Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 17, Number 24, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 4 December 1886 — Page 6

nr '4,:

6

THE MAIL

A PAPER FOR THE PEOPLE.

TERRE HAUTE DEC. 4, 1880.

THE ".r.n:

Haunted Chamber.

•r

BY "THE DUCHESS.

Author of "Monica,"

"Mona

Scully,"

"FhyUU," etc., etc.

CHAPTER VI.

"Dear Sir Adrian," says Dora Talbot, laying down her bat upon a gardenchair, and forsaking the game of tennis then proceeding to go forward and greet her host, "where have you been? We have missed you so much. Floryou -turning to her cousin 'will «nce' you take my bat, dearest? I am quite tired of trying to defeat Lord Lisle."

Lord Lisle, a middle-aged gentleman of sunburned appearance, looks unmistakably delighted at the prospect of a change in the game. He is married has a large family of promising young Lisles, and a fervent passion for tennis. Mrs. Talbot having proved a very contemptible adversary, he is charmed at his chance of getting rid of her.

So Florence,

vice,

Dora retired, joins

the game, and the play continues with unabated vigor. When however Lord Lisle has scored a grand victory, and all the players declare themselves thoroughly exhausted and in need of refreshments, Sir Adrian comes forward, and walks straight up to Miss Delmaine, to Dora's intense chagrin and the secret rage of Arthur Dynecourt. "You have often asked to see the •haunted chamber,' "he says "why not come and visit it now? It isn't much to see, you know but still, in a ghostly sense, it is, I suppose, interesting." "Let us make a party and go together," suggests Dora, enthusiastically clasping her hands—her favorite method of showing false emotion of any kind. She is determined to have her part in the programme, and is equally determined that Florence shall go nowhere alone with Sir Adrian. "What a capital idea!" puts in Arthur Dvnecourt, coming up to Miss Delmaine, and specially addressing her with all the air of a rightful owfler. "Charming," mutters a young lady standing by and so the question is settled. "It will be rather a fatiguing journey, you know," says Captain Ringwood, confidentially, to Ethel Villiers. "It's an awful lot of stairs I've been there, so I know all about it—it's worse than the treadmill." "Have vou been there too?" demands Miss Ktliol saucily, glancing at him from under her long lashes. "Not yet," answers Uie captain, with a little grin. "But, I say, don't go— •will you?" "I must I am dying to see it," replies Ethel. "You needn't come, you know I dare say I shall be able to get on without you for half an hour or so." "I dare say you could get on uncommonly well without me forever," retorts the captain rather gloomily. To himself ho confesses moodily that this girl with the auburn hair and the blue eyes has the power of taking the "curl out of him" whensoever she wishes. "I believe you are afraid of the bogies hidden in this secret chamber, and so don't care to come," says Miss Villiers tauntingly. "I know something else I'm a great deal more afraid of, responds the gallant captain meaningly. "Me? she asks innocently, but certain! coquettishly. "Oil. Captain Ringwood"—in a tone of mock injury— "what an unkind speech! Now I know you look upon me in the light of an ogress, or a witch, or something equally dreadfiU. Well,

JUS

I have the namo

of it, I may as well have the gain of it, and so—I command you to attend mo to the 'haunted chamber.'" "You order—1 obey," says the captain. "'Call and I'follow—I follow, though I die!'" After which quotation ho accompanies her toward the house in the wake of Dora and Sir Adrian, who has been pressed by the clever widow into her service.

Florence and Arthur Dvnecourt follow them, Arthur talking gayly, as though determined to ignore the fact that lie is thoroughly unwelcome to his companion Florence, with head erect and haughtv footsteps and eyes carefully averted.

Past the hall, through the corridor, up the staircase, through the galleries, along more corridors tney go, laughing and talking eagerly, until they come at last to an old and apparently much disused part of the house.

Traversing more corridors, upon which dust lies thickly, they come at last to a small iron-bound door that blocks the end of one passage. "Now we really begin to get near it," aavs Sir Adrian encouragingly, turning as' he always does, when opportunity offers, to address himself solely to Florence. "Don't vou feel creepy-creepy?" asks Ethel Villiers, with a smothered laugh, looking up at Captain Ringwood.

Then Sir Adrian pushes open the door, revealing a steep flight of stone stops that leads upward to another door above. This door, like the lower one. is bound with iron. "This is the tower." explains Sir Adrian, still acting as cicerone to the small partv, who look with interest around them. Mrs. Talbot, affecting nervousness, clings closely to Sir Adrian's arm. Indeed she is debating in her own mind whether it would be effective or otherwise to subside into a graceful swoon within his arms. "Yonder is the door of the chamber," continues Sir Adrian. "Come let us go up to it."

They all ascend the last flight of atone stairs: and presently their host opens the door, and reveals to them whatever mystery may lie beyond. He enters first, and they all follow him, but as if suddenly recollecting some Important point, lie turns, and calls loudly to Captain Ringwood not to let the door shut behind him. "There is a peculiar spring in the lock** lie explains a moment later and. If the door slammed to, we should find it impossible to open it from the inside, and might remain here prisoners forever unless the household came to the rescue.* "Oh, Captain Ringwood. pray be careful!* cries Dora faltering!)-. "Our very lives depend upon your attention:" "Miss Villiers. do come here and help me to rememlier my duty." says Cap*. Ringwood, planting his rack against the open door lest oy any means it should shut.

The chamber is round, and has, instead of windows, three narrow apertures in the walls, through which can be obtained a glimpse of the sky, but of nothing else. These apertures are just large enough to admit a man's hand. The room is without furniture of any description, and on the boards the dark stains of blood are distinctly visible. "Dvnecourt, tell them a story two, calls out Ringwood to Sir AQ rian. "They won't believe it is veritably haunted unless you call up a ghost to frighten them."

or

But they all protest in a body that that they do not wish to hear any ghost stories, so Sir Adrian laughingly refuses to comply with Ringwood's request. "Are we far from the other parts of the house?" asks Florence at length, who has been examining some writing on the walls. "So far that, if you were immured here, no cry, however loud, could penetrate the distance," replies Sir Adrian. "You are as thoroughly removed from the habitable parts of the castle as if you were in the next county." "How interesting!" observes Dora, with a little simper. "The servants are so afraid of this room that they would not venture here even by daylight," Sir Adrian goes on. "You can see now the dust of years is on it. One might be slowly starved to death here without one's friends being a bit the wiser."

He laughs as he says this, but, long afterwards, his words come back to his listeners' memories, filling their breasts with terror and despair. "I wonder you don't have this dangerous lock removed," says Capt. Ringwood. "It is a regular trap. Some day you'll be sorry for it."

Prophetic words! "Yes I wish it were removed," responds Florence, with a strange quick shiver.

Sir Adrian laughs. "Why, that is one of the old tower's eatest charms," he says. "It belongs the dark ages, and suggests all sorts of horrible possibilities. This room would be nothing without its mysterious lock."

At this moment Dora's eyes turn slowly toward Arthur Dynecourt. She herself hardly knows why, at this particular time, she should look at him, vet she feels that some unaccountable fascination is compelling her gaze to encounter his. Their eyes meet. As they do so, Dora shudders and turns deadly pale. There is that in Arthur Dynecourt's dark and sullen eyes that strikes her cold with terror and vague forebodings of evil. It is a wicked look that overspretids the man's face—a cruel, implacable look that seems to freeze her as she gazes at him spellbound. Slowly, even while she watches him, she sees liim turn his glance from her to Sir Adrian in a meaning manner, as though to let her know that the vile thought that is working in his brain and is betraying itself on his face is intended for him, not her. And yet, with this too, he gives her silently to understand that, lr she shows any treachery toward him, he will not leave it unrewarded.

Cowed, frightened, trembling at what she knows not, Dora staggers backward, and. laying a hand upon the wall beside her, tries to regain selfpossession. The others are all talking together, she is therefore unobserved. She stands, still panting and pallid, trying to collect her thoughts.

Only one thing comes clearly to her, filling her with loathing of herself and an unnamed dread—it is that, by her own double-dealing and falseness toward Florence, she lias seemed to enter into a compact with this man to be a companion in whatever crime he may decide upon. His very look seems to implicate her, to drag her down with him to his level. She feels herself chained to him—his partner in a vilo conspiracy. And what further adds to the horror of the situation is the knowledge that she knows herself to be blindly ignorant of whatever plans he may be forming.

After a few seconds she rouses herself, and wins back some degree of composure. It is of course a mere weakness to believe herself in the power of Arthur Dvnecourt. she tries to convince herself. He is no more than any other ordinary acquaintance. If indeed she has helped him in his little efforts to secure the love of Florence, there was no great harm in that, though of course it served her own purpose also. "How pale you are, Mrs. Talbot?" remarks Sir Adrian suddenly, wheeling round to look at her more closely. •Has this damp old place really affected *A«i« tof ita cti\ nrtWTI

or elsewhere." "I am nervous, I confess," responds Dora, in a low tone. "Yes, yes—let us leave this terrible room forever." "So be it," says Sir Adrian gayly. "For my part, I feel no desire to re-en-ter it." "It is verv high art, I suppose,* observes Ethel Villiers, glancing round the walls. "Uncomfortable places alwavs are. It would be quite a treasure to Lady Betty Trefeld. who raves over the early Britons. It seems rather thrown away upon us. Captain Ringwood, you look as if you had been suddenly turned into stone. Let me pass, please." "It was uncommonly friendly of Ringwood not to have let the door slam, and so imprisoned us for life," says Sir Adrian, with a laugh. "I am sure we owe him a debt of gratitude." "I hope you'll all pay it," laughs Ringwood. "It will be a nice new experience for you to give a creditor something for once. I never pay my own debts but that doesn't count. I feel sure you jure all going to give me something for my services as doorkeeper." "What shall I give you?" asks Ethel coquettishly. "Ill tell yon by and by," he replies, with such an expressive look that for once the saucv girl has no answer ready, but. blushing crimson, hurries past him down the stone stairs, where she waits at the bottom for the others.

As Florence reaches Uie door she pauses and stoops to examine the lock. "I wish." she says to Sir Adrian, a strange subdued excitement in her tone, "you would remove this lock. Do ."" "But whyf he asks, impressed in spite of him*elf..by her manner. "I hardly know myself it is a fancy —an unaccountable one, perhaps—but still a powerful one* Do be guided I me and have it removed."

still a powerful one* Do W guided te and have it removed." "What—the fancy?* he asks laugh-

the lock. Humor me in this,"

she pleads earnestly, far more earnestly than the occasion seems to warrant.

aCaIl

it a silly presentiment, if rem like, but I honestly think that lock will work TOO

evil some day* Therefore it is that ask you to do away with it." "Youaskmcr henneries.

She has evidently forgotten her late distrust in him, for she speaks now in the old sweet tone, ana with tears in her eyes. Sir Adrian flushes warmly. "For your sake" he whispers. "What is there I would not do, if thus requested?" ,,

A bitter sneer contracts Arthur Dynecourt's lips as he listens to the first part of this conversation and guesses at the latter half. He notes correctly the kindling of their eyes, the quick breath that comes and goes

happy sighs from the breast of Florence. He hears the whisper, sees the warm blush, and glances expressively at Dora. Meeting her eyes he lays his finger on his lips to caution her silence, ana then, when passing by her, whispers: "Meet me in half an hour in the low-

ef]fowing

Ringwood, ever since the memorable night in the smoking-room, when Sir Adrian was so near being killed, has looked askance at Arthur Dynecourt, and, when taking the trouble to address him at all, has been either sharp or pointed in his remarks. Arthur, contenting himself with a scowl at him, closes the little door again, and turns away from it. "At night," says Sir Adrian, an amused tone, "the servants, passing by the door below that leads up to this one, run by it as though they fear some ghostly ancestors of mine, descending rrom tne haunted chamber, will pounce out upon them with their heads under their arms, or in some equally unpleasant position. You know the door, don't you, Arthur—the second from the turning?" "No," replies Arthur, with his false smile, "I do not nor, indeed, do I care to know it. I firmly believe I should run past it too after nightfall, unless well protected." "That looks as if you had an evil conscience," says Ringwood carelessly, but none the less purposely. "It looks more as if I were a coward, I think," retorts Arthur laughing, but shooting an angry glance at the gallant captain as he speaks. "Well, what does the immortal William say?" returns Ringwood coolly. 'Conscience doth make cowards of us all!'" "You have a sharp wit, sir," says Arthur, with apparent lightness, but pale with passion. "I say, look here," breaks in Sir Adrian hastily, pulling out his watch "it must be nearly time for tea. By Jove, quite half past four, and we know what Lady FitzAlmont will say to us if ve keep her deprived of her favorite beverage for even five minutes. Come,

IO

TERRE TTATTTE SATURDAY EVENING MAIL.

les, li only to please me—for my

Juke

her acquaintance in this ar­

rangement, fearing indeed to refuse, Dora follows the others from the haunted chamber.

At the foot of the small stone staircase—before they go through the first iron-bound door that leads to the corridor without—thev find Ethel Villiers awaiting them. She had been looking round her in the dimly lighted stone passage, and has discovered another door fixed mysteriously in a corner, that has excited her curiosity. "Where does this lead to, Sir Adrian?" she asks now, pointing to it. "Oh, that, is an old door connected with another passage that leads by a darfc and wearying staircase to the servant's corridor beneath! I am afraid you won't be able to open it, as it is rusty with age and disuse. The servants would as soon think of coming up here as they would of making an appointment with the Evil One so it has not been opened for years." "Perhaps I can manage it," says Arthur Dynecourt, trying with ay his might to force the ancient lock to yield to nim. At length his efforts are crowned with success the door flies creakingly open, and a cloud of dust uprising covers them like a mist. "Ah!" exclaims Ethel, recoiling but Arthur, stooping forward, carefully examines the dark stair-case that lies before him wrapped in impenetrable gloom. Spider-nets have been drawn from wall to wall and hang in dusky clouds from the low ceiling a faint, stale, stilling smell greets his nostrils, yet he lingers there and looks carefully around him. "You'll fall into it, if you don't mind," remarks Captain Ringwood. "One would think uncanny spots had an unwholesome attraction for you."

i«-t

us rim, or destruction will light upon our heads." So saying, he leads the way, and soon they leave the haunted chamber and all its gloomy associations far behind them.

CHAPTER VII. -i S

Reluctantly, yet with a certain amount of curiosity to know what it is he may wish to say to her. Dora wends her way to the gallery to keep her appointment with Arthur. Pacing to and fro beneath the searching eyes of the gaunt cavaliers and haugnty dames that gleam down upon him from their canvases upon the walls, Dynecourt impatiently awaits her coming."

All, you are late!" he exclaims as she approaches. There is atone of authority about him that dismays her. "Not very, I think," she responds pleasantly, deeming conciliatory measures the best. "Why did you »t come to the library? We all missed you so much at tear "No doubt," he replies sarcastically. "I can well fancy the disappointment my absence caused the blank looks and regretful speeches that marked my defection. Pshaw—let you and me at least be honest to each other! Did Florence, think you, shed tears because of my non-coming?"

This mood of his is so strange to her that, in spite of the natural false smoothness that belongs to her, it renders her dumb. "Look here," lie goes on savagely, "I have seen enough to-day up in that accursed room above—that haunted chamber—to show me our game is not yet won." "Our game—what game?" asks Dora, with a foolish attempt at misconception.

He laughs aloud—a wild, unpleasant, scornful laugh, that makes her cheek turn pale. Its mirth, she tells herself, te demoniacal. "You would get out of it now, would you?" he says. "It is too late, I tell you. You have gone some way with me. you must go the rest. I want your help, and you want mine. Will: draw back now, when the prize is won, when a little more labor will place ft within your graspf ''But there must be no violence," ate

attempt at—* Is it you would say?" he inter­

rupts sternly. "Collect yourself you surely do not know what you are hinting aL Violence! what do you mean bythatr "I hardly know." she returns, trembling. "It was your look, your tone, I think, that frightened me." ."TOyoiq:nem4fti your pqeket Jar

the future," he exclaims coarsely -tney are not wanted where I am. Now to business. You want to marry Sir Adrian, as I understand, whether his desire lies in the same direction or not?"

At this plain speaking the dainty little lady winces openly. "My own opinion is that his desire does not run in your direction," continues Arthur remorselessly. "We both know where his heart would gladly find its home, where he would see* a Dride to place here in this grand old castle, but I will frustrate that hope if I die for it."

He grinds his teeth as he says this, and looks with fierce defiant eyes at the long rows of his ancestors that line the walls. "She would gladly see her proud fair face looking down upon me from amidst this goodly company," he goes on, apostrophizing the absent Florence. "But that snail never be. I have sworn it unless—I am her husband—unless— I am her husband!"

More slowly, more thoughtfully he repeats his last phrase, until Dora, affrighted by the sudden change that has disfigured his face, speaks to him to distract attention. "You have brought me here to—" she ventures timidly. "Ay, to tell you what is on my mind. I have said you want to marry Adrian I mean to marry Florence Delmaine. To-day I disliked certain symptoms I saw, that led me to believe that my own machinations have not been so successful as I could have wished. Before going in for stronger measures, there is one more card that I will play. I have written you a note. Here it is, take it"—handing her a letter folded in the cocked-hat fashion. "What am I to do with this?" asks Dora nervously. "Read it. It is addressed to yourself. You will see that I have copied Adrian's handwriting as closely as possible, and have put his initials A. D. at the end. And yet"—with a diabolical smile—"it is no forgery either, as A. D. are my initials also."

Opening the note with trembling fingers, Dora reads aloud as follows: "Can you—will you meet me to-morrow at four o'clock In the lime-walk? I have been cold to vou perhaps, but have I not had cause? You think my slight attentions to another betokens a decrease in my love for vou, but in tills, dearest, vou are mistaken. 1 am yours heart and soul. For the present. I dare not declare myself, for the reasons you already know, and for the same reasons am bound to keep up adeeming friendliness with some I would gladly break with altogether. But I Htn happy only with you, and happy too in the thought that our hearts beat as one. "Yours forever, A. D."

Dora, having finished reading the letter, glances at him uneasily. "And—what is the meaning of this letter? What is it written for? What am I to do with it?" she stammers, beating the precious missive against the palm of her hand, as though in loathing of it. "You will show it to her. You will speak of it as a love-letter written to you by Adrian. You will consult her as to whether it be wise or prudent to accede to his proposal to meet you alone in the lime-walk. You will, in fact, put out all your powers of deception, which"—with a sneering smile— "are great, and so compel her to believe the letter is from him to you." "But—" falters Dora. "There shall be no 'but' in the matter. You have entered into this affair with me, and von shall pursue it to the end. If you 'fail me, I shall betray your share in it—more than your sharo —and paint you in such colors as will shut the doors of society from you. You understand now, do you?" "Go on," says Dora, with oolorless lips. "Ah, I have touched the right chord at last, have I? Society, your idol, you dare not brave! Well, to continue, you will also tell her, in your own sweet innocent way"—with another sneer that makes her quiver witli fear and rage— "to account for Adrian's decided and almost loverlike attentions to her in the room we visited, that you had uad a lovers' quarrel with hnn some time before, earlier in the day that, in his fit of pique, he had sought to be revenged upon you, and soothe liis slighted feelings by feigning a sudden interest in her. You follow me?" "Yes" replies the submissive Dora. Alas, how sincerely she now wishes she had never entered "into this hateful intritrue! "Then when you have carefully sown these lies in her heart, and seen her proud face darken and quiver with pain beneath your words"—oh, how his own evil face glows with unholy satisfaction as ho sees the picture he has just drawn stand out clear before his eyes!—"you will affect to be driven by compunction into granting Sir Adrian supposed request, you will don your hat and cloalc, and go down to the lime walk to encounter—me. If I am any jndge of character, that girl, so haughty to all the world, will lower her pride for her crushed lover's sake, and will follow you, to madden herself with your meeting with the man she loves. To her, I shall on this occasion represent Sir Adrian. Are you listening?"

She is indeed—listening with all her might to the master mina that has her in thrall. "You will remember not to start when you meet me," he continues, issuing his commands with insolent assumption of authority over the dainty Dora, who up to this, has been accustomed to rule it over others in her particular sphere, and who now chafes and writhes beneath the sense of slavery that is oppressing her. "You will meet me calmly, oblivious of the fact that I shall be clad in my cousin's light overcoat, the one of which Miss Delmaine was graciously pleased to say she approved yesterday morning."

His eyes light again with a revengeful fire as he calls to mind the slight praise Florence has bestowed in a very caaiiftl fashion on his coat. Every smile, every kindly word addressed by this girl to his cousin, is treasured up by him and dwelt upon in secret, to the terrible strengthening of the purpose he has in view. "But if you should be seen—be marked," hesitates Dora faintly. "Pshaw—am I one to lay my plans so clumsily as to court discovery on even

there to meet you in the lime-walk, and after that yon win take your cue from me." "That is all yon have to say?" asks Dora, anxious to quit his hated presence. "Far the present—yes. Follow my instructions to the letter, or dread the consequences. Any blunder in the performance of this arrangement I snail lay to your charge." *You threaten, sir!" she exclaims angrily, though she tembles. ^Let it be your care to see that I do not carry out my threats," he retog$8i with an tosolent.jrinug.

The next aay, airectiy after luncheon, as Florence is sitting in her own room, touching up an unfinished watercolor sketch of part of the ground round the castle—which have, alas, grown only too dear to her!—Dora enters her room. It is an embarrassed and significantly smiling Dora that trips up to her, and says with pretty hesitation in her tone— "Dearest Florence, I want your advice about something." "Mine?" exclaims Florence, laying down her brush, and looking, as she feels, astonished. As a rule, the gentle Dora does not seek for wisdom from her friends. "Yes, dear, if you can spare me the time. Just five minutes will do, and then vou can return to your charming sketch. Oh"—glancing at it—"how exactly like it is—so perfect what a sunset, tunl what fli-s! One could imagine one's self in the Fairies' Glen by just looking at it." "It is not the Fairies' Glen at all it is that bit down by Gough's farm," says Florence coldly. "Of late she has not been so blind to Dora's artificialness as she used to be. "Ah, so it is!" agrees Dora airily, not in the least discomposed at her mistake. "And so like it too. You area genius, dearest, you are really, and might make your fortune, only that you have one made already for you, fortunate girl!" "You want my advice," suggests Florence quietly. "Ah, true and about Something important too!" She throws into her whole air so much coquetry mingled with assumed bashfulness that Florence knows by instinct that the "something" has Sir Adrian for its theme, and she grows pale and miserable accordingly. "Let me hear it then," she urges, leaning back with a weary sigh, "I have just received this letter," says Mrs. Talbot, taking from her pocket the letter Arthur had given her, and holding it out to Florence, "I want to know now I shall answer it. Would vou—would you honestly advise me. Flo, to go and meet him as he desires?" "As who desires?" "Ah, true you do not know, of course! I am so selfishly full of myself and my own concerns, that I seem to think every one else must be full of them too. Forgive me, dearest, and read his sweet little letter, will you?" "Of whom are you speaking —to whose letter do you refer?" asks Florence, a little sharply, in the agony of Jjgj* Jieart "Florence! Whose letter would I call 'sweet' except Sir Adrian's?" answers her cousin, with gentle reproach. "But it is meant for you, not me," says Miss Delmaine, holding the letter in her hand, and glancing at it with great distaste. "He probably intended no other eyes but yours to look upon it." "But I must obtain advice from some one, and who so natural to expect it from as vou, my nearest relative? If, however*'—putting her handkerchief to her eyes—"vou object to help

me,

Flor­

ence, or if ft distresses you to read—" "Distresses me?" interrupts Florence haughtily. "Why should it distress me? If vou have no objection to my reading your—lover's—letter, why should I hesitate about doing so? Pray sit down while I run through it."

Dora having seated herself, Florence hastily reads the false note from beginning to end. Iler heart beats furiously as she does so, and her color comes and goes but her voice is quite steady when she speaks again. "Well," she says, putting the paper from her as though glad to get rid of it, "it seems that Sir Adrian wishes to speak to you on some subject interesting to you and him alone, and that he has chosen the privacy of the limewalk as the spot in which to hold your

fete-a-1ele.

It is quite a simple affair, is

it not? Though really, why he could not arrange to talk privately to you in some room in the castlo, which is surely large enough for the purpose, I can not understand." "Dear Sir Adrian is so romantic," says Dora coyly. "Is he?" responds her cousin dryly. "He has alwavs seemed to me the sanest of men. Well, on what matter do you wish to consult me?" "Dear Florence, how terribly prosaic and unsympathetic you are to-day," says Dora reproachfully "and I came to you so sure of offers of love and friendship! I want you to tell me if you think I ought to meet him or not." "Whv not?" "I don't know"—with a little simper. "Is it perhaps humoring him too much? I have always dreaded letting a man imagine I cared for him, unless fully, utterly, assured of his affection for ma."

Florence colors again, and then grows deadly pale, as this poisoned barb pierces her bosom. "I should think," she says slowly, "after reading the letter you have just shown me, you ought to feel assured." "You believe I ought, reallv?"—with a fine show of eagerness. "Now, you are not saying this to please me—to gratify me'r "I should not please or gratify any one at the expense of truth. "No, of course not. You are such a high-principled girl, so different from many others. Then you think I might go and meet him this evening without sacrificing my dignity in any way?" "Certainly. "Oh. I'm so glad," exclaimed little Mrs. Talbot rapturously, nodding her "honorable" head with a beaming smile, "because I do so want to meet him, dear fellow! And I value your inion, Fit friend 1 thoughtf gether.

Florence takes no heed of this rodomontade, but sits quite still, with downcast eyes, tapping the small table near her with the tips of her slender fingers in a meditative fashion. "The fact is," continues Dora, who is watching her closely, "I may as well let you into a little secret. Yesterday Sir Adrian and I had a tiny, oh, such a tiny little dispute, all about nothing, I assure you"—with a gay laugh—but to us it seemed quite important. He said he was jealous of me. Now just fancy that, Flo jealous of poor little me! "It is quite possibly you are prettymost men admire you," Florence remarks coldly, still without raising her "Ah, you flatter me, naughty girl! Well, silly as it sounds, he actually was jealous, and really gave me quite a scolding. It brought tears to my eyes, it upset me so. So to tell the truth, we parted rather bad friends Mid, to be »evenged on me, I suppose, be rather neglected me for the remainder of the

dXgain Florence is silent, though her tormentor plainly waits for a lead from bar before going on. J^Ypa must have remarked," she^ con­

tinues presently, "how cola ana reserved ne was towards me when wo were all together in that dreadful haunted chamber." Here she really shudders, in spite of herself. The cruel eyes of Arthur Dynecourt seem to boon her again, as they were in that ghostly room. "I remarked nothing," responds Florence icily. "No—really? Well, he was. Why. my dear Florence, you must have seen now he singled you out to be attentive to you, just to" show me how offehded hewas/ "He did not seem offended at any one, and I thought ho was in particular good spirits," replies Florencecalmly.

Dora turns a delicate pink. "Dear Adrian is such an excellent, actor," she says sweetly, "and so proud he will disguise his feelings, however keen they may be, from the knowledgeof any one, no matter what the effort may cost him. Well, dearest, and soyou positively advise me to keep this, appointment with him?"

JI

advise nothing. I merely say that I see nothing objectionable in your walking up and down the lime-walk with your host."

How clearly vou put it! WelL adieu, darling, for the present, and thank you a thousand times for all the time you have wasted on me. I assureyou 1 am not worth it"—kissing her nand brightly.

For once she speaks the truth she is. not indeed worth one moment of the time Florence has been compelled to expend upon her yet, when she has. tripped out of the room, seemingly as free from guile as a light-hearted child,. Miss Delmaine's thoughts still follow her inclination.

She has gone to meet him no doubt to interchange tender words and vows, with him to forgive, to bo forgiven,, about some sweet nit of lover's folly, the dearer for its very foolishness. Shelistens for her footsteps as she returns, along the corridor, dressed no doubt in her prettiest gown, decked out to makeherself fair in his eyes.

An overwhelming desire to see how she lias robed herself on this particular occasion induces Florence to go to the door and look after her as she descendsthe stairs. She iust catches a glimpso of Dora as she turns the corner, and sees, to her surprise, that she is by nomeans daintily attired, but has thrown, a plain dark waterproof over her dress, as though to hide it. Slightly surprised at this, Florence ponders over it, and "y comes to the bitter conclusion that Dora is so sure of his devotion that she knows it is not necessary for her to bedeck herself in finery to please him. In his eyes of course she is lovely in any toilet.

Soon, soon she will be with him. How will they greet each other? Wilt he look into Dora's eyes as he used tolook into hers not so very long ago? Arthur Dynecourt read her aright when he foresaw that she would be unable to repress the desire to follow Dora, and see for herself the meeting between her and Sir Adrian.

Hastily putting on a large Itubens. hat, and" twisting a soft piece of black lace round her neck, she runs downstairs, and, taking a different direction from chut she knows Dora most likely pursued, she arrives by a side path at the lime-walk almost as soon as her cousin.

Afraid to ventiire too near, she obtains a view of the walk from a high position framed in by rhododendrons. Yes, now she can see Dora, and now she can see too, the man who comes eagerly to meet her. His fa is slightly turned away from her. but the tall figure clad in the looso light overcoat is not to be mistaken. lie advances quickly, and meets Dora with both hands outstretched. She appears to draw back a little, and then he seizes her hands, and, stooping, covers them with kisses.

A film seems to creep over Florence eyes. With a stilled groan, she turns and ilies homeward. Again in the privacy ot her own room, and bavin turned the key securely in the lock keep out all intruders,she flings herself upon her bed and cries as if her heart would break.

TO BE CONTINUKP NKXT WEKK.

There'* nothing linlf no sweet In llfo (Next to the Joy» of homo and wife) As fragrant hreath r*nd pearly teeth, With nnrd and roney gum* henenth— And

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Irreproachable.

Not one word of censure can justly uttered againnt HOZODONT. No

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dentifrice makes the teeth so white, am yet none is«o entirely free from ever objectionable Ingredient.

What SPAUJINO'S GMJJS has joine cannot be put asunder. 20-4w.

Facts Worth Knowing-

In all diseases of the nasal muconr memorane the remedy used muw, non-irritating. The modical profewdor has been ulow to learn this. Nothing satisfactory can bo accomplished witl douche*, s'nuflH, powders, syringes, as tringents, or any similar application, be cause they are all irritating, do no thoroughly reach the affected surfaceand should be abandoned as worse that failures. A multitude of persons wh have for years borne all the worry am pain that catarrh can, afflict, testify radical and permanent cures wrought Ely's Cream Balm.

BROWN'S

BITTERS

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