Sweet Violet
Date: 2023-05-09T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Dime novels; Romance fiction

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Sweet Violet

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Title: Sweet Violet
or, the fairest of the fair

Author: Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller

Release date: May 9, 2023 [eBook #70727]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Street & Smith, 1894

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/70727

Credits: Demian Katz, Krista Zaleski 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 SWEET VIOLET ***

SWEET VIOLET

BY MRS. ALEX. McVEIGH MILLER.

NO. 91
Sweet Violet by Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
Eagle Library
Street & Smith Publishers, New York

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I. | FAIREST OF THE FAIR.
CHAPTER II. | LOVE’S YOUNG DREAM.
CHAPTER III. | THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH.
CHAPTER IV. | AMBER’S TRIUMPH.
CHAPTER V. | THE BRIDE OF DEATH.
CHAPTER VI. | “I HAVE NEVER BEEN FALSE TO YOU, EVEN IN THE MOST SECRET THOUGHT.”
CHAPTER VII. | “HOW CAN I BEAR TO BE PARTED SO CRUELLY FROM MY DARLING?”
CHAPTER VIII. | “HEAVEN’S BLESSING COULD NOT FALL ON SUCH A MARRIAGE.”
CHAPTER IX. | THAT FATAL SECRET.
CHAPTER X. | “LOVE’S SEAL IS SET UPON ME.”
CHAPTER XI. | AMBER’S FRIENDSHIP.
CHAPTER XII. | CUPID’S POSTMAN.
CHAPTER XIII. | THE PRICE OF A TERRIBLE DEED.
CHAPTER XIV. | “LOVE IS THE SWEETEST THING IN LIFE.”
CHAPTER XV. | A CHARMING SURPRISE.
CHAPTER XVI. | “I WILL LOVE YOU MORE THAN LIFE!”
CHAPTER XVII. | PLANNING THE ELOPEMENT.
CHAPTER XVIII. | “NOT LOVE, BUT FEAR!”
CHAPTER XIX. | “I LOVE YOU AS MADLY AS YOU HATE ME!”
CHAPTER XX. | THE STORY OF THE OPAL RING.
CHAPTER XXI. | AMBER’S REVENGE.
CHAPTER XXII. | BETTER DEAD THAN FALSE.
CHAPTER XXIII. | OH! THE TORTURING AGONY OF LOVE BETRAYED!
CHAPTER XXIV. | “WHY AM I SO WRETCHEDLY UNHAPPY?”
CHAPTER XXV. | A GILDED CAGE.
CHAPTER XXVI. | AT BAY.
CHAPTER XXVII. | “THAT BEAUTIFUL FORM WAS MADE TO BE DRAPED IN RICH ATTIRE!”
CHAPTER XXVIII. | SAVED BY FIRE.
CHAPTER XXIX. | “MY OWN HONOR MADE ME KEEP THE AWFUL SECRET.”
CHAPTER XXX. | “I WAS MAD WITH SHAME AND DESPAIR.”
CHAPTER XXXI. | “IT WILL BREAK MY HEART TO GO!”
CHAPTER XXXII. | LENA LAVARRE’S STORY.
CHAPTER XXXIII. | AN ADMIRING STRANGER.
CHAPTER XXXIV. | “I WISH I COULD WARN EVERY YOUNG GIRL IN THE LAND TO BEWARE OF FASCINATING STRANGERS AND SILLY FLIRTATIONS!”
CHAPTER XXXV. | “A YOUNG GIRL’S HONOR IS DEARER THAN HER LIFE.”
CHAPTER XXXVI. | MRS. SHIRLEY’S TROUBLE.
CHAPTER XXXVII. | JUDGE CAMDEN TAKES A STRANGE JOURNEY.
CHAPTER XXXVIII. | BETROTHED.
CHAPTER XXXIX. | “I HAD HOPED—BUT ALL IS OVER NOW!”
CHAPTER XL. | “VIOLET, PLEASE COME HOME!”
CHAPTER XLI. | JUDGE CAMDEN’S RETURN.
CHAPTER XLII. | AMBER HEARS STARTLING NEWS.
CHAPTER XLIII. | SHE FANCIED THAT ONLY THE CONDEMNED IN TORMENT COULD FEEL SUCH PANGS.
CHAPTER XLIV. | A TERRIBLE DEED!
CHAPTER XLV. | A FATEFUL LETTER.
CHAPTER XLVI. | TOO MUCH HASTE DEFEATS ITS OBJECT.
CHAPTER XLVII. | WAS SHE DEAD WITH ALL HER SINS UNREPENTED?
CHAPTER XLVIII. | IN HIS GRIEF AND PITY, CECIL CAME VERY NEAR TO LOVING AMBER.
CHAPTER XLIX. | WHAT GLORIOUS NEWS FOR A LOVER!
CHAPTER L. | IN THE ARMS OF LOVE.
CHAPTER LI. | “UNTIL DEATH DO US PART.”

Copyright Fiction by the Best Authors

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The books in this line comprise an unrivaled collection of copyrighted novels by authors who have won fame wherever the English language is spoken. Foremost among these is Mrs. Georgie Sheldon, whose works are contained in this line exclusively. Every book in the New Eagle Series is of generous length, of attractive appearance, and of undoubted merit. No better literature can be had at any price. Beware of imitations of the S. & S. novels, which are sold cheap because their publishers were put to no expense in the matter of purchasing manuscripts and making plates.

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Quo Vadis (New Illustrated Edition) | By Henryk Sienkiewicz
1— | Queen Bess | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
2— | Ruby’s Reward | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
7— | Two Keys | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
12— | Edrie’s Legacy | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
44— | That Dowdy | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
55— | Thrice Wedded | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
66— | Witch Hazel | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
77— | Tina | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
88— | Virgie’s Inheritance | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
99— | Audrey’s Recompense | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
111— | Faithful Shirley | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
122— | Grazia’s Mistake | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
133— | Max | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
144— | Dorothy’s Jewels | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
155— | Nameless Dell | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
166— | The Masked Bridal | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
177— | A True Aristocrat | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
188— | Dorothy Arnold’s Escape | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
199— | Geoffrey’s Victory | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
210— | Wild Oats | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
219— | Lost, A Pearle | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
222— | The Lily of Mordaunt | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
233— | Nora | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
244— | A Hoiden’s Conquest | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
255— | The Little Marplot | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
266— | The Welfleet Mystery | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
277— | Brownie’s Triumph | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
282— | The Forsaken Bride | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
288— | Sibyl’s Influence | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
291— | A Mysterious Wedding Ring | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
299— | Little Miss Whirlwind | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
311— | Wedded by Fate | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
339— | His Heart’s Queen | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
351— | The Churchyard Betrothal | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
362— | Stella Rosevelt | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
372— | A Girl in a Thousand | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon

373—

A Thorn Among Roses
Sequel to “A Girl in a Thousand”

By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon

382— | Mona | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
391— | Marguerite’s Heritage | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
399— | Betsey’s Transformation | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
407— | Esther, the Fright | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
415— | Trixy | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
419— | The Other Woman | By Charles Garvice
433— | Winifred’s Sacrifice | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
440— | Edna’s Secret Marriage | By Charles Garvice
451— | Helen’s Victory | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
458— | When Love Meets Love | By Charles Garvice
476— | Earle Wayne’s Nobility | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
511— | The Golden Key | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon

512—

A Heritage of Love
Sequel to “The Golden Key”

By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon

519— | The Magic Cameo | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon

520—

The Heatherford Fortune
Sequel to “The Magic Cameo”

By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon

531— | Better Than Life | By Charles Garvice
537— | A Life’s Mistake | By Charles Garvice
542— | Once in a Life | By Charles Garvice
548— | ’Twas Love’s Fault | By Charles Garvice
553— | Queen Kate | By Charles Garvice
554— | Step by Step | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
555— | Put to the Test | By Ida Reade Allen
556— | With Love’s Aid | By Wenona Gilman
557— | In Cupid’s Chains | By Charles Garvice
558— | A Plunge Into the Unknown | By Richard Marsh
559— | The Love That Was Cursed | By Geraldine Fleming
560— | The Thorns of Regret | By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
561— | The Outcast of the Family | By Charles Garvice
562— | A Forced Promise | By Ida Reade Allen
563— | The Old Homestead | By Denman Thompson
564— | Love’s First Kiss | By Emma Garrison Jones
565— | Just a Girl | By Charles Garvice
566— | In Love’s Springtime | By Laura Jean Libbey
567— | Trixie’s Honor | By Geraldine Fleming
568— | Hearts and Dollars | By Ida Reade Allen
569— | By Devious Ways | By Charles Garvice
570— | Her Heart’s Unbidden Guest | By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
571— | Two Wild Girls | By Mrs. Charlotte May Kingsley
572— | Amid Scarlet Roses | By Emma Garrison Jones
573— | Heart for Heart | By Charles Garvice
574— | The Fugitive Bride | By Mary E. Bryan
575— | A Blue Grass Heroine | By Ida Reade Allen
576— | The Yellow Face | By Fred M. White
577— | The Story of a Passion | By Charles Garvice
579— | The Curse of Beauty | By Geraldine Fleming
580— | The Great Awakening | By E. Phillips Oppenheim
581— | A Modern Juliet | By Charles Garvice
582— | Virgie Talcott’s Mission | By Lucy M. Russell
583— | His Greatest Sacrifice; or, Manch | By Mary E. Bryan
584— | Mabel’s Fate | By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
585— | The Ape and the Diamond | By Richard Marsh
586— | Nell, of Shorne Mills | By Charles Garvice
587— | Katherine’s Two Suitors | By Geraldine Fleming
588— | The Crime of Love | By Barbara Howard
589— | His Father’s Crime | By E. Phillips Oppenheim
590— | What Was She to Him? | By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
591— | A Heritage of Hate | By Charles Garvice
592— | Ida Chaloner’s Heart | By Lucy Randall Comfort
593— | Love Will Find the Way | By Wenona Gilman
594— | A Case of Identity | By Richard Marsh
595— | The Shadow of Her Life | By Charles Garvice
596— | Slighted Love | By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
597— | Her Fatal Gift | By Geraldine Fleming
598— | His Wife’s Friend | By Mary E. Bryan
599— | At Love’s Cost | By Charles Garvice
600— | St. Elmo | By Augusta J. Evans
601— | The Fate of the Plotter | By Louis Tracy
602— | Married in Error | By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
603— | Love and Jealousy | By Lucy Randall Comfort
604— | Only a Working Girl | By Geraldine Fleming
605— | Love, the Tyrant | By Charles Garvice
606— | Mabel’s Sacrifice | By Charlotte M. Stanley
608— | Love is Love Forevermore | By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
609— | John Elliott’s Flirtation | By Lucy May Russell
610— | With All Her Heart | By Charles Garvice
611— | Is Love Worth While? | By Geraldine Fleming
612— | Her Husband’s Other Wife | By Emma Garrison Jones
613— | Philip Bennion’s Death | By Richard Marsh
614— | Little Phillis’ Lover | By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
615— | Maida | By Charles Garvice
617— | As a Man Lives | By E. Phillips Oppenheim
618— | The Tide of Fate | By Wenona Gilman
619— | The Cardinal Moth | By Fred M. White
620— | Marcia Drayton | By Charles Garvice
621— | Lynette’s Wedding | By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
622— | His Madcap Sweetheart | By Emma Garrison Jones
623— | Love at the Loom | By Geraldine Fleming
624— | A Bachelor Girl | By Lucy May Russell
625— | Kyra’s Fate | By Charles Garvice
626— | The Joss | By Richard Marsh
627— | My Little Love | By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
628— | A Daughter of the Marionis | By E. Phillips Oppenheim
629— | The Lady of Beaufort Park | By Wenona Gilman
630— | The Verdict of the Heart | By Charles Garvice
631— | A Love Concealed | By Emma Garrison Jones
633— | The Strange Disappearance of Lady Delia | By Louis Tracy
634— | Love’s Golden Spell | By Geraldine Fleming
635— | A Coronet of Shame | By Charles Garvice
636— | Sinned Against | By Mary E. Bryan
637— | If It Were True! | By Wenona Gilman
638— | A Golden Barrier | By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
639— | A Hateful Bondage | By Barbara Howard
640— | A Girl of Spirit | By Charles Garvice
641— | Master of Men | By E. Phillips Oppenheim
642— | A Fair Enchantress | By Ida Reade Allen
643— | The Power of Love | By Geraldine Fleming
644— | No Time for Penitence | By Wenona Gilman
645— | A Jest of Fate | By Charles Garvice
646— | Her Sister’s Secret | By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
647— | Bitterly Atoned | By Mrs. E. Burke Collins
648— | Gertrude Elliott’s Crucible | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
649— | The Corner House | By Fred M. White
650— | Diana’s Destiny | By Charles Garvice
651— | Love’s Clouded Dawn | By Wenona Gilman
652— | Little Vixen | By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
653— | Her Heart’s Challenge | By Barbara Howard
654— | Vivian’s Love Story | By Mrs. E. Burke Collins
655— | Linked by Fate | By Charles Garvice
656— | Hearts of Stone | By Geraldine Fleming
657— | In the Service of Love | By Richard Marsh
658— | Love’s Devious Course | By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
659— | Told in the Twilight | By Ida Reade Allen
660— | The Mills of the Gods | By Wenona Gilman
661— | The Man of the Hour | By Sir William Magnay
662— | A Little Barbarian | By Charlotte Kingsley
663— | Creatures of Destiny | By Charles Garvice
664— | A Southern Princess | By Emma Garrison Jones
666— | A Fateful Promise | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
667— | The Goddess—A Demon | By Richard Marsh
668— | From Tears to Smiles | By Ida Reade Allen
670— | Better Than Riches | By Wenona Gilman
671— | When Love Is Young | By Charles Garvice
672— | Craven Fortune | By Fred M. White
673— | Her Life’s Burden | By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
674— | The Heart of Hetta | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
675— | The Breath of Slander | By Ida Reade Allen
676— | My Lady Beth | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
677— | The Wooing of Esther Gray | By Louis Tracy
678— | The Shadow Between Them | By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
679— | Gold in the Gutter | By Charles Garvice
680— | Master of Her Fate | By Geraldine Fleming
681— | In Full Cry | By Richard Marsh
682— | My Pretty Maid | By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
683— | An Unhappy Bargain | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
684— | Her Enduring Love | By Ida Reade Allen
685— | India’s Punishment | By Laura Jean Libbey
686— | The Castle of the Shadows | By Mrs. C. N. Williamson
687— | My Own Sweetheart | By Wenona Gilman
688— | Only a Kiss | By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
689— | Lola Dunbar’s Crime | By Barbara Howard
690— | Ruth, the Outcast | By Mrs. Mary E. Bryan
691— | Her Dearest Love | By Geraldine Fleming
692— | The Man of Millions | By Ida Reade Allen
693— | For Another’s Fault | By Charlotte M. Stanley
694— | The Belle of Saratoga | By Lucy Randall Comfort
695— | The Mystery of the Unicorn | By Sir William Magnay
696— | The Bride’s Opals | By Emma Garrison Jones
697— | One of Life’s Roses | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
698— | The Battle of Hearts | By Geraldine Fleming
700— | In Wolf’s Clothing | By Charles Garvice
701— | A Lost Sweetheart | By Ida Reade Allen
702— | The Stronger Passion | By Mrs. Lillian R. Drayton
703— | Mr. Marx’s Secret | By E. Phillips Oppenheim
704— | Had She Loved Him Less! | By Laura Jean Libbey
705— | The Adventure of Princess Sylvia | By Mrs. C. N. Williamson
706— | In Love’s Paradise | By Charlotte M. Stanley
707— | At Another’s Bidding | By Ida Reade Allen
708— | Sold for Gold | By Geraldine Fleming
710— | Ridgeway of Montana | By William MacLeod Raine
711— | Taken by Storm | By Emma Garrison Jones
712— | Love and a Lie | By Charles Garvice
713— | Barriers of Stone | By Wenona Gilman
714— | Ethel’s Secret | By Charlotte M. Stanley
715— | Amber, the Adopted | By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
716— | No Man’s Wife | By Ida Reade Allen
717— | Wild and Willful | By Lucy Randall Comfort
718— | When We Two Parted | By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
719— | Love’s Earnest Prayer | By Geraldine Fleming
720— | The Price of a Kiss | By Laura Jean Libbey
721— | A Girl from the South | By Charles Garvice
722— | A Freak of Fate | By Emma Garrison Jones
723— | A Golden Sorrow | By Charlotte M. Stanley
724— | Norna’s Black Fortune | By Ida Reade Allen
725— | The Thoroughbred | By Edith MacVane
726— | Diana’s Peril | By Dorothy Hall
727— | His Willing Slave | By Lillian R. Drayton
728— | Her Share of Sorrow | By Wenona Gilman
729— | Loved at Last | By Geraldine Fleming
730— | John Hungerford’s Redemption | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
731— | His Two Loves | By Ida Reade Allen
732— | Eric Braddon’s Love | By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
733— | Garrison’s Finish | By W. B. M. Ferguson
734— | Sylvia, the Forsaken | By Charlotte M. Stanley
735— | Married for Money | By Lucy Randall Comfort
736— | Married in Haste | By Wenona Gilman
737— | At Her Father’s Bidding | By Geraldine Fleming
738— | The Power of Gold | By Ida Reade Allen
739— | The Strength of Love | By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
740— | A Soul Laid Bare | By J. K. Egerton
741— | The Fatal Ruby | By Charles Garvice
742— | A Strange Wooing | By Richard Marsh
743— | A Lost Love | By Wenona Gilman
744— | A Useless Sacrifice | By Emma Garrison Jones
745— | A Will of Her Own | By Ida Reade Allen
746— | That Girl Named Hazel | By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
747— | For a Flirt’s Love | By Geraldine Fleming
748— | The World’s Great Snare | By E. Phillips Oppenheim
749— | The Heart of a Maid | By Charles Garvice
750— | Driven from Home | By Wenona Gilman
751— | The Gypsy’s Warning | By Emma Garrison Jones
752— | Without Name or Wealth | By Ida Reade Allen
753— | Loyal Unto Death | By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
754— | His Lost Heritage | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
755— | Her Priceless Love | By Geraldine Fleming
756— | Leola’s Heart | By Charlotte M. Stanley
757— | Dare-devil Betty | By Evelyn Malcolm
758— | The Woman in It | By Charles Garvice
759— | They Met by Chance | By Ida Reade Allen
760— | Love Conquers Pride | By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
761— | A Reckless Promise | By Emma Garrison Jones
762— | The Rose of Yesterday | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
763— | The Other Girl’s Lover | By Lillian R. Drayton
764— | His Unbounded Faith | By Charlotte M. Stanley
765— | When Love Speaks | By Evelyn Malcolm
766— | The Man She Hated | By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
767— | No One to Help Her | By Ida Reade Allen
768— | Claire’s Love-Life | By Lucy Randall Comfort
769— | Love’s Harvest | By Adelaide Fox Robinson
770— | A Queen of Song | By Geraldine Fleming
771— | Nan Haggard’s Confession | By Mary E. Bryan
772— | A Married Flirt | By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
773— | The Thorns of Love | By Evelyn Malcolm
774— | Love in a Snare | By Charles Garvice
775— | My Love Kitty | By Charles Garvice
776— | That Strange Girl | By Charles Garvice
777— | Nellie | By Charles Garvice
778— | Miss Estcourt; or, Olive | By Charles Garvice
779— | A Virginia Goddess | By Ida Reade Allen
780— | The Love He Sought | By Lillian R. Drayton
781— | Falsely Accused | By Geraldine Fleming
782— | His First Sweetheart | By Lucy Randall Comfort
783— | All for Love | By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
784— | What Love Can Cost | By Evelyn Malcolm
785— | Lady Gay’s Martyrdom | By Charlotte May Kingsley
786— | His Good Angel | By Emma Garrison Jones
787— | A Bartered Soul | By Adelaide Fox Robinson
788— | In Love’s Shadows | By Ida Reade Allen
789— | A Love Worth Winning | By Geraldine Fleming
790— | The Fatal Kiss | By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
791— | A Lover Scorned | By Lucy Randall Comfort
792— | After Many Days | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
793— | An Innocent Outlaw | By William Wallace Cook
794— | The Arm of the Law | By Evelyn Malcolm
795— | The Reluctant Queen | By J. Kenilworth Egerton
796— | The Cost of Pride | By Lillian R. Drayton
797— | What Love Made Her | By Geraldine Fleming
798— | Brave Heart | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
799— | Between Good and Evil | By Charlotte M. Stanley
800— | Caught in Love’s Net | By Ida Reade Allen
801— | Love is a Mystery | By Adelaide Fox Robinson
802— | The Glitter of Jewels | By J. Kenilworth Egerton
803— | The Game of Life | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
804— | A Dreadful Legacy | By Geraldine Fleming
805— | Rogers, of Butte | By William Wallace Cook
806— | The Haunting Past | By Evelyn Malcolm
807— | The Love That Would Not Die | By Ida Reade Allen
808— | The Serpent and the Dove | By Charlotte May Kingsley
809— | Through the Shadows | By Adelaide Fox Robinson
810— | Her Kingdom | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
811— | When Dark Clouds Gather | By Geraldine Fleming
812— | Her Fateful Choice | By Charlotte M. Stanley
813— | Sorely Tried | By Emma Garrison Jones
814— | Far Above Price | By Evelyn Malcolm
815— | Bitter Sweet | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
816— | A Clouded Life | By Ida Reade Allen
817— | When Fate Decrees | By Adelaide Fox Robinson
818— | The Girl Who Was True | By Charles Garvice
819— | Where Love is Sent | By Mrs. E. Burke Collins
820— | The Pride of My Heart | By Laura Jean Libbey
821— | The Girl in Red | By Evelyn Malcolm
822— | Why Did She Shun Him? | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
823— | Between Love and Conscience | By Charlotte M. Stanley
824— | Spectres of the Past | By Ida Reade Allen
825— | The Hearts of the Mighty | By Adelaide Fox Robinson
826— | The Irony of Love | By Charles Garvice
827— | At Arms With Fate | By Charlotte May Kingsley
828— | Love’s Young Dream | By Laura Jean Libbey
829— | Her Golden Secret | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
830— | The Stolen Bride | By Evelyn Malcolm
831— | Love’s Rugged Pathway | By Ida Reade Allen
832— | A Love Rejected—A Love Won | By Geraldine Fleming
833— | Her Life’s Dark Cloud | By Lillian R. Drayton
834— | A Hero for Love’s Sake | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
835— | When the Heart Hungers | By Charlotte M. Stanley
836— | Love Given in Vain | By Adelaide Fox Robinson
837— | The Web of Life | By Ida Reade Allen
838— | Love Surely Triumphs | By Charlotte May Kingsley
839— | The Lovely Constance | By Laura Jean Libbey
840— | On a Sea of Sorrow | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
841— | Her Hated Husband | By Evelyn Malcolm
842— | When Hearts Beat True | By Geraldine Fleming
843— | WO2 | By Maurice Drake
844— | Too Quickly Judged | By Ida Reade Allen

To be published during August, 1913.

845— | For Her Husband’s Love | By Charlotte May Stanley
846— | The Fatal Rose | By Adelaide Fox Robinson
847— | The Love That Prevailed | By Mrs. E. Burke Collins
848— | Just an Angel | By Lillian R. Drayton

To be published during September, 1913.

849— | Stronger Than Fate | By Emma Garrison Jones
850— | A Life’s Love | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
851— | From Dreams to Waking | By Charlotte M. Kingsley
852— | A Barrier Between Them | By Evelyn Malcolm

To be published during October, 1913.

853— | His Love for Her | By Geraldine Fleming
854— | A Changeling’s Love | By Ida Reade Allen
855— | Could He Have Known! | By Charlotte May Stanley
856— | Loved in Vain | By Adelaide Fox Robinson
857— | The Fault of One | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands

To be published during November, 1913.

858— | Her Life’s Desire | By Mrs. E. Burke Collins
859— | A Wife Yet no Wife | By Lillian R. Drayton
860— | Her Twentieth Guest | By Emma Garrison Jones
861— | The Love Knot | By Charlotte M. Kingsley

To be published during December, 1913.

862— | Tricked into Marriage | By Evelyn Malcolm
863— | The Spell She Wove | By Geraldine Fleming
864— | The Mistress of the Farm | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
865— | Chained to a Villain | By Ida Reade Allen
866— | No Mother to Guide Her | By Mrs. E. Burke Collins

In order that there may be no confusion, we desire to say that the books listed above will be issued, during the respective months, in New York City and vicinity. They may not reach the readers, at a distance, promptly, on account of delays in transportation.

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3— | The Love of Violet Lee | By Julia Edwards
4— | For a Woman’s Honor | By Bertha M. Clay
5— | The Senator’s Favorite | By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
6— | The Midnight Marriage | By A. M. Douglas
8— | Beautiful But Poor | By Julia Edwards
9— | The Virginia Heiress | By May Agnes Fleming
10— | Little Sunshine | By Francis S. Smith
11— | The Gipsy’s Daughter | By Bertha M. Clay
13— | The Little Widow | By Julia Edwards
14— | Violet Lisle | By Bertha M. Clay
15— | Dr. Jack | By St. George Rathborne
16— | The Fatal Card | By Haddon Chambers and B. C. Stephenson

17—

Leslie’s Loyalty
(His Love So True)

By Charles Garvice

18— | Dr. Jack’s Wife | By St. George Rathborne
19— | Mr. Lake of Chicago | By Harry DuBois Milman
21— | A Heart’s Idol | By Bertha M. Clay
22— | Elaine | By Charles Garvice
23— | Miss Pauline of New York | By St. George Rathborne

24—

A Wasted Love
(On Love’s Altar)

By Charles Garvice

25— | Little Southern Beauty | By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
26— | Captain Tom | By St. George Rathborne
27— | Estelle’s Millionaire Lover | By Julia Edwards
28— | Miss Caprice | By St. George Rathborne
29— | Theodora | By Victorien Sardou
30— | Baron Sam | By St. George Rathborne
31— | A Siren’s Love | By Robert Lee Tyler
32— | The Blockade Runner | By J. Perkins Tracy
33— | Mrs. Bob | By St. George Rathborne
34— | Pretty Geraldine | By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
35— | The Great Mogul | By St. George Rathborne
36— | Fedora | By Victorien Sardou
37— | The Heart of Virginia | By J. Perkins Tracy
38— | The Nabob of Singapore | By St. George Rathborne
39— | The Colonel’s Wife | By Warren Edwards
40— | Monsieur Bob | By St. George Rathborne

41—

Her Heart’s Desire
(An Innocent Girl)

By Charles Garvice

42— | Another Woman’s Husband | By Bertha M. Clay
43— | Little Coquette Bonnie | By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
45— | A Yale Man | By Robert Lee Tyler
46— | Off with the Old Love | By Mrs. M. V. Victor
47— | The Colonel by Brevet | By St. George Rathborne
48— | Another Man’s Wife | By Bertha M. Clay
49— | None But the Brave | By Robert Lee Tyler

50—

Her Ransom
(Paid For)

By Charles Garvice

51— | The Price He Paid | By E. Werner
52— | Woman Against Woman | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
54— | Cleopatra | By Victorien Sardou
56— | The Dispatch Bearer | By Warren Edwards
58— | Major Matterson of Kentucky | By St. George Rathborne
59— | Gladys Greye | By Bertha M. Clay
61— | La Tosca | By Victorien Sardou
62— | Stella Stirling | By Julia Edwards
63— | Lawyer Bell from Boston | By Robert Lee Tyler
64— | Dora Tenney | By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
65— | Won by the Sword | By J. Perkins Tracy
67— | Gismonda | By Victorien Sardou
68— | The Little Cuban Rebel | By Edna Winfield
69— | His Perfect Trust | By Bertha M. Clay

70—

Sydney
(A Wilful Young Woman)

By Charles Garvice

71— | The Spider’s Web | By St. George Rathborne
72— | Wilful Winnie | By Harriet Sherburne
73— | The Marquis | By Charles Garvice
74— | The Cotton King | By Sutton Vane
75— | Under Fire | By T. P. James
76— | Mavourneen | From the celebrated play
78— | The Yankee Champion | By Sylvanus Cobb, Jr.

79—

Out of the Past
(Marjorie)

By Charles Garvice

80— | The Fair Maid of Fez | By St. George Rathborne
81— | Wedded for an Hour | By Emma Garrison Jones
82— | Captain Impudence | By Edwin Milton Royle
83— | The Locksmith of Lyons | By Prof. Wm. Henry Peck

84—

Imogene
(Dumaresq’s Temptation)

By Charles Garvice

85— | Lorrie; or, Hollow Gold | By Charles Garvice
86— | A Widowed Bride | By Lucy Randall Comfort
87— | Shenandoah | By J. Perkins Tracy
89— | A Gentleman from Gascony | By Bicknell Dudley
90— | For Fair Virginia | By Russ Whytal
91— | Sweet Violet | By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
92— | Humanity | By Sutton Vane
94— | Darkest Russia | By H. Grattan Donnelly

95—

A Wilful Maid
(Philippa)

By Charles Garvice

96— | The Little Minister | By J. M. Barrie
97— | The War Reporter | By Warren Edwards

98—

Claire
(The Mistress of Court Regna)

By Charles Garvice

100— | Alice Blake | By Francis S. Smith
101— | A Goddess of Africa | By St. George Rathborne

102—

Sweet Cymbeline
(Bellmaire)

By Charles Garvice

103— | The Span of Life | By Sutton Vane
104— | A Proud Dishonor | By Genie Holzmeyer
105— | When London Sleeps | By Chas. Darrell
106— | Lillian, My Lillian | By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
107— | Carla; or, Married at Sight | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
108— | A Son of Mars | By St. George Rathborne

109—

Signa’s Sweetheart
(Lord Delamere’s Bride)

By Charles Garvice

110— | Whose Wife is She? | By Annie Lisle
112— | The Cattle King | By A. D. Hall
113— | A Crushed Lily | By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
114— | Half a Truth | By Dora Delmar
115— | A Fair Revolutionist | By St. George Rathborne
116— | The Daughter of the Regiment | By Mary A. Denison
117— | She Loved Him | By Charles Garvice
118— | Saved from the Sea | By Richard Duffy

119—

’Twixt Smile and Tear
(Dulcie)

By Charles Garvice

120— | The White Squadron | By T. C. Harbaugh
121— | Cecile’s Marriage | By Lucy Randall Comfort
123— | Northern Lights | By A. D. Hall
237— | Woman or Witch? | By Dora Delmar
238— | That Other Woman | By Annie Thomas
239— | Don Cæsar De Bazan | By Victor Hugo
240— | Saved by the Sword | By St. George Rathborne
241— | Her Love and Trust | By Adeline Sergeant

242—

A Wounded Heart
(Sweet as a Rose)

By Charles Garvice

243— | His Double Self | By Scott Campbell
245— | A Modern Marriage | By Clara Lanza
246— | True to Herself | By Mrs. J. H. Walworth
247— | Within Love’s Portals | By Frank Barrett
248— | Jeanne, Countess Du Barry | By H. L. Williams
249— | What Love Will Do | By Geraldine Fleming

250—

-A Woman’s Soul
(Doris; or, Behind the Footlights)

By Charles Garvice

251— | When Love is True | By Mabel Collins
252— | A Handsome Sinner | By Dora Delmar
253— | A Fashionable Marriage | By Mrs. Alex Frazer
254— | Little Miss Millions | By St. George Rathborne
256— | Thy Name is Woman | By F. H. Howe

257—

A Martyred Love
(Iris; or, Under the Shadow)

By Charles Garvice

258— | An Amazing Marriage | By Mrs. Sumner Hayden
259— | By a Golden Cord | By Dora Delmar
260— | At a Girl’s Mercy | By Jean Kate Ludlum
261— | A Siren’s Heart | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
262— | A Woman’s Faith | By Henry Wallace
263— | An American Nabob | By St. George Rathborne
264— | For Gold or Soul | By Lurana W. Sheldon
265— | First Love is Best | By S. K. Hocking

267—

Jeanne
(Barriers Between)

By Charles Garvice

268— | Olivia; or, It Was for Her Sake | By Charles Garvice
270— | Had She Foreseen | By Dora Delmar
271— | With Love’s Laurel Crowned | By W. C. Stiles

272—

So Fair, So False
(The Beauty of the Season)

By Charles Garvice

273— | At Swords Points | By St. George Rathborne
274— | A Romantic Girl | By Evelyn E. Green
275— | Love’s Cruel Whim | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands

276—

So Nearly Lost
(The Springtime of Love)

By Charles Garvice

278— | Laura Brayton | By Julia Edwards
279— | Nina’s Peril | By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller

280—

Love’s Dilemma
(For an Earldom)

By Charles Garvice

281— | For Love Alone | By Wenona Gilman

283—

My Lady Pride
(Floris)

By Charles Garvice

284— | Dr. Jack’s Widow | By St. George Rathborne
285— | Born to Betray | By Mrs. M. V. Victor
287— | The Lady of Darracourt | By Charles Garvice
289— | Married in Mask | By Mansfield T. Walworth
290— | A Change of Heart | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands

292—

For Her Only
(Diana)

By Charles Garvice

294— | A Warrior Bold | By St. George Rathborne
295— | A Terrible Secret and Countess Isabel | By Geraldine Fleming
296— | The Heir of Vering | By Charles Garvice
297— | That Girl from Texas | By Mrs. J. H. Walworth
298— | Should She Have Left Him? | By Barclay North

300—

The Spider and the Fly
(Violet)

By Charles Garvice

301— | The False and the True | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
302— | When Man’s Love Fades | By Hazel Wood
303— | The Queen of the Isle | By May Agnes Fleming

304—

Stanch as a Woman
(A Maiden’s Sacrifice)

By Charles Garvice

305—

Led by Love
Sequel to “Stanch as a Woman”

By Charles Garvice

306— | Love’s Golden Rule | By Geraldine Fleming
307— | The Winning of Isolde | By St. George Rathborne
308— | Lady Ryhope’s Lover | By Emma Garrison Jones
309— | The Heiress of Castle Cliffe | By May Agnes Fleming
310— | A Late Repentance | By Mary A. Denison
312— | Woven on Fate’s Loom and The Snowdrift | By Charles Garvice
313— | A Kinsman’s Sin | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
314— | A Maid’s Fatal Love | By Helen Corwin Pierce
315— | The Dark Secret | By May Agnes Fleming
316— | Edith Lyle’s Secret | By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes
317— | Ione | By Laura Jean Libbey

318—

Stanch of Heart
(Adrien Le Roy)

By Charles Garvice

319— | Millbank | By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes
320— | Mynheer Joe | By St. George Rathborne
321— | Neva’s Three Lovers | By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
322— | Mildred | By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes
323— | The Little Countess | By S. E. Boggs
324— | A Love Match | By Sylvanus Cobb, Jr.
325— | The Leighton Homestead | By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes
326— | Parted by Fate | By Laura Jean Libbey
327— | Was She Wife or Widow? | By Malcolm Bell

328—

He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not
(Valeria)

By Charles Garvice

329— | My Hildegarde | By St. George Rathborne
330— | Aikenside | By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes
331— | Christine | By Adeline Sergeant
332— | Darkness and Daylight | By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes

333—

Stella’s Fortune
(The Sculptor’s Wooing)

By Charles Garvice

334— | Miss McDonald | By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes
335— | We Parted at the Altar | By Laura Jean Libbey
336— | Rose Mather | By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes
337— | Dear Elsie | By Mary J. Safford
338— | A Daughter of Russia | By St. George Rathborne
340— | Bad Hugh. Vol. I. | By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes
341— | Bad Hugh. Vol. II. | By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes
342— | Her Little Highness | By Nataly Von Eschstruth
343— | Little Sunshine | By Adah M. Howard
344— | Leah’s Mistake | By Mrs. H. C. Hoffman
345— | Tresillian Court | By Mrs. Harriet Lewis

346—

Guy Tresillian’s Fate
Sequel to “Tresillian Court”

By Mrs. Harriet Lewis

347— | The Eyes of Love | By Charles Garvice
348— | My Florida Sweetheart | By St. George Rathborne
349— | Marion Grey | By Mary J. Holmes
350— | A Wronged Wife | By Mary Grace Halpine
352— | Family Pride. Vol. I. | By Mary J. Holmes
353— | Family Pride. Vol. II. | By Mary J. Holmes
354— | A Love Comedy | By Charles Garvice
355— | Wife and Woman | By Mary J. Safford
356— | Little Kit | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
357— | Montezuma’s Mines | By St. George Rathborne
358— | Beryl’s Husband | By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
359— | The Spectre’s Secret | By Sylvanus Cobb, Jr.
360— | An Only Daughter | By Hazel Wood
361— | The Ashes of Love | By Charles Garvice
363— | The Opposite House | By Nataly Von Eschstruth
364— | A Fool’s Paradise | By Mary Grace Halpine
365— | Under a Cloud | By Jean Kate Ludlum
366— | Comrades in Exile | By St. George Rathborne
367— | Hearts and Coronets | By Jane G. Fuller
368— | The Pride of Her Life | By Charles Garvice
369— | At a Great Cost | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
370— | Edith Trevor’s Secret | By Mrs. Harriet Lewis

371—

Cecil Rosse
Sequel to “Edith Trevor’s Secret”

By Mrs. Harriet Lewis

374— | True Daughter of Hartenstein | By Mary J. Safford
375— | Transgressing the Law | By Capt. Fred’k Whittaker
376— | The Red Slipper | By St. George Rathborne
377— | Forever True | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
378— | John Winthrop’s Defeat | By Jean Kate Ludlum
379— | Blinded by Love | By Nataly Von Eschstruth
380— | Her Double Life | By Mrs. Harriet Lewis

381—

The Sunshine of Love
Sequel to “Her Double Life”

By Mrs. Harriet Lewis

383— | A Lover from Across the Sea | By Mary J. Safford
384— | Yet She Loved Him | By Mrs. Kate Vaughn
385— | A Woman Against Her | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
386— | Teddy’s Enchantress | By St. George Rathborne
387— | A Heroine’s Plot | By Katherine S. MacQuoid
388— | Two Wives | By Hazel Wood
389— | Sundered Hearts | By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
390— | A Mutual Vow | By Harold Payne
392— | A Resurrected Love | By Seward W. Hopkins
393— | On the Wings of Fate | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
394— | A Drama of a Life | By Jean Kate Ludlum
395— | Wooing a Widow | By E. A. King
396— | Back to Old Kentucky | By St. George Rathborne
397— | A Gilded Promise | By Walter Bloomfield
398— | Cupid’s Disguise | By Fanny Lewald
400— | For Another’s Wrong | By W. Heimburg
401— | The Woman Who Came Between | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
402— | A Silent Heroine | By Mrs. D. M. Lowrey
403— | The Rival Suitors | By J. H. Connelly
404— | The Captive Bride | By Capt. Fred’k Whittaker
405— | The Haunted Husband | By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
406— | Felipe’s Pretty Sister | By St. George Rathborne
408— | On a False Charge | By Seward W. Hopkins
409— | A Girl’s Kingdom | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
410— | Miss Mischief | By W. Heimburg
411— | Fettered and Freed | By Eugene Charvette
412— | The Love that Lives | By Capt. Frederick Whittaker
413— | Were They Married? | By Hazel Wood
414— | A Girl’s First Love | By Elizabeth C. Winter
416— | Down in Dixie | By St. George Rathborne
417— | Brave Barbara | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
418— | An Insignificant Woman | By W. Heimburg
420— | A Sweet Little Lady | By Gertrude Warden
421— | Her Sweet Reward | By Barbara Kent
422— | Lady Kildare | By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
423— | A Woman’s Way | By Capt. Frederick Whittaker
424— | A Splendid Man | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
425— | A College Widow | By Frank H. Howe
427— | A Wizard of the Moors | By St. George Rathborne
428— | A Tramp’s Daughter | By Hazel Wood
429— | A Fair Fraud | By Emily Lovett Cameron
430— | The Honor of a Heart | By Mary J. Safford
431— | Her Husband and Her Love | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
432— | Breta’s Double | By Helen V. Greyson
435— | Under Oath | By Jean Kate Ludlum
436— | The Rival Toreadors | By St. George Rathborne
437— | The Breach of Custom | By Mrs. D. M. Lowrey
438— | So Like a Man | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
439— | Little Nan | By Mary A. Denison
441— | A Princess of the Stage | By Nataly Von Eschstruth
442— | Love Before Duty | By Mrs. L. T. Meade
443— | In Spite of Proof | By Gertrude Warden
444— | Love’s Trials | By Alfred R. Calhoun
445— | An Angel of Evil | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
446— | Bound with Love’s Fetters | By Mary Grace Halpine
447— | A Favorite of Fortune | By St. George Rathborne
448— | When Love Dawns | By Adelaide Stirling
303— | The Queen of the Isle | By May Agnes Fleming
449— | The Bailiff’s Scheme | By Mrs. Harriet Lewis

450—

Rosamond’s Love
Sequel to “The Bailiff’s Scheme”

By Mrs. Harriet Lewis

452— | The Last of the Van Slacks | By Edward S. Van Zile
453— | A Poor Girl’s Passion | By Gertrude Warden
454— | Love’s Probation | By Elizabeth Olmis
455— | Love’s Greatest Gift | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
456— | A Vixen’s Treachery | By Mrs. Harriet Lewis

457—

Adrift in the World
Sequel to “A Vixen’s Treachery”

By Mrs. Harriet Lewis

459— | A Golden Mask | By Charlotte M. Stanley
460— | Dr. Jack’s Talisman | By St. George Rathborne
461— | Above All Things | By Adelaide Stirling
462— | A Stormy Wedding | By Mary E. Bryan
463— | A Wife’s Triumph | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
464— | The Old Life’s Shadows | By Mrs. Harriet Lewis

465—

Outside Her Eden
Sequel to “The Old Life’s Shadows”

By Mrs. Harriet Lewis

466— | Love, the Victor | By a Popular Southern Author
467— | Zina’s Awaking | By Mrs. J. K. Spender
468— | The Wooing of a Fairy | By Gertrude Warden
469— | A Soldier and a Gentleman | By J. M. Cobban
470— | A Strange Wedding | By Mary Hartwell Catherwood
471— | A Shadowed Happiness | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
472— | Dr. Jack and Company | By St. George Rathborne
473— | A Sacrifice to Love | By Adelaide Stirling
474— | The Belle of the Season | By Mrs. Harriet Lewis

475—

Love Before Pride
Sequel to “The Belle of the Season”

By Mrs. Harriet Lewis

477— | The Siberian Exiles | By Col. Thomas Knox
478— | For Love of Sigrid | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
479— | Mysterious Mr. Sabin | By E. Phillips Oppenheim
480— | A Perfect Fool | By Florence Warden
481— | Wedded, Yet No Wife | By May Agnes Fleming
482— | A Little Worldling | By L. C. Ellsworth
483— | Miss Marston’s Heart | By L. H. Bickford
484— | The Whistle of Fate | By Richard Marsh
485— | The End Crowns All | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
486— | Divided Lives | By Edgar Fawcett
487— | A Wonderful Woman | By May Agnes Fleming
488— | The French Witch | By Gertrude Warden
489— | Lucy Harding | By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes
490— | The Price of Jealousy | By Maud Howe
491— | My Lady of Dreadwood | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
492— | A Speedy Wooing | By the Author of “As Common Mortals”
493— | The Girl He Loved | By Adelaide Stirling
494— | Voyagers of Fortune | By St. George Rathborne
495— | Norine’s Revenge | By May Agnes Fleming
496— | The Missing Heiress | By C. H. Montague
497— | A Chase for Love | By Seward W. Hopkins
498— | Andrew Leicester’s Love | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
499— | My Lady Cinderella | By Mrs. C. N. Williamson
500— | Love and Spite | By Adelaide Stirling
501— | Her Husband’s Secret | By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
502— | Fair Maid Marian | By Mrs. Emma Garrison Jones
503— | A Lady in Black | By Florence Warden
504— | Evelyn, the Actress | By Wenona Gilman
505— | Selina’s Love-story | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
506— | A Secret Foe | By Gertrude Warden
507— | A Mad Betrothal | By Laura Jean Libbey
508— | Lottie and Victorine | By Lucy Randall Comfort
509— | A Penniless Princess | By Emma Garrison Jones
510— | Doctor Jack’s Paradise Mine | By St. George Rathborne
513— | A Sensational Case | By Florence Warden
514— | The Temptation of Mary Barr | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands

515—

Tiny Luttrell

By E. W. Hornung
(Author of “Raffles, the Amateur Cracksman”)

516— | Florabel’s Lover | By Laura Jean Libbey
517— | They Looked and Loved | By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
518— | The Secret of a Letter | By Gertrude Warden
521— | The Witch from India | By St. George Rathborne
522— | A Spurned Proposal | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
523— | A Banker of Bankersville | By Maurice Thompson
524— | A Sacrifice of Pride | By Mrs. Louisa Parr
525— | Sweet Kitty Clover | By Laura Jean Libbey
526— | Love and Hate | By Morley Roberts
527— | For Love and Glory | By St. George Rathborne
528— | Adela’s Ordeal | By Florence Warden
529— | Hearts Aflame | By Louise Winter
530— | The Wiles of a Siren | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
532— | True to His Bride | By Emma Garrison Jones
533— | A Forgotten Love | By Adelaide Stirling
534— | Lotta, the Cloak Model | By Laura Jean Libbey
535— | The Trifler | By Archibald Eyre
536— | Companions in Arms | By St. George Rathborne
538— | The Fighting Chance | By Gertrude Lynch
539— | A Heart’s Triumph | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
540— | A Daughter of Darkness | By Ida Reade Allen
541— | Her Evil Genius | By Adelaide Stirling
543— | The Veiled Bride | By Laura Jean Libbey
544— | In Love’s Name | By Emma Garrison Jones
545— | Well Worth Winning | By St. George Rathborne
546— | The Career of Mrs. Osborne | By Helen Milecete
549— | Tempted by Love | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
550— | Saved from Herself | By Adelaide Stirling
551— | Pity—Not Love | By Laura Jean Libbey
552— | At the Court of the Maharaja | By Louis Tracy

GREAT STORIES BY A GREAT AUTHOR

The New Fiction Series

Letters of congratulation have been showered upon us from all over the country by enthusiastic readers who say that had we not announced that Mr. Cook wrote all of these stories, it would have been very difficult to determine it.

The reason is that Mr. Cook is a widely traveled man and has, therefore, been enabled to lay the plot of one of his stories in the “land of little rain,” another on the high seas, another in Spain and Spanish America, and to write a railroad story that a reader of thirty years’ experience decided must have been written by a veteran railroad man. If stories of vigorous adventure are wanted, stories that are drawn true to life and give that thrill which all really good fiction ought to give, the books listed here are what you want.

ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT

TO THE PUBLIC:—These books are sold by news dealers everywhere. If your dealer does not keep them, and will not get them for you, send direct to the publishers, in which case four cents must be added to the price per copy to cover postage.

By WILLIAM WALLACE COOK

1— | The Desert Argonaut.
2— | A Quarter to Four.
3— | Thorndyke, of the “Bonita.”
4— | A Round Trip to the Year 2000.
5— | The Gold Gleaners.
6— | The Spur of Necessity.
7— | The Mysterious Mission.
8— | The Goal of a Million.
9— | Marooned in 1492.
10— | Running the Signal.
11— | His Friend, the Enemy.
12— | In the Web.
13— | A Deep Sea Game.
14— | The Paymaster’s Special.
15— | Adrift in the Unknown.
16— | Jim Dexter, Cattleman.
17— | Juggling With Liberty.
18— | Back From Bedlam.
19— | A River Tangle.
20— | An Innocent Outlaw.
21— | Billionaire Pro Tem and the Trail of the Billy Doo.
22— | Rogers of Butte.
23— | In the Wake of the “Simitar.”
24— | His Audacious Highness.
25— | At Daggers Drawn.
26— | The Eighth Wonder.
27— | The Catspaw.
28— | The Cotton Bag.
29— | Little Miss Vassar.
30— | Cast Away at the Pole.
31— | The Testing of Noyes.
32— | The Fateful Seventh.
33— | Montana.
34— | The Deserter.
35— | The Sheriff of Broken Bow.
36— | Wanted—A Highwayman.
37— | Frisbie, of San Antone.
38— | His Last Dollar.
39— | Fools for Luck.
40— | Dare, of Darling & Co.
41— | Trailing the “Josephine.”

SWEET VIOLET;

OR,

The Fairest of the Fair.

BY

MRS. ALEX. McVEIGH MILLER,

Author of “Little Coquette Bonnie,” “The Senator’s Bride,” “Brunette and Blonde,” “Rosamond,” “The Senator’s Favorite,” “A Little Southern Beauty,” Etc., Etc.

NEW YORK:
STREET & SMITH, Publishers

Copyright, 1894,
BY STREET & SMITH

Sