being amusing. The smiles came readily to her lips, the brightness to her eyes. He chose impersonal subjects, drew her out, and made her talk of her short stage career. He soon found that her heart was not in it; that she had adopted it merely as a means to make a livelihood.

“And I’m not a star, you know. I play only simple parts, and my salary is very small. I shall never get rich by my theatrical talents, more’s the pity, for I covet riches,” she admitted frankly.

“You will be sure to marry rich,” he assured her confidently.

Maisie shook her head.

“Never!”

“Why not?”

“I should only marry for love, if I ever married!—and—somehow—the rich suitor is usually the one you cannot love!”

She was thinking of Kingwood, but she saw Barrington wince, and knew that the chance shot had pierced his thin armor.

A great remorse instantly seized upon her at sight of his rueful face, and she exclaimed:

“I take that back! It is not wholly true, after all!”

He regarded her attentively, and his hurt look made her go on:

“I’ll let you read a leaf of my secret history. Once upon a time I—I—was tenderly beloved by a very rich man.”

“Well?” he cried eagerly, and she continued:

“I refused his hand as well, because I fancied I was in love with another—but soon afterward I found that the object of my love was quite unworthy, while the rich man I had refused appeared to me in quite a new light, grand and noble, and worthy of all love, so that my heart went out to him—caught in the rebound, as it were—and I made up my mind to win him back!”

“Well?” Barrington cried again with interest; and she answered heavily:

“But when I returned to the place where he lived he had forgotten me—and married another!”

He gave a great start.

“Impossible!”

“I assure you that it is perfectly true!”

“Then he could never have really loved you!” he exclaimed.

But Maisie answered pensively:

“I should hate to believe that, for I find a sorrowful pleasure now in believing that he loved me once.”

“My dear Miss Summers, there is no such thing as ‘loved once.’ The heart once really given can never be taken back. Even after death it must love on truly as before, and anything less is but the base counterfeit of love.”

“Then he never loved me at first. I have not even that poor comfort,” she sighed, and her beautiful eyes seemed to look through him with a keen reproach.

He colored vividly and said:

“You are angry with me for suggesting such a thing. I am sorry, but even to propitiate you, I cannot give up my theory. I will put it in another form. The man who married another probably did so from pique, and very probably loves you still.”

Who could know better than himself how it was, she thought, and crimsoned warmly as she answered:

“At least, that is more soothing to my pride, though very unfortunate for his wife.”

“Yes, very,” he returned, quite seriously, adding: “Love in itself is a great misfortune, is it not?—though it may easily, when mutual, become the crown and joy of life. For me, I have known only its bitterness!”

“How strangely he is talking! He forgets Josephine, his beautiful bride; or has he already found out the little cat, and learned to despise her?” Maisie thought, as he continued:

“Love, from your own showing, has been a misfortune to you, also, and I know a man—a sick man, who is very likely going to die because his wife, whom he adores, neglects him and flirts with others.

“It is wicked, shameful!” cried Maisie indignantly; but she had no more idea of whom he was talking than the man in the moon.

But it struck her suddenly as rather odd that they had not got very far away from the subject she had run away from in the house. With a brief digression they had come back to love—a subject on which it seemed the grave Byrd Barrington could wax eloquent.

At her exclamation he gave her an approving smile.

“You agree with me that flirtation is wicked, especially for a married woman,” he said.

“Most decidedly,” she answered; but she could not keep back a slightly cynical smile from the corners of her lips as she thought:

“If flirtation is bad for a married woman, what about a married man? He must think differently on that subject, for some people might accuse him of trying to flirt with me. Some of his glances are very expressive.”

And with this thought she began to grow frightened at herself, and suggested that she had better go in—Mrs. Warren might be uneasy.

“But you will go boating with me again to-morrow—promise me,” entreated this daring married man, whom in her heart she accused of trying to flirt.

It was really her duty to say no under the circumstances, but she hesitated—and the woman who hesitates is lost.

“Promise me,” entreated Barrington again, in a distinctly thrilling voice, with a tender glance.

“Yes,” she faltered, forgetting all about her resolve to persuade the Warrens to take her away to-morrow.

CHAPTER XXX.
THE LIGHTNING BOLT OF JEALOUSY.

“Is it quite wise, dear Violet?” Mrs. Warren asked soberly, when the girl made frank confession.

Maisie laughed a little recklessly, and answered:

“No; I am sure it is not!”

“Violet!”

“Yes?”

“You love Barrington still?”

“I cannot deny it.”

“Then why stay and fan the hopeless fire in both your hearts? Are you not afraid?”

“No!” and again Maisie laughed recklessly, carried away by the delirium of love.

“Think of his wife,” Mrs. Warren urged gravely.

“Did she ever think of me?” Maisie cried, with flashing eyes and burning cheeks.

She had never hated and despised Josephine so bitterly as in that hour.

And she could not help exulting in the truth that had been shown so plainly that Barrington loved his dead love more than his living wife.

Not that she supposed Josephine would greatly care, even if she knew. She had married him for his money, not for love. Mistress of Castellane and five millions of money—was not that triumph enough for the shallow flirt?

So she went up to Mrs. Warren humbly, with sudden humility, murmuring:

“I know I deserve a scolding, but please be good to me. I do not mean to be wicked—only to see him one more time—just think, dear, one single hour out of a lifetime, when we love each other so well! Then I will go away with you, and see him no more forever. Will that satisfy you?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Warren replied, in her pity and sympathy for the unhappy girl.

Surely it could do no harm for her to see him once more, herself unknown.

But after that she would have no more of weakness. She would insist on the girl’s coming away out of danger of betrayal of her identity.

She could guess what a frenzy it would create in Barrington if he learned the truth that the dead was alive and loved him now, while he was bound in unwelcome fetters to Josephine.

“I wish his wife would come—that would bring both of them back to their senses!” she thought wistfully, as she went in to consult with her husband, who had stayed in all day with a headache and unaccountable lassitude.

“I am worse—much worse,” he declared, with all a man’s impatience of illness.

“For heaven’s sake, Warren, don’t go to having a spell of sickness, for I am determined to get away from here before to-morrow night,” she exclaimed in alarm.

“I doubt if you do! I tell you, dear, I’m growing worse every minute! Shouldn’t wonder if I’m taking that horrid Roman fever!” he returned testily.

“Pshaw! Nothing but your imagination! A man with the headache always fancies himself on his death-bed. Shall I call in a lawyer to make your will?” she inquired, with gentle sarcasm.

“If it were not already made I should certainly have you do so, for I believe I’m done for!” he retorted, so lugubriously that his wife quickly sent for a physician to convince him of his mistake.

When he came she watched his face most anxiously, saying:

“Give him a dose to cure him in a minute, doctor, because we are leaving Florence to-morrow!”

Her heart leaped into her throat as he answered gravely:

“If you get away in a week you will be lucky. Mr. Warren has symptoms of a mild case of Roman fever!”

“Oh, heavens!”

“I told you so!” cried the patient, with ghastly triumph. “I said I was done for, now, didn’t I?”

Mrs. Warren burst into tears, and the physician said soothingly:

“Don’t give way to your nerves. I said it was a mild case, didn’t I? I think I shall have him up in a week. Do not be uneasy! I’ll send you a good nurse, and he will pull through all right.”

He hurried away, and the wife embraced her husband, praying his pardon for her levity.

“I was cruel—wicked—to tease you so! I thought it was all ‘hypo,’ you know. Oh, my darling, don’t die and leave me alone in the cold world!” she sobbed, in an abandonment to grief that instantly made the invalid much worse, and it was well for him that the clever, cheerful nurse came directly and took charge of him.

But in the wife’s anxiety all alarm over Maisie was forgotten, even though she would be obliged to remain here indefinitely now, exposed to Barrington’s fascinations.

However, by the next day Maisie had come to her senses.

She sent Barrington a note postponing her boat-ride with him, on the plea of helping to nurse the invalid.

But the infatuated man came in a few hours to inquire about the case.

Maisie received him in company with Mrs. Warren, and the call was a short one, with no embarrassing personalities. But he sent her flowers that day, as he had done every day since he had rescued her from death.

She did not know how to refuse them, though she knew it was wrong to treasure them as she did, saying to herself:

“I cannot tell him I know he is married, for that would betray my identity, and it is more than ever imperative never to do that now, since it would only add to his pain.”

After that she went out but little; but never without meeting him. It seemed as if he fairly haunted her footsteps, as if she could not avoid him without actual rudeness, since he had saved her life. Besides, he was so courteously anxious over the invalid, and if he did not see her out he always called to inquire.

Maisie could not help a glow of happiness in his presence; a thrill at his glance; a loneliness in his absence. But she said to herself:

“Mr. Warren will soon be well now, and we shall be going away. I need not begrudge myself this little happiness that will so soon be over!”

She was angry with herself for all that she had missed at Castellane, the long time that she had despised his love and scorned him to his face.

“Oh, to call back the days that are not!” she thought, with a passionate regret that strengthened every day.

She had been so wilfully blind, but now she could see too well how splendid and lovable he was; now, when it was forever too late!

So the beautiful days slipped away into May, for Mr. Warren’s illness lasted longer than the doctor had predicted. He was in bed two weeks, and after that his convalescence was too lingering for him to think of leaving yet.

Maisie had come to know Barrington better than ever before in her life, even though seeing him but a short while daily; and in spite of herself love had grown into an all-absorbing passion—passion deeper than she realized, until one morning as she looked from the window to see him walking on the shore she saw that he was not alone—a beautiful dark-haired woman was walking by his side, and smiling up into his handsome face.

“Josephine!” moaned Maisie, and fell back into her chair, stricken by the lightning bolt of a bitter jealousy.

“She has come to claim him, my darling, my lost love!” she sobbed miserably. “Oh, the agony of loss; how can I bear it? I would to heaven he had left me to drown in the blue lake that fatal day we met again!”

CHAPTER XXXI.
“LONG HOPES WEAR OUT JOY.”

Lieutenant Barrington would never forget while life lasted the suspense and unrest of those wretched weeks while he waited in illness and jealous pain for his wife to come from Paris.

Nor would he ever forget the evening of her return; and her startled cry:

“For Heaven’s sake, what is the matter? You look like a ghost!”

He had answered in passionate wrath:

“Very likely you would not care if I were a ghost!”

“Oh, Del, how can you be so unkind and untruthful?” and she clasped him in her warm white arms and kissed him eagerly with her soft, rosy lips.

Alas, he had pined for her kisses so long in vain that now in passionate resentment he pushed her away.

“It is all deceit! If you had really loved me, you could not have stayed away; you would have come long ago,” he answered bitterly.

She moved back from him in a gust of responsive anger, stamping her tiny foot, and answering curtly:

“If I had known you would be so hateful, I would have stayed longer! There is no pleasure hanging around a sick man’s bed, and I was having a grand time in Paris when Aunt Constance wrote me that long letter, begging me to come to you—that you would die of grief without me!”

He sank back heavily on his sofa, his face went dead-white, his sombre eyes flashed luridly.

“She wrote that to you—you only came in answer to her appeal—not from love of me!”

“No!” Josephine muttered vindictively, thinking to herself how changed he was—how pale and thin and ill-natured—so different from handsome, vivacious Burton Kingwood, who had borne her company down from Paris, and whom, thank Heaven, she would walk and talk with to-morrow. If anybody thought she was going to tie herself down to Delmar, they would find themselves mistaken. She had married him for a good time—not to be a sick-nurse.

And she was so angry at being summoned to his side that, being a cat by nature, she showed her claws on the least provocation.

What was the use, she said to herself impatiently, of playing goody-goody all the time? She was his wife, fast and tight enough. Nothing could alter that, and as it did not seem that he could live long, she would soon be mistress of all his money.

Her fickle fancy for him had grown so weak since illness had faded his personal charms that she could contemplate his death without a single pang of feeling.

Of course, she would have to pretend a fondness for him still—she was prepared to do that, if he behaved right. But his first exhibition of irritability elicited quick resentment and angry retort.

And, as we have seen, his temper was as quick as her own, and he was goaded by a sense of neglect and injury—wounded love and pride—into jealous revolt.

So, as the saying goes, one word brought on another.

They quarreled bitterly, and presently he said fiercely:

“Your pretended love was nothing but a sham. I believe you found out some way or other that I was coming into Maisie’s money, and that was why you suddenly became so sweet on me, and hurried up the marriage, before I was strong enough to travel, so that you could have a good time at my expense!”

The shaft struck home, and she fairly glared at him in her rage, as she comprehended that he had seen clear through her too carelessly worn mask.

Those long weeks of desertion and jealous pain had opened his eyes to the cruel truth, and he saw his idol in her true colors at last.

Unheeding her angry gaze, her husband added bitterly:

“Dear little Maisie, would to God that she had lived to save me from being married for money—the cruelest fate that can befall any one! She was worth a hundred vain coquettes like you!”

Josephine marched indignantly from the room.

“Why did you drag me here?” she cried angrily, to dismayed Aunt Constance. “Delmar was not glad to see me at all. He repulsed me when I kissed him, and heaped a tirade of abuse upon me. I shall return to my friends in Paris to-morrow!”

“It will be the death of him if you do, Josephine, for your absence has nearly broken his heart already! He has brooded over your neglect so long that he could not keep from reproaching you a little, I suppose; but that will all blow over by to-morrow, and he will begin to realize the joy of your coming. Besides, one must not pay any attention to the little tempers of a sick man!” soothed the old woman.

The angry young wife only answered scornfully:

“I will not tolerate abuse from any man! I am going back to Paris to-morrow, and you may tell him so! Now, good night; I’m going to bed in another room.”

And, feeling sure that Delmar would be humbled into the dust by the lofty stand she had taken, Josephine retired in high dudgeon, and, gazing from her window for some moments, concluded that Florence was, after all, a beautiful place, and if she did consent to stay after Delmar had begged her humbly enough to-morrow, she could have no end of fun flirting with Burton Kingwood.

Aunt Constance went in tearfully to her nephew, who was lying back on his sofa, his somber eyes still full of smoldering rage that blazed up again at her entrance.

“So you wrote for her to come, did you, you meddlesome old woman, after I had sternly forbidden you?” he raged.

“Oh, Del, I did it for the best. You were pining yourself to death, and I thought it was her duty to come. But I told her not to tell!” she quavered distressfully.

But he was miserable, and in the mood to make himself more so.

“You were meddlesome!” he reiterated stubbornly. “You always were a talking woman, telling everything you could hear for the pleasure of gossip! I shouldn’t wonder now if you didn’t betray to Josephine all about Maisie’s money coming to me before I was ready for her to know it! Didn’t you, now?”

Thus adjured, the poor woman burst into a flood of guilty tears that did not deter the half-maddened young man from continuing harshly:

“I’ve suspected this for some time, and you may as well own the truth of your tattling!”

“But what difference could that make?” she sobbed.

“The difference that I wanted to be married for myself alone—as my poor lost Maisie married me—not for my money!” he answered hoarsely, with despair in his eyes.

“But Josephine loved you all the time, Del—before your father died.”

“Loved the heir, yes—but how quickly she threw me over when I was disinherited!” he muttered.

If she had been a woman of good judgment, Mrs. French would have laid up a falsehood against herself in the great recording-book at once, and denied to the bitter end that she had ever betrayed the secret of Maisie’s money to Josephine. She ought to have seen that it would make matters far worse for Delmar to learn the truth now.

But she was only a weak, loving woman, never over-wise, but with an inherent love of truthfulness that would not let her stoop to a lie, even for the sake of the good to be gained for it—if good can ever ultimately be gained thus.

So she would not deny it. She simply tried to palliate the truth by asserting that Josephine had been fond of him, anyway.

But Delmar knew better, having learned it by bitter experience, and the truth that he had long suspected was like gall and wormwood to his heart.

He heaped the bitterest reproaches of a frenzied man on the weeping woman, forgetting all her kindness in the one great injury she had done him.

The result of his passion was to make him so ill that his brother had to be summoned first, and then the physician, who anxiously demanded the cause of the relapse.

They had to explain to him rather lamely that the coming of his wife had caused such a shock of joy, etc.

“Humph! A peculiar effect certainly. My patient has the symptoms of having worked himself up into spasms by a fit of anger,” he replied frankly.

They remained up with Delmar all night, and it almost seemed as if the wavering flame of life would go out before the day.

But in their trouble they never aroused Josephine from her placid slumbers. When Byrd suggested it, the doctor said grimly:

“No; she would not add to the comfort of her husband, I fancy.”

Towards daylight he left, saying that Delmar would probably be better when he aroused from the deep sleep, induced by the sedative he had taken.

Josephine arose late, breakfasted alone, without inquiring for her husband, and went out to walk, hoping to find Burton Kingwood on hand to flirt with, as usual.

But she was quickly followed by her brother-in-law, who interrupted her meeting with Kingwood, to say bruskly:

“You must drop this nonsense, Josephine, and come in at once to your husband, whom you nearly killed by your cruelty last night, and beg his pardon.”

Kingwood bowed and walked away, and presently Maisie, looking out of her window, saw Byrd and Josephine walking together, but though she was smiling up so coolly into his face, she was getting a very sharp lecture from her indignant brother-in-law.

“You are behaving shamefully. I shall never forgive your heartless treatment of my brother, flirting there in Paris with that nincompoop, while your husband lay ill and neglected! Why, if Aunt Constance and I had not come abroad to take care of him, he must have been dead ere now!” he exclaimed hotly.

Josephine was inwardly furious. She would have liked to strike him dead at her feet.

But she only pouted prettily, and muttered:

“Mr. Kingwood is not what you call him, but a perfect gentleman. And—and—you have no right to scold me! I am not accountable to you for my actions!”

“Then I shall take the liberty anyway, and I insist that for the sake of poor Delmar’s life, hanging in the balance, you shall come back to him at once, and use enough of the deceit you know so well as to make him believe you are sorry for your ill temper of last night.”

“I refuse,” she answered, so maliciously that he said quickly:

“I can read your thoughts, Josephine. You are thinking that he will die all the sooner, and leave you a wealthy widow, to pursue your course of heartless pleasure. Ah, my God, what a fiend you are! Why did I ever let you fool him into this unhappy marriage? If I had but opened my lips and told him the truth that he already half-guessed—how you had cared nothing for him really, but angled for me so boldly, you heartless little fortune-hunter—he would have turned from you in scorn, as you deserved! But for his sake, to make him happy, I sealed my lips, and did him this great wrong. Still, I erred in innocence! I did not really believe you were as bad as you showed yourself! I thought you still treasured a faint spark of love for him.”

She was writhing with humiliation under his pitiless scoring, but the devil of pride in her made her obdurate.

“You may scold all day, but I will never humble myself to him!” she cried stubbornly, feeling sure of her ground, never dreaming he could cut it away from under her feet with a word.

And that word came quickly.

“You do not care for losing his money!”

“You cannot cut me out of that!” she answered triumphantly.

“Not out of a legal third, perhaps; but he can dispose of all the rest by will.”

“Impossible!”

“It is quite true. He already contemplates it. While you have left him fretting here, his mind has been busy over many things. Shall I tell you some things he has said to me?”

“Oh, if you choose,” carelessly.

“His mind has been dwelling on his dead wife. He said to me: ‘Byrd, I can never feel as if I had a right to all Maisie’s money. I treated her shamefully, poor girl, and do you know, it almost seems to me as if she must be restless in her grave at the thought of Josephine squandering her inheritance—Josephine, whose cruel, cutting words drove her into exile and death. And so, Byrd, I am thinking of making a will, for I’m afraid I shall not live long. This wound and Josephine’s devilish cruelty will be the death of me together.’”

Josephine started and paled, gazing up at him in sudden anxiety, while she gasped:

“You are just trying to frighten me, to drive me to do your bidding!”

“You do not think so. You know I am telling you the simple truth, and you are anxious to know what Delmar intends to do with all of his money he can legally leave away from you.”

“Yes, I am anxious, I own it,” she answered sullenly.

“Then it is briefly told. He talks of leaving it to found an orphan asylum in memory of Maisie.”

“He shall not!” she exclaimed, in a violent rage, and he answered coolly:

“There is but one way to prevent it.”

“How?” she cried eagerly.

“By trying to coax him back to life by a wife’s devotion.”

Josephine made a wry face behind her hand. She did not care to coax him back to life, if he would die and leave her his money.

But that absurd project! Faugh, it must be forestalled at any risk, even the bitter pill of Byrd’s advice.

A moment’s rapid thought, and she quickly capitulated, and said, with apparent humbleness:

“You do me injustice, Byrd. I did love Del when we were married, although I do not deny I would not have married an entirely penniless man, even for love. I admit also now that I have been thoughtless in my love of pleasure: but Delmar, in his rôle of an invalid, disgusted me, and I sought gayer company as a natural result. Perhaps if my husband should recover, and regain his handsome looks, I might be fond of him as of old, so I will take your advice and make up with him.”

“Come, then,” he replied, with an irrepressible sneer, and led her in, while Burton Kingwood watched them from a distance with an angry frown.

Disappointed in his love for Maisie, he had thrown himself with ardor into the flirtation with Josephine, finding consolation in her dazzling smiles for his wounded heart.

From simply seeking amusement at first, her heart had become interested in Kingwood, whose dark, handsome style was similar to that of Delmar Barrington before illness had altered him so much for the worse.

So the poor love she had at first given Delmar waned with the flight of time, until she secretly chafed at the bonds that held her, and meditated on the advantage of being a rich young widow, who, after enjoying her freedom for a time, might command a title by reason of her great wealth, or if she followed the bent of her fancy, might, who knows, bestow herself on her new flame, unless the present infatuation burnt itself out before.

CHAPTER XXXII.
“YOU HAVE GROWN INTO MY HEART.”

Maisie moped so long in her room that Mrs. Warren presently came in with an anxious face.

“Oh, my dear, what red eyes! You have been crying.”

“I could not help it. She has come—Josephine!”

“I had just come to tell you so. I heard it from Burton Kingwood. He has just called. It seems as if he is a great friend of Mrs. Barrington, and they came together from Paris.”

“How I hate her!” Maisie cried, with sudden passion.

“And no wonder, child! But it is very sad, and my heart aches for you. Mr. Kingwood asked leave to call on you soon. Of course, he is in love with you just the same, in spite of his flirtations. Oh, Maisie, I wish you could fancy him, and forget Barrington.”

The girl sighed hopelessly. She knew how vain was the wish. This was a love that would end but with life, she told herself.

Mrs. Warren changed the subject by saying:

“Well, thank Heaven, dear is very much better now, and we can soon get away from here, where, ‘out of sight is out of mind,’ I hope. By the way, I heard the doctor saying that the sick man at the other hotel—the lieutenant, they call him—had a bad turn last night, and nearly died. It seems as if he is suffering from a wound in the lung, received in the battle of El Caney.”

“So then he is an American? Poor fellow, I am very sorry for him!” cried Maisie, with hearty sympathy, and her thoughts dwelt a moment on another who had been wounded at El Caney—whose death had made her a not inconsolable widow.

“Poor Delmar!” she thought gently, in pity for his hard fate, yet wondering to herself why it was that she could have loved him at all, when his elder brother was by—grave, noble Byrd Barrington, who was now her ideal of manly perfection.

“Girls are very silly,” she thought, shrugging her shoulders with the wisdom of one who had now attained nineteen years. “In girlhood they go through a course of novel and poetry reading, à la Byron, that leaves on them the impression that all of heaven lies in a pair of dashing black eyes and a silky mustache. The illusion is very real while it lasts, and I own I had the fever in its worst type. It was a bitter pill indeed, that cured me, but the dose acted quickly, and I came to my senses for good. Josephine would have been more than welcome to him had he lived!”

But the thought that Byrd Barrington had been won by the wily fortune-hunter nearly drove her mad, and now, indeed, she felt anxious to get away from the sight of the happiness she could but envy.

“He will be with her all the time now. I shall not have the boat-ride we planned for to-day!” she thought, with jealous pain.

But she was mistaken in her fears.

He came promptly at the hour appointed, saying:

“I hope I am not late. I have been taking a short nap, after being up all night with a very sick man.”

“The wounded lieutenant?” said Maisie, and he nodded yes, and went on:

“I did not want to lose one golden moment away from you, for Mrs. Warren has told me you are going away as soon as her husband is well enough to travel.”

His grave blue eyes sought hers with a look that made her heart leap wildly, while her face tingled with blushes, and she said to herself, reproachfully:

“Oh, Maisie, what a wicked, shameless girl you are! I could not have believed this of you! Are you the girl that always despised flirting? And now you are letting a married man make love to you, and never telling him to go about his business, as you should have done days and days ago! And more dreadful still, you are loving him back with all your heart! You are so wicked that I wonder God does not let this boat overturn and drown you both!”

But the boat did not overturn, nor did she tell him he must not look at her with that passionate love-light in his eyes, nor speak to her in that love-freighted voice, that made her heart throb so fiercely against her white bodice. She kept resolving to tell him so, but her lips refused to speak the words that would part them forever.

He trimmed the sail, and the little craft flew blithely across the blue waters beneath the golden sunshine of the day, whose every hour was golden that they spent together. They were silent for a while, each busy with perturbing thoughts—Maisie wondering how Josephine would take it if she knew, and Barrington making up his mind to put his fate to the test:

“To win or lose it all!”

His heart was full to overflowing, and he said to himself that surely God had sent him this beautiful girl in Maisie’s form and likeness to console him for her loss.

And in spite of her shyness and occasional coldness, his eyes had read her love on her changing cheeks, and he knew she was not indifferent, that her warm heart answered to his own.

It seemed to him that the time was ripe for the declaration of his love. He was past thirty, and he did not want to wait much longer for his happiness. Besides, she would be going away soon, and he could not leave his brother to follow her about to speed his wooing.

It was now or never, he said to himself, with a wild heart-throb, and leaned toward her suddenly, so close that his warm breath floated over her cheeks.

“Oh, Violet, I must speak. I cannot keep silence any longer!” he cried ardently. “In the few weeks that I have known you, you have grown into my heart, and filled my life with joy. Will you marry me?”

CHAPTER XXXIII.
A BREATHING SPELL OF JOY.

Maisie had thought him a bold lover—but not bold enough for this!

Her heart leaped into her throat, the breath pulsed over her parted lips in hurried gasps, her cheeks went scarlet like a rose, then death-white like a snowdrop, her great shining eyes dilated widely, and she stared at him in wonder that left her speechless.

Was the man mad, she asked herself, or only wicked, with a wickedness she had not dreamed.

Misunderstanding her silence and her startled face, Barrington added eagerly:

“Really, Violet, I had no idea I should take you so wholly by surprise! Have you not seen that I loved you from the first hour we met? I, who never thought to love again, who deemed my heart buried in the grave of poor Maisie, have now but one thought, one dream, and that is of you, sweet Violet. To have you for my own, my loving wife, that would be heaven!”

She looked at him with a strange reproach in her eyes. She found breath in one gasping cry:

“You to take heaven’s name on your false lips—you! How dare you?”

He started and quivered as with an electric shock.

“Violet—Miss Summers—what can you mean? Have I insulted you by my love?”

She could not feel as angry as she ought, he had such an air of injured rectitude, he had grown so pale and grave at her startling words.

But the strain on her nerves was terrible. Very suddenly she burst into hysterical sobs and tears.

At that juncture she was so strangely like the Maisie of that memorable hour in the library at Castellane that it gave him somehow an uncanny feeling, as if the dead had returned to life again.

The little boat sailed away at its own sweet will over the blue murmuring water. They could think of nothing but each other now.

He fixed his eyes on her face with piercing love and sorrow.

“At least tell me why you answer me like this,” he demanded hoarsely. “What have I done to offend the being I love dearest on earth?”

She raised her wet eyes reproachfully to his haggard face. They were bluer than the blue sky—bluer than the blue bay. In their depths all of heaven was mirrored to the fancy of the lover who gazed on them so ardently, as she faltered:

“Your love, is it not an offense in itself? Do you think I do not know you have a wife already?”

Barrington muttered after her in angry amazement:

“A wife already!”

“I saw her by your side this morning,” Maisie added faintly. “I—I—heard she was Mrs. Barrington.”

An instant change came over the pale, haggard face of her lover. She flushed indignantly, when he laughed aloud:

“So that is my offense! A great one, truly! But, my dear, dear Violet, I am not the only Barrington in the world. There are others!”

To her he was the only Barrington indeed, and she looked at him in confusion.

He smiled at her tenderly, and continued:

“That was quite an odd mistake, and I am sorry you could for one moment think so ill of me. Yes, the lady was indeed Mrs. Barrington, and I was scolding her roundly for neglecting her sick husband—Lieutenant Barrington—a relative of mine!”

It was the strangest thing in the world that he did not say “my brother,” and the error was not intentional. He was thinking so much of her that he gave Delmar scarcely a passing thought.

As for her, it flashed over her instantly that the Barringtons had relatives back in the country—two stalwart young men, self-made, and independently well off. It was, then, one of these who had married Josephine the night she had crouched in the darkness, watching the fair bride through the window. Her face grew radiant with joy.

If Barrington had only said “my brother,” what a difference it would have made! It almost seemed as if Heaven intended for them to have a little happiness, a breathing spell of joy, before they were sundered widely by the bolt of fate that was waiting to burst from a seemingly peaceful sky.

She lifted her happy face and gazed at him with shining eyes.

“Then you are not really married. Oh, say it again! I can hardly realize my joy!” she breathed, like one awakening from a horrible nightmare dream.

He smiled radiantly as he answered:

“No, Violet, I am not married now. I never have been married, nor ever shall be—unless I marry you!”

A long, happy sigh breathed over her lips as if with it a terrible burden had been lifted from her heart.

“Thank Heaven!” she cried.

“For what, my dearest? That I shall never marry?” he cried archly.

“No, no—that you are not married, and never will be, except to me!” she admitted, with charming abandon.

“My dearest love,” and he caught her hand, “may I kiss you?”

“I—I’m afraid not. People might see us! They are always looking from the shore with glasses,” she objected, with exquisite blushes.

“Then I shall go with you to your parlor for my betrothal-kiss,” he said, and did not fail to keep his word.

Maisie wondered if she ought to tell him the truth—to frankly own her identity, to tell him she was the Maisie he loved and mourned; that she never had been dead, save in his fancy.

She decided to ask Mrs. Warren’s advice first, and to that decision she owed the twenty-four hours of happiness that intervened between her and the thunderbolt of fate that would fall to-morrow.

Barrington stayed with her two hours, and into that short space was crowded a wealth of happiness. They were alone, and he sat by Maisie on the sofa, with his arm about the slender waist, and the rosebud face close enough for stolen kisses, that were all the sweeter because she was almost afraid even now that her happiness was not a reality, that she would awake presently and find it all a blissful dream.

But at last he had to tear himself away.

“I am afraid I have neglected the lieutenant too long, and his wife will get tired nursing so long. You will explain to Mrs. Warren about my lengthy call, darling, and tell her I shall rob her of you soon. Now, one more kiss to last me till to-morrow.”

He left her there thrilling with happiness, her cheeks burning with the first kisses of her true lover, and hurried back to Delmar, to find him greatly improved under the ministrations of the deceitful Josephine, who had dutifully eaten humble pie in the fear of losing Delmar’s millions.

Byrd was too proud and happy to keep his news to himself. He confided it to the family when all were together—the sweet story of the girl who looked so much like Maisie that she had won his heart.

“She loves me in return, and she has promised to marry me soon,” he said triumphantly. “I want you all to know her, and love her, so I have made her promise to come with me to call on my friends to-morrow. I have told her you were mostly invalids and sick-nurses, so she is willing to waive conventionality and make the first call. Now, Delmar, you must improve as fast as you can, so as to help entertain your prospective sister-in-law.”

CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE SUSPENDED SWORD.

The kind-hearted Warrens could not congratulate Maisie enough on the happy finale of her love-story.

“It is better than a play,” they said, and they rejoiced over her with as much pride as if she had been their own daughter.

“You will be a grand, rich lady now, but you deserve it all,” cried Mrs. Warren warmly, as she kissed her beautiful protégée—more beautiful now than ever, with that light of love and joy on her exquisite face.

The hours flew by on wings of joy and the starry night brought happy dreams to Maisie—dreams of her grand and noble lover, whose devotion was rewarded at last by the love of her whole heart.

She dressed herself with great care and taste next morning, with something, too, of nervousness at the thought of encountering Josephine and the other Barringtons. She wondered if she could keep up her masquerade before their keen eyes, for Mrs. Warren had persuaded her to preserve her incognito a little longer, just for a greater dramatic effect when she confessed it. It seemed as if Maisie were living a real drama with a startling dénouement—more startling, alas! than they even guessed.

Quite early after breakfast, while she was waiting in their parlor for her lover’s coming, Burton Kingwood was announced.

“More beautiful than ever,” he exclaimed, as he bowed over her hand, while his eyes said plainly that he would like to clasp her in his arms and press her to his heart.

At the mere sight of her all his old love returned and the flirtation with Josephine was temporarily forgotten. His heart throbbed wildly and his cheek glowed with passion.

“You see that I could not stay away from you. I am come to try my fate again,” he cried.

Her fair face paled a little in sympathy and she answered gently:

“I am very sorry. If you had waited a little you would have heard that I—that I——”

“You do not mean that you love another?” he interrupted wildly.

“Yes,” she answered, with a pride she could not conceal, she was so happy this golden spring morning.

“A curse on my rival!” he groaned beneath his breath, and added wildly:

“What is his name?”

At that moment, as if in answer to his question, the door opened, admitting Barrington.

“Ah, Violet!” he cried, advancing joyously, then stopping short at sight of Kingwood, with a slight frown.

They greeted each other distantly. Then the discomfited suitor made some incoherent excuses and took a hasty leave.

“So you were acquainted with Burton Kingwood?” he cried, in slight surprise, and she smiled.

“He used to play the villain in our company.”

“And looks quite capable of playing it in real life,” commented Barrington. “What a jealous, angry frown he gave me, plainly betraying himself as a rejected lover.”

Maisie blushed warmly, but answered with her usual frankness:

“I am not going to deny it, but as this is the third time I have said no to him, I hope he will seek consolation elsewhere.”

“Poor fellow, I cannot help but pity him. It is hard to love and to lose,” said Barrington, with ready sympathy as he stole a kiss from the dewy, scarlet lips, and added: “One sweet half-hour together and I am going to take you to call on my folks, who are all eagerness to meet you.”

He sat down by her side and in a minute they forgot all about the poor, rejected lover who had gone away in bitter anger, cursing alike his own hard fate and his successful rival.

He sought solitude to puzzle over the strange mystery which confronted him—the mystery of Maisie’s masquerade.

As the reader knows, he had found out the girl’s identity long ago, and he was astonished to find her and Barrington together while she still flaunted in borrowed plumes.

“How has she managed to fool him, and why does she keep it up?” he asked himself in wonder.

Strangely enough, he did not yet know that Maisie’s soldier husband lived in the person of Lieutenant Barrington.

Byrd Barrington might have had half a dozen brothers for aught he knew to the contrary.

He had met with the Barringtons in Paris and attached himself to the Bonners, with whom Josephine went everywhere. The sick husband he had seen but twice, and did not know that his name was Delmar. Josephine, who scarcely remembered his existence while in the midst of her varied pleasures, only referred to him as the lieutenant, taking lofty pride in his martial title.

So Kingwood was as ignorant as Maisie of Delmar’s continued existence and destined to almost as great a shock when he found it out.

Thwarted in his passion for Maisie, his thoughts returned to Josephine and their pronounced flirtation.

“I believe she’s downright in love with me, and, if I play my cards straight, I can marry her when the poor lieutenant dies and get a pretty wife with a big dowry—not but that I’d rather have Maisie without a rag to her back. But that Barrington has cut in before me, and that’s hopeless, so I’d as well be making up to Josephine again,” his thoughts ran, and, after waiting a while for her to come out, and being disappointed, he got up and sauntered over to the hotel, boldly resolving to call on the Barringtons and see for himself if the sick soldier was really bad enough to have warranted him dragging his wife away from all the delights of Paris to his sick-bed.

He was readily admitted to the private parlor, where Aunt Constance, with her nephew and his wife, were awaiting the return of Byrd with his promised bride.

Delmar Barrington, in his character of invalid lay on a sofa wrapped in his dressing-gown, a wan shadow of his former self, his hollow, dark eyes glaring jealous disapproval of Kingwood, who did not hesitate to make eyes at Josephine before her husband’s scandalized face.

Josephine was bored to death by her husband and his aunt, and she was so delighted with her admirer’s presence that she could not help brightening up in the most magical fashion, returning his frank glances with shy coquetry.

Aunt Constance glanced anxiously at her nephew and saw that his large, black eyes were fairly blazing in his pallid face. She feared that he was on the verge of a passionate outbreak, but the imminent danger was happily averted at that moment by the entrance of Byrd Barrington, with his lovely betrothed leaning on his arm.

He had tried to prepare them for her wonderful likeness to the dead, but a tremor of amazement ran over all three at the first sight of that lovely face.

It was as if Maisie had come out of the grave where she had been lying over a year, and Josephine recoiled in superstitious dread with something of the horror she had felt that night when she saw Maisie’s pale, agonized face peering in at her through the window. Her face went dead-white again and she barely repressed the cry of alarm that sprang to her lips.

Mrs. French, too, trembled like a leaf as the girl was led up to her and introduced as Miss Summers.

She was not usually a demonstrative woman, but she was so deeply moved that impulsively she drew the girl to her and warmly kissed her rosy lips.

“Forgive me, I could not help kissing Byrd’s sweetheart,” she said, and Maisie answered: “Thank you,” as Byrd turned her toward the sofa close by his aunt.

“Lieutenant Barrington,” he said simply, and Maisie could have screamed aloud with nervous agitation as she turned and met the startled, admiring gaze of Delmar’s burning dark eyes.

If Byrd had only said “my brother,” the whole tragedy of fate would have burst upon her in a moment, but again, as by some strange chance, he had spoken of him as the lieutenant, all the family taking cordial pride in his soldierly rank.

Maisie had never seen the two Barrington cousins, one of whom she thought Josephine had married, or she would have known that both were blond men like Byrd. Instead, she thought dizzily what a startling resemblance the young soldier had to her dead husband, so startling that it frightened her, and the blood retreated from her face and her voice sounded hoarse and strange as she touched his hand and murmured some conventional words of greeting.

Delmar, on his part, was also deeply moved, though better prepared for the likeness to the dead. So his voice and words were cordial as he welcomed her kindly as his future relative.

Then Josephine, who had recovered herself by now, advanced with a smile, exclaiming:

“We cannot regard you as a stranger, Miss Summers. You look so much like a dear lost one we once knew and loved. I hope we shall be the best of friends.”

Maisie did not refuse the olive-branch. She did not hate the arch coquette so much now as when she thought she had married Byrd. In her own great happiness she had not a hard thought toward any one and even smiled radiantly on Burton Kingwood as she met his wondering glance.

The young man indeed felt like one in a strange dream as he sat there watching Maisie in her rôle of Violet Summers, asking himself in wonder why she chose to play a part instead of revealing herself frankly to the friends she loved.

As he watched her happy face while she talked and intercepted her radiant glances toward Byrd his jealous love turned to envious hate, and he felt as if he would be willing to make almost any personal sacrifice to break her heart and wreck her life.

It did not seem to him as if such an opportunity could ever come to him. The wildest stretch of fancy could not have led him to believe that the chance he desired was ready to his hand, that a suspended sword hung over that beautiful head and was even now about to fall.

All in one terrible moment the blow fell, hurling her from bliss to despair, from heaven to hell.

The pity of it was that the word of fate came from Byrd’s own lips.

Josephine had turned the talk to Paris. She was asking Maisie if she had been there, and the girl had mentioned the art-gallery episode.

“I saw you and Byrd there together before a portrait that Mrs. Warren thought resembled me. We thought then that you must be his wife,” she said.

Josephine laughed lightly.

“A natural mistake, as he had to be my escort everywhere. Lieutenant Barrington was not strong enough to go about.”

Byrd Barrington sighed deeply as he added to her speech:

“I shall never cease to regret that my brother was too ill to enjoy the sights with us.”

“My brother,” he had said at last, and Maisie started violently and went deadly white all in a moment.

Her great purplish blue eyes, dilating wildly, flashed on Delmar’s face, then back to Byrd, while she faltered wildly:

“Your brother?”

He did not comprehend the terrible agitation of her face and voice, and answered smilingly:

“Have I not told you before that Delmar—Lieutenant Barrington, the hero of El Caney—is my brother?”

“Heaven have mercy!”

The suspended sword had fallen at last, and, as if its keen point had pierced her heart, Maisie threw up her arms with that frenzied cry and sank swooning to the floor.

CHAPTER XXXV.
UNMASKED.

The excitement of the next few minutes was intense.

No one but Burton Kingwood could understand why their beautiful young visitor had cried out on Heaven in that piercing voice and then slipped down like one dead to the floor before a hand could be extended to break her fall.

No one guessed or even suspected that Maisie was masquerading, that she was not what she seemed, or that the words of Byrd assuring her that Delmar was his brother had been the cause of her terrible collapse. No one, at least, but Burton Kingwood, on whom the blow had fallen also with terrible suddenness, for he had never even dreamed of the strange complication of fate that had suddenly arisen to mar Maisie’s happiness. But now he saw it all as by a sudden lightning flash.

Maisie’s husband had not died of his wounds as erroneously reported in the newspapers. He had recovered instead and returned to make Josephine his bride, never doubting but that the low green grave in the family plot held all that remained of poor little Maisie, his hapless first wife and the unloved bride deserted on her wedding-day.

And, by one of the strangest decrees of fate, Maisie having heard through the newspapers of her husband’s death, did not know till this hour that the report was a mistake.

Believing him dead, she had learned to love his brother, and the shock of the truth had struck her down to despair.

Loving the one brother with all her heart, she was wedded to the other.

Could anything be more cruel, more heart-breaking? Maisie was as far from happiness now as she had doomed Kingwood to be in rejecting his suit.

There was a passionate triumph in the thought. He said to himself that the grim fates must have answered his prayer for vengeance.

He stood awkwardly by his chair watching the others as they gathered around Maisie and a grim smile curled his lips as he noticed Josephine’s anxious mien, while he said to himself:

“If she guessed the terrible truth of the girl’s identity would she not rather strike her down to death than see her revive to claim her rights? But will she do so or will she continue to deny her identity? Will she keep up the farce to the point of marrying her brother-in-law? I believe she is game enough to do it.”

The thought filled him with jealous rage, and he started forward as if to speak, but just then Mrs. French begged Byrd to carry Miss Summers to her chamber, so that she might not see so many strange faces when she revived.

“I believe that is the best plan,” said Byrd, and, lifting the limp form in his arms, he carried her tenderly to his aunt’s room.

“Now leave her alone with me while you go and attend to Del. He may be unnerved by all this excitement and Josephine will drive him crazy flirting with that jackanapes,” she said.

Barrington kissed his sweetheart’s unconscious face with yearning love and returned to his brother, who was saying excitedly to the others:

“It was so strange that she should faint just at that moment. She looked bright and animated and nothing exciting was said about anything.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Kingwood, interrupting for the first time.

They glanced at him in wonder, at the grimly significant smile that played around the corner of his mouth as he continued:

“Something very exciting was said to Miss Summers. It was that that caused her to faint.”

“Exciting? Not at all!” cried Josephine. “Byrd was only explaining to her that Delmar was his brother.”

“Exactly,” said Burton Kingwood grimly. “But as Miss Summers believed that Delmar Barrington was killed in the battle of El Caney, it came upon her with a shock that he was alive—and wedded to another!”

They began to comprehend some strange significance in his words, and looked at each other uneasily, while Josephine cried impatiently:

“What can you mean? The young lady never even saw my husband until to-day. You seem quite stupid, Mr. Kingwood.”

His face flushed with anger, and he retorted sharply:

“It is you who are stupid—all three of you! You should know better than to be hoaxed by a girl of nineteen.”

“Explain yourself!” Delmar burst out angrily, with the furious impatience of an invalid.

The answer came instantly with bitter triumph:

“The explanation is written on her beautiful face. It is a stupid man indeed who does not recognize his own wife!”

“You are mad!” came like a bomb from Byrd Barrington’s lips.

His brother’s head simply fell back weakly on his pillow, his pale lips parting without a sound, while Josephine cried furiously:

“How dare you try to trade on a chance resemblance and frighten us all to death? I do not know how you have learned so much about us all, but you evidently are not aware that Delmar’s first wife has been dead more than a year.”

“I know that you believe so, and I have stood by the gravestone in the Barrington plot with her name upon it. But I knew at the same time that you had made a mistake and that Maisie Barrington lived. Do you wish me to prove it to you?” and Burton Kingwood went over word for word the story of that night of the robbery on the train and joined successive links to the chain until they could not possibly doubt him longer, and Josephine was kneeling by Delmar’s couch moaning like a wounded thing, with her face hidden on his breast.

CHAPTER XXXVI.
“HAVE YOU NO PITY FOR ME?”

Had her heart turned back to him in the moment of her loss or was it only acting? Kingwood asked himself, with a slight sneer as he concluded with the words:

“I have not found this a pleasant task, but I thought it right to let you know the truth. It is very likely that Miss Violet Summers will try to keep up her masquerade, but she will not dare deny the truth to me!”

Byrd Barrington regarded him with a kindling glance of scorn, and was about to make a hot rejoinder when the door opened gently and Mrs. French looked in, saying gravely:

“Miss Summers has revived, and is asking for you, Byrd.”

He followed her quickly from the room, going into his darling’s presence with a wildly beating heart, wondering if she would indeed, as Kingwood asserted, try to carry on her daring masquerade.

She was sitting upright in Mrs. French’s easy chair, and as he glanced at her the resemblance was so striking that he wondered how he had ever let himself doubt for an instant her identity with Maisie.

He half-moved toward her with extended arms, then suddenly dropped them at his sides again, remembering with despair the barrier between them. In spite of Josephine, she was Delmar’s wife.

She looked at him with despair in her beautiful eyes, and faltered:

“I—I—sent for you, Byrd, to say farewell to you. I cannot keep my promise to you. I am going away from here immediately with the Warrens. We must never meet again.”

“Your reasons, dear,” he said, with gentle insistence.

“I—I—can give you none. Perhaps I have changed my mind.”

He could not help answering, in a burst of jealous pain:

“Your love has turned from me since you learned that Delmar lives!”

“What have I to do with your brother?” she cried hastily, with a choking voice.

“Maisie!”

She started violently as the old familiar name fell from his lips.

“Why do you call me by that strange name? I—I—am Violet,” she answered hoarsely, with frightened eyes.

He went to her side and took both her trembling little hands kindly in his and fixed his eyes impressively on hers, saying sadly, but firmly:

“Say no more, poor little Maisie. Struggle as you will, you cannot get free from the snare in which you are caught. My brief dream of love and joy is over. You are known to us all as Delmar’s wife!”

“No! no!” she panted, in alarm.

“Denial is useless, dear.”

“Indeed you are mistaken. Your brother’s wife is Josephine.”

“We thought so while we believed that you were dead, poor, injured child; but now we have all the proof of your identity.”

“From whom?” wildly.

“Burton Kingwood!”

“Oh, impossible!” she panted, in passionate excitement, and he could see how desperately she was fighting to get away without owning to the bitter truth.

It went to his heart to pain her, but he knew that she must not follow the wild impulse of her heart to get free, as he said, from the cruel snare in which she was caught.

So he tried to calm her as best he could, and then he told her briefly all that had passed since she left Castellane, and how she had inherited from her father a magnificent fortune that Delmar and Josephine were now enjoying, believing it legally their own.

“While you, poor, injured girl, have been earning your daily bread upon the stage and as a companion. How dreadful!” he said.

But even the story of her wealth could not tempt the frightened girl to accept her fate.

“Let them have it all, and welcome, so that I but get away without confessing the truth,” she said, but she saw no consenting in his clear, grave eyes, and in desperation she tried another argument.

“Have you no pity for Josephine, whom your brother loves? Think of the odium of her position if Delmar’s wife indeed rose from her grave.”

“I am afraid I have no pity for Josephine. She has been cruelly neglectful of her husband, and it would seem like retribution,” he replied, releasing her little trembling hands with the thought that he had no right now to clasp them with his own.

“Then have you no pity for me?” she demanded frantically, as she pushed her cold, trembling hands deliberately back into his clasp. “Have you no pity for me? Have you no pity for Delmar, that you would drive us into each other’s arms when we loathe the thought and our hearts are given to others—his to Josephine, mine to you?”

She was in passionate earnest. She did not care in her desperation how bold her words sounded in the battle for self that she was wildly waging against his scruples.

His heart shook with love and pain at her wild appeal. He could barely refrain from clasping her in his arms and pressing her passionately to his breast, but he held himself in with iron resolution, dumb with the great misery he would not let her see.

She leaned closer to him and looked him straight in the eyes, crying:

“Byrd, do you remember that day in the library when I begged you to get me free of Delmar, and you said there was no way. Can you say so still; can you doom me again to despair? Oh, I pray to you again, as I did then, help me to get free of my cruel chains, though I can offer you but the same bribe, my poor love, in return.”

She was so terribly in earnest. She looked at him so prayerfully that it shook him out of the great calm he was trying to pretend, and he cried passionately, incredulously:

“Maisie, is it true that you love me more than Delmar, or is it only your pride that asserts it?”

CHAPTER XXXVII.
I KNOW NO COMFORT!

Aunt Constance, hovering near, was listening attentively to every word, but neither seemed to mind her gentle presence, and Maisie answered firmly, with kindling blushes:

“It is as true as heaven. I fancy that my heart went out to you that day in the library, where, hidden behind the curtain, I heard you take my part so nobly against Delmar’s selfish resolve to leave me alone on my wedding-day. I did not deserve it, for I had scorned and flaunted you, but I saw you then in a new light, and you caught my love in its rebound from an unworthy object. It is yours still, that unchanging love, and it will never swerve from you, even if you let me go from you this hour, as I have prayed you, and never see your face on earth again.”

Aunt Constance could not help from weeping. The girl’s love and despair went to her heart.

She thought it was about time for her to speak.

“Seems to me, you’re acting sort of stupid, Byrd,” she sobbed, following up the reproach by adding: “It seems plain enough that Maisie and Delmar can’t never live together as husband and wife when they don’t want to, anyway, and, besides, there’s Josephine to be considered, too, poor thing, though she does not actually deserve it. But it seems to me you ought to find it easy enough to get Maisie a divorce over at home, seeing as Delmar was in such haste to marry another while she was alive.”

“Yes, yes, it must surely be easy. Oh, Aunt Constance, how good you are to take my part,” sobbed Maisie, with boundless gratitude, and so between them they brought Byrd to the point of considering the question.

But he did not fail to point out to her the bitter ordeal to be endured in the prosecution of a suit for divorce.

“You would have to return to the States and sue Delmar for bigamy, you know. I fancy you would gain your case, but you would find the notoriety painful,” he said, and waited in cruel suspense for her answer.

It meant so much to him, to them all—her decision now—that his face grew whiter and his heart almost stopped its beating, while he listened for the words she was about to speak.

A shudder ran over the beautiful form, and she lifted her lovely eyes to him with the love she did not try to conceal, although she was Delmar’s wife. What did it matter to her, that empty tie! She would break it or perish trying.

She said, low and clearly:

“Of course I understand all that, but there can be no drawing back for me with a prospect of happiness at the end of the pain. Or would you,” flushing sensitively, “shrink from wedding your brother’s divorced wife?”

“Can you ask me that?” he said with a glance of tender reproach that made her heart leap for joy.

“Then I shall go home and sue for the divorce,” she said firmly. “Can you not see that it is the only way out of the trouble? There is Delmar’s happiness to be considered, you know.”

“He does not deserve the least consideration at your hands,” Byrd returned bitterly, remembering all his brother’s indifference to Maisie.

She smiled a little and confessed frankly that she was planning more for her own happiness than any one else’s whatever, but she knew that in securing her own she could best win the same for the others.

“I am not so sure of Josephine,” Byrd said thoughtfully. “I fear she will care but little for Delmar when he is stripped of your millions. She has confessed to me that she would never have married him if he had remained poor.”

“Then I will cheerfully divide my fortune with Delmar to secure his happiness,” Maisie answered generously.

“You shall not do yourself such an injustice. My brother and his wife have already squandered many thousands of your money, and if you will excuse them for that, since it was my fault in giving it to Delmar, you will have done more than they could expect at your hands,” exclaimed Byrd.

She glanced at him half-reproachfully, replying:

“But Delmar must not be left penniless or Josephine will desert him and spoil his life.”

They looked at her in wonder at her generous nature after all she had borne from the two whose happiness she was struggling bravely to secure.

Aunt Constance could not help sobbing in distress at Maisie’s reference to Delmar’s life. She dreaded in her heart that it would be too short for any one to spoil now, the end too close at hand.

But Byrd said quickly:

“Dear aunt, do not sob so hopelessly. I will manage everything for Delmar’s good. You know I intended to dower Josephine richly on her marriage to Delmar, but on his accession to Maisie’s money it did not seem necessary, but I will settle a sum of money on Josephine when she marries Delmar again, though, were it not for his infatuation for the heartless jade, I should be glad to have him quit of her forever.”

Aunt Constance sighed with a sort of relief and turned to the door, saying:

“I will go and tell them your plans for their happiness. They must be feeling very sad and troubled.”

“Yes, tell them all,” assented Byrd, glad to be spared the unwelcome task, and for a few moments they sat silently waiting, too sad at heart to find words to comfort each other.

Suddenly the door was opened again and Mrs. French darted in with a pale, shocked face.

“You could never believe what Delmar has done!” she panted wildly, continuing her tale before either could interpose a question.

“He has flared up at Josephine with that fiery temper of his and sent her away, vowing he will have no more to do with her, but that he will take back his own legal wife again. And, Maisie, darling, he is praying you to come to him at once.”

CHAPTER XXXVIII.
LOOKING BACKWARD.

“I cannot meet Delmar again! Oh, no, no, no—do not ask me!” moaned Maisie, recoiling from Mrs. French’s tender hand in something like fear.

“Oh, my dear, you will not refuse; you must not! He is terribly wrought up over his quarrel with Josephine, and only you can soothe him now!”

“I soothe him? I? Oh, no; that is impossible!” and Maisie’s great protesting eyes showed that she did not wish to try.

“I—I must—go at once—to my friend Mrs. Warren. I cannot face Delmar now, or ever, if it can be avoided!” she added, with a pleading glance at Byrd’s face, that wore a grave and startled expression.

He answered gently:

“Wait; do not go yet, Maisie. Let me go and quiet him first; then I will take you back to Mrs. Warren.”

He went out, and Maisie cried indignantly:

“How could he send Josephine away? It was cruel.”

“Ah, my dear, there are two sides to every question,” replied Mrs. French sadly. “You would not wonder if you could know how cruel she has been to poor Del, neglecting him, while she flirted with other men. If he was hard and unjust to you, she has made him repent it in bitterness of soul.”

And out came the story of Josephine’s shortcomings to Maisie, who wondered at the poverty of the wife’s love for her sick husband.

“Ah, Maisie, it was a terrible mistake Del made going away from you as he did. He realizes now too late the madness of it all. If he had stayed, he must have learned to love you very soon. Who could help it, you were so sweet and fair? But his mad passion for that heartless girl made him reckless of your claims, and, alas, was glad of the chance to punish her for all he has suffered from her treatment. You know of old his violent and hasty temper, inherited from his father, and he has never had the right control over it. So he gave it free rein when Josephine flew to him in a panic at learning the truth about you, and asked him what he was going to do about it. He told me himself, with bitter triumph, that he pushed her head from his breast, and said bitterly, that he should beg you to come back and forgive him; that he would be glad to be free of one who had treated him so cruelly—she had nearly broken his heart, and could not even wait for him to die before she was flirting with other men. That puppy Kingwood had not even the manners to leave the room, but stood listening to every word, and just then he said, ‘Mrs. Barrington, I should like to say a few words to you alone,’ and she flirted out with him, Del says, with a grating laugh, and there he remained alone until I went to him, and found him raging alone, as on the night she came when they quarreled so; and he vows that if you got a dozen divorces he would never marry her again.”

“But—oh, it is such a terrible revenge! Think of her position. Del owes it to her to give her the shelter of his name again as soon as possible,” Maisie cried, in real dismay.

Mrs. French looked very grave and sad as she answered:

“It is a debt that he will never live to pay, my dear.”

“What can you mean?”

“That Delmar can be with us but a short while longer, I fear—not as long, Maisie, as it would take for you to secure your divorce. His wounded lung is very bad. The doctor has told me so. He had a very fair chance to live when Byrd brought him from Cuba, but Josephine hurried him into marriage, and this dreadful tour, in her anxiety to be spending your money, and the trip and her heartless treatment, have destroyed all his chances of life. He realizes it; he has told me so, poor fellow, and he is so human, he is glad of her punishment. Now he has but one wish, and that is to win your forgiveness.”

She saw the beautiful face whiten and harden with the resentment of that never-to-be-forgotten day when she had learned herself an unloved bride; married for spite, and deserted at the altar.

Never for one moment since had Maisie known anything but hatred of the man who had thus cruelly humiliated her maiden pride.

“How can I forgive?” she cried proudly, and the solemn answer struck coldly upon her heart:

“We forgive all things to the dying, you know, as we would be forgiven.”

And at that moment Byrd reappeared with a grave trouble brooding in his blue eyes.

“I cannot pacify him. He will not be contented without seeing you.”

“And you—do you wish it, Byrd?” she faltered, almost hoping he would answer no.

But she did not realize yet the man’s grand nature, that never wearied of trying to atone for the one cruel wrong he had done his brother.

Taking her white hands tenderly in his, he murmured:

“Dear, let us put aside all that we have dreamed of in our blindness for a little while—for stern duty’s sake! Let me sink myself into the rôle of your brother, while you—oh, again for stern duty’s sake—teach your wounded heart the beauty of relenting.”

If he had told her with that look and that voice to venture into the jaws of death, she must have obeyed him, she loved him so well.

His command was little less bitter to her heart.

But she placed her whole life at his command, who had saved it.

“I will obey you,” she answered, low and trustfully; and so he led her to Delmar’s door, pushing her gently inside, whispering:

“He will prefer for you to see him alone. Be kind to him, dear, because he has repented, and longs to atone.”

The door closed on her, and Byrd staggered back to his own room, to be alone with his despair and God.

The dew of suffering beaded his high, white brow, and ran down his pale cheeks; he clenched his hands till the sharp nails cut into the soft palms that had pressed Maisie’s so tenderly a while ago.

“Oh, God, what will be the outcome of it all?” he moaned. “Will she forgive the past when she sees him so humbled and repentant, and anxious to atone? What if the old love should return, if her tenderness should call back the fleeting life to its weak tenement, if he should be spared to us after all, and win her back? Dare I pray that such come not to pass—I, who darkened his life with the shadow of my mother’s hate, and now, having fulfilled the curse, owe him all that lies in man’s poor power to atone? Nay, Delmar, brother; my prayers arise that all things good come unto you, although your life and your love be builded on the ruins of my happiness!” and thus upon his knees a noble soul wrestled with selfishness and won the victory.

But what of her, poor Maisie, going reluctantly to her husband’s side?

She hung down her golden head and drooped her eyes, reluctant, alas, to see his face again.

So she knew not with what kindling tenderness, late remorse and budding hope, his dark eyes watched her lovely, downcast face, till she lifted heavy fringes from solemn violet eyes and met his look.

“Maisie!”

“Del!”

And their hands met in a light pressure and quickly fell apart again, hers were so cold and inert.

She sat down in the chair by the sofa, murmuring stiffly:

“I am very sorry you have been so ill.”

“Thank you,” wearily.

“And—and I think you were very wrong to send Josephine away. I—I—you might have married her again when I had gotten my divorce.”

“She was waiting impatiently for me to die, that she might marry her lover, Burton Kingwood. She can now marry him a little sooner,” he replied, with a great bitterness, mixed with scorn.

Maisie started in surprise, remembering how passionately Kingwood had pleaded for her hand that morning, and what a ruthless revenge he had taken for her refusal.

Was it possible he would marry Josephine? If he did so, it could only be from a bitter pique.

“Ah,” Maisie said to herself, in a sort of dismay, “what a world of hate and spite and revenge? It is terrible to contemplate.”

She could not even hold herself guiltless, remembering how she had hated Delmar since the hour of their ill-starred marriage.

As he lay there now upon the sofa, with the rich dressing-gown wrapped about his wasted figure, his splendid dark eyes flashing out of his wan, thin face, he seemed a pitiable object for any one’s hate.

The evil he had done had recoiled most bitterly upon his own heart.

It astonished her that Delmar was so determined on giving up Josephine. She had believed that his passion was proof against all her faults. As she looked at him in wonder, he cried vehemently:

“I am not cruel to Josephine. If she really loved me, it would be different, I grant you; but she married me for money, and now I am penniless, she would not stay, even if you had never returned. Ah, Maisie, how differently my life would have been spent had you not run away in your anger and left me to think you dead! If you had been more patient, if you had waited for me at home, my heart must have turned to you when I came back. I am not excusing myself, dear. I erred greatly; but were not you also to blame?”

CHAPTER XXXIX.
THE SUNSHINE OF A WINTER DAY.

“But it is useless to discuss all these things now,” she said evasively.

“But yes, Maisie, for what if I should pass away soon? And I cannot die in peace without your forgiveness.”

His voice sank into a murmur, and his eyes closed wearily. He lay thus for several moments, as if exhausted by all that had passed.

And how could it be otherwise, after such a shock in his weakened condition?

The beautiful girl who was his wife, who loathed her fetters, who felt them chafe like iron bands, sat there watching him in silence, with a heavy heart.

But there was no rush of the old-time love that once thrilled the heart of the dreaming, romantic girl. Rather she wondered now how she ever had loved him when his brother was by.

She sat stirless, and for a while he seemed to sleep, worn out by his emotions.

Suddenly, without premonition, the dark eyes unclosed, and he smiled at her faintly.

“So you are with me yet, Maisie? I was dreaming of you, dear—of the joyous days when we romped together, a happy boy and girl. It might have been the beginning of the happiest love idyl in the world, but for false Josephine, with her coquette wiles! Ah, that I might live to atone, and to win you back!”

She shivered, and he saw it with keen remorse.

“You cannot forgive!” he faltered.

Again the lovely face grew hard and cold, but before she could utter the “No” that trembled on her lips there came to her a sudden memory of Byrd’s pleading voice:

“Be kind to him, Maisie.”

She placed her warm, throbbing little hand gently in his cold, trembling one.

“I—forgive!” she murmured.

“God bless you, dear wife!” he answered fervently. “Ah, why do you tremble at that word from my lips? You would rather be as a sister?”

Her gentle smile gave assent, for she still hoped he might be reconciled to Josephine. She could not believe that his once passionate love was dead. After all, he had suffered most bitterly; he had paid a cruel penalty for his madness. It began to dawn upon her clearly, and the ice round her heart seemed to melt, overflowing her eyes with tears.

“I cannot help but pity you, Delmar,” she said sweetly. “You have suffered so much that it disarms revenge.”

His eyes brightened with hope and the secret thought:

“Pity is akin to love. Heaven grant me recovery, that I may win her for my true wife. She cannot be so very fond of Byrd, whom she once despised. Not that he deserved it. He is noble, kingly—but she is mine, lovely Maisie, and if life be spared, I must keep her for my own.”

She did not dream that her kindness had awakened such tender hopes in his heart, but she knew that he was pleased by the faint flush that rose to his cheek, so she added cheerfully:

“And now that we are reconciled, I must leave you to return to my dear friend, Mrs. Warren, who will be wondering why I have remained away so long.”

“You are going to leave me, Maisie. But you will come back to me, dearest? You will stay with me while I live?” he pleaded eagerly, and she had not the heart to refuse, now that she had relented and forgiven him.

“I will come back,” she said, gently smoothing back the dark curly locks that had strayed over his pallid brow.

Then she hurried out, and found Byrd waiting for her with a pale face of secret unrest and pain.

“Will you take me to Mrs. Warren now? I must tell her all. Then I have promised Delmar to return and stay—as a sister! Can you bear my presence—after the pain of our broken dream?” she whispered.

“Heaven will give me strength,” he answered, with grave tenderness, as he walked by her side out into the golden sunshine of the fair day that jarred painfully on their saddened hearts.

Their dream of love, how sweet and short it had been, alas—like the brief sunshine of a winter’s day, soon clouded over with gloom.

They had scarcely a word to say to each other till their walk was ended.

“You need not wait for me. I shall not return for several hours,” she said, parting from him with a timid handclasp, as she went in to astonish Mrs. Warren with her startling story.

And as she had rejoiced over her friend’s happiness yesterday, she wept over her grief to-day.

“My poor darling it is cruel, cruel, and my heart aches for your trouble,” she cried. “How blind we were not to find out the truth any sooner; but I never gave a second thought to that poor sick young man, although being a compatriot of ours. We should have called on him and showed a friendly interest. Still, as I was ailing myself, and my husband ill afterward, I suppose we are excusable. And to think that Lieutenant Barrington is your husband, and you are not a widow, as you have thought yourself so long! It was a trying ordeal, my dear, but you have come out of it nobly, and you will be happy by and by, when his poor life is ended—though, of course, we should not count on that! Maybe after all he may recover and win you back. Do you think you could love him again, Maisie? How strange it is to say Maisie, instead of Violet, to be sure.” So she ran on, adding, as Maisie gave no answer to her question: “I cannot help feeling glad over Josephine’s discomfiture, the heartless thing! She was well paid for her heartless behavior, and I should be very much surprised if Burton Kingwood marries her at all!”

Maisie let her run on at random, scarcely answering a word, her sorrowful thoughts following Barrington back to his brother’s bedside, but not guessing at Delmar’s feverish excitement of hope and love.

He did not fail to tell Byrd of Maisie’s kind, forgiving words, and her promise to come back and stay as a sister.

“She was shy—who could blame her? But I was grateful for even that promise. I hardly dared to hope for so much,” he said frankly. Then, with brightening eyes, “Oh, Byrd, if I might but be spared, who knows but that she might love me again? I was her first love, you know, and how natural to turn back to the heart’s first love!”

He did not know how cruelly he was paining Byrd, for no outcry came from the pale, drawn lips of the suffering brother, but Aunt Constance said, a little tartly:

“Josephine was your first love. What if your heart turned back to her again?”

“Oh, aunt, never breathe her name in my ears again! Let me try to forget the wealth of love I lavished vainly on that heartless coquette!” he cried.

She had drained the costly cup of his love to the bitter lees, false Josephine, and he was only cheating his sick heart with the dream of future happiness.

CHAPTER XL.
“THE POOR HEART SHE BROKE.”

They had thought that Delmar could hardly survive the excitement of that day for twenty-four hours.

But it almost seemed as if he had taken a new lease of life.

A week slipped away, and he lingered on, buoyed up by a strange exhilaration of spirits.

Maisie’s effects had been moved to the same hotel, and she shared with Mrs. French and Byrd the duty of caring for the invalid.

She could not watch his sufferings from his wounded lung without pity and sympathy, and a longing to alleviate his pain; so all lingering resentment passed from her heart, and divine pity and sympathy filled its place.

“How good you are to me, Maisie, when I deserve it so little,” he said to her gratefully. “Ah, if Josephine had been like this, so kind and tender and pitiful, I should have been well long ago. But she dragged me from place to place; she gave me no rest. And always the pain of this aching lung, and the weariness—ah, the weariness! But I loved her so, and I wished to give her pleasure, believing at first in her pretended love; so I sacrificed my life to her, for I shall never get well, I know! And she—she has not a regret! No doubt she has married Kingwood already, not waiting for the sod to cover the poor heart she broke!”

It was the first time he had named her name since his bitter outburst to Mrs. French, but they knew from this that she was never absent from his thoughts.

They were all agreed in believing that she had already married Kingwood. It was indeed all that remained to her after Delmar’s angry denunciation.

Since the hour when Kingwood had asked her to come out and speak to him alone she had been missing.

Her traveling-clothes, a small valise and all her handsome jewels—bought with Maisie’s money—were missing from the room, and her trunks all strapped and corded, never having been unpacked since her late arrival from Paris, were left awaiting the arrival of their mistress.

Smarting with anger at the rebuff she had received from the man she had treated so heartlessly, cast off with a stain on her name, and an empty purse, Josephine was indeed only too glad to listen to Kingwood’s proposal of marriage.

She believed that he loved her desperately, and was very rich—neither of which was true.

All his heart belonged to Maisie, and he had only a passionate fancy for the coquettish Josephine. As to his great wealth on which she counted, he had squandered so much of his fortune that the remnant left barely sufficed for his own extravagances, and he would never have proposed to Josephine had she not, in her arrogant pride, made him believe that she was independently rich in her own right.

Dreading lest he should find out her deception on this point, and eager to entrap him first, she acceded with joy to his proposal of immediate marriage, and, hurriedly packing up her jewels, with a change of clothes in her hand-bag, left the house with him, angry, humiliated, desperate, feeling as if fate had indeed played her an ugly trick, but wasting no remorse on her own share in bringing down retribution on her own head. Josephine was only Josephine—selfish and heartless to the core—and if she had had to go over the same experience again, would doubtless have acted in the same manner, sacrificing every one else to her own pleasure.

As for Kingwood, his sole object in marrying her was first to get revenge on Maisie, and secondly to share the fortune of which he believed the pretty coquette to be sole mistress.

He had heard of the rich Shirleys of Rosedale, and he did not know that since Josephine had married and come abroad her father had made an assignment in the bankruptcy court.

His sweet morsel of vengeance rested on the hope that if he married Josephine, Maisie must perforce remain with the husband she did not love, because Byrd’s high sense of honor would not permit her to secure a divorce. Thus parted from the man she loved, and forced to remain with Delmar if he lived, she would be as bitterly unhappy as Kingwood himself, in his union with Josephine. These poor crumbs of comfort tasted so sweet on his tongue that he hurried to the consummation of the ceremony that would set the ball in motion.

There awaited this scheming pair a very bitter future when the real truth became known to each other—confirmation of the old adage, “Those who marry in haste repent at leisure.”

But for the first few days all was “couleur de rose,” then Josephine, soon wearying of the neighboring town where they were spending the beginning of their honeymoon, proposed to Kingwood that they should go and get her trunks and proceed to Paris.

“You can write for them,” he said; but she answered, laughing:

“No; I wish them to see that I am happily married again!”

So at the very moment when Delmar was speaking of her so bitterly, she was sending in her card to him by the servant—Mrs. Burton Kingwood.

A spasm of emotion twitched his pallid face, and he opened his lips to refuse to see her, when the door unclasped suddenly, and she followed her card into the room.

Radiant, insolent, superbly dressed, and smiling in triumph, she had never looked more beautiful and alluring to poor Delmar’s hollow, dark eyes that fixed themselves upon her, recalling in that moment all his love, all his dreams of happiness, so cruelly blasted by this lovely, soulless butterfly.

She bowed to them all with airy grace, crying gaily:

“Ah, good morning to you all. I have come to receive your congratulations. I have been married a week to Mr. Kingwood. It is a real love-match on both sides, you must know. I am free to own to you, Delmar, that my girlish fancy for you died long ago. When your good looks faded in your illness, there was nothing left to admire, and your peevish jealousy evoked contempt, not pity. I am glad I am free of you, so you did not score much of a victory when you cast me off, to take Maisie back—Maisie, who is in love with your brother, and hates you! Good-by; I wish you all much happiness!” and with a mocking curtsy the little fiend swept from the room before the startled listeners could catch their breath to reply.

They looked anxiously at Delmar, but before her silken skirt had rustled through the door he had turned his face over to the wall and closed his eyes.

Byrd bent anxiously over him touching his cold hands with warm, strong fingers, crying:

“Do not mind her malice, Del. We all love you—we will do all we can for your happiness!”

But no answer came from the pale, twitching lips.

Aunt Constance darted out for the doctor, and Maisie leaned over her husband, repeating Byrd’s words:

“We all love you—we will do what we can for your happiness!”

He groped for her hand without replying, and when she placed it in his he joined it with Byrd’s, that was clasping his other one.

His cold, trembling hands held Byrd’s and Maisie’s close clasped together, and he gasped faintly:

“I—I am going! God—bless—you—both!”

Aunt Constance entered hurriedly with the doctor, who stooped over the still form reverently a moment, then exclaimed:

“Poor fellow! He has gone suddenly—died from a shock. But the end was not far off at the best!”

Josephine was just going down the steps to her husband, waiting outside, when she heard excited voices proclaiming the death of the young soldier. Her high color did not even change, nor her cold heart beat the faster; she only said carelessly, to Kingwood:

“Delmar has just died—since I came out of the room. I dare say it was a shock to him, learning that I was really lost to him forever. What a pity Maisie ever came back. I should have been a rich young widow now, instead of losing all those millions!”

“No use grieving over spilt milk,” he answered hoarsely, but the words were as much for his own consolation as hers. He was thinking with a pang of furious rage that he was cheated out of his vengeance after all.

He had not dreamed that Delmar was going to die so soon, and he guessed well that Byrd would very likely marry Maisie soon. She had been Delmar’s wife in name only, and even the censorious world would not expect her to pose as a disconsolate widow.

He was right.

The Warrens and Mrs. French talked it over when Delmar’s brief funeral was ended by the depositing in a vault of the remains, to be eventually taken home to Virginia.

They agreed that even the slight sensation over the marriage might be avoided if the ceremony were performed abroad, and Byrd brought home his bride to Castellane.

Within a week they had confided their opinions to Byrd and Maisie.

“It can do no good to Delmar for Maisie to pose a year as his widow. He would not wish it if he could know. Remember how he joined your hands in dying,” said Aunt Constance, with a stifled sob.

They talked it over together, and decided to take their friends’ advice.

A few weeks later, on a golden June day, under smiling English skies, Byrd and Maisie were united in marriage by a quiet ceremony, of which the Warrens and Mrs. French were the only witnesses. Then the party of five remained abroad until late in August, when they journeyed homeward, bearing with them the remains of Lieutenant Barrington to his native land.

In the meantime, Byrd had written home to his lawyers, and the news of all that had happened abroad was so well known in Rosedale that the nine days’ wonder was over before the travelers reached there.

At the cemetery the marble shaft bearing Maisie’s name had been taken away, and the unknown tenant of that little grave had been removed to an obscure spot.

Beside Delmar’s mother a new grave had been opened, and after appropriate ceremonies at Castellane it received into its calm embrace the mortal remains of the young soldier, whose passionate heart and wilful temper had made shipwreck of his own life.

In the short span of his life he had known the heights of bliss and the depths of pain; he had drunk the feverish wine of love to its bitter lees, that had poisoned him at last. For one woman’s sake he had sacrificed all else in life, but the grass upon his grave was never watered by her tears. Other truer hearts breathed there the tender regrets that must have pleased the freed spirit if it lingered near to hear them pulsing softly on the summer air, while reverent hands brought their daily tribute of fragrant flowers to deck his grave.

And the hands that he had joined in dying with blessings on them both, remained clasped in a love that would never fade in time or eternity. Byrd and Maisie would go hand in hand together through life and down to death, their hearts linked in a love born of sorrow that would bear its fruitage of joy, while gently chastened by the shadows that had clouded over its dawn.

THE END.

No. 1045 of the New Eagle Series, entitled, “Love Will Find the Way,” by Wenona Gilman, is a tale of intrigues and jealousies, with love triumphant at the end in spite of all obstacles.

Everybody Reads
The Street & Smith Novels

High-brow public opinion has changed radically during the past few years, so far as placing a proper valuation on paper-covered reading matter is concerned.

In the old days, anything between paper covers was a dime novel and, therefore, to be avoided as cheap and contaminating.

Since men like Frank O’Brien have pointed out to the world the fact that some of the best literature in the English language first appeared between paper covers, such books are welcomed in the best of families.

The STREET & SMITH NOVELS are clean, interesting, and up-to-date. There are hundreds of different titles, and we invite your careful consideration of them from a stand-point of value and of literary excellence.

Street & Smith Publications
INCORPORATED
79 Seventh Avenue       New York, N. Y.

Printed in the U. S. A.

Transcriber’s Notes:

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.

Table of contents has been added and placed into the public domain by the transcriber.

This novel was also serialized as Barrington’s Will; or, A Legacy of Hate in the New York Family Story Paper.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THORNS OF REGRET ***

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Table of Contents

- THORNS OF REGRET

- THE THORNS OF REGRET.

- CONTENTS

- CHAPTER I. ASHES TO ASHES.

- CHAPTER II. THE READING OF THE WILL.

- CHAPTER III. FATE.

- CHAPTER IV. A HASTY WOOING.

- CHAPTER V. “THERE ARE OTHER LIPS!”

- CHAPTER VI. THE WORST FATE THAT COULD BEFALL.

- CHAPTER VII. PURE GOLD AND GILDED DROSS.

- CHAPTER VIII. GIVE ME MY RELEASE.

- CHAPTER IX. “LEAD US NOT INTO TEMPTATION!”

- CHAPTER X. MAISIE’S FLIGHT FROM HOME.

- CHAPTER XI. ONLY TO SUFFER AND ENDURE!

- CHAPTER XII. THE DIE WAS CAST.

- CHAPTER XIII. JOSEPHINE’S LITTLE GAME.

- CHAPTER XIV. WHAT BLISS HAD SHE ONLY LOVED ME.

- CHAPTER XV. IN THE CLASH OF HOSTILE ARMS.

- CHAPTER XVI. SUCH A TRAGEDY OF WOE.

- CHAPTER XVII. THE ONLY ROMANCE OF HIS LIFE.

- CHAPTER XVIII. A PAINFUL DISAPPOINTMENT.

- CHAPTER XIX. A SUSPICIOUS LOVER.

- CHAPTER XX. “FORGIVE THE PAST; I LOVE YOU NOW!”

- CHAPTER XXI. ONE GLIMPSE—ONE ONLY.

- CHAPTER XXII. BROTHERS AT LAST.

- CHAPTER XXIII. THE WEDDING-BELLS.

- CHAPTER XXIV. I COULD NOT BE HAPPY WITHOUT LOVE!

- CHAPTER XXV. A WRETCHED MEETING.

- CHAPTER XXVI. LIKE AN ENVENOMED ARROW.

- CHAPTER XXVII. THE MIGHT-HAVE-BEEN.

- CHAPTER XXVIII. THE THORNS OF REGRET.

- CHAPTER XXIX. TRUE LOVE IS ETERNAL.

- CHAPTER XXX. THE LIGHTNING BOLT OF JEALOUSY.

- CHAPTER XXXI. “LONG HOPES WEAR OUT JOY.”

- CHAPTER XXXII. “YOU HAVE GROWN INTO MY HEART.”

- CHAPTER XXXIII. A BREATHING SPELL OF JOY.

- CHAPTER XXXIV. THE SUSPENDED SWORD.

- CHAPTER XXXV. UNMASKED.

- CHAPTER XXXVI. “HAVE YOU NO PITY FOR ME?”

- CHAPTER XXXVII. I KNOW NO COMFORT!

- CHAPTER XXXVIII. LOOKING BACKWARD.

- CHAPTER XXXIX. THE SUNSHINE OF A WINTER DAY.

- CHAPTER XL. “THE POOR HEART SHE BROKE.”

- Everybody Reads The Street & Smith Novels

- Transcriber’s Notes:

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE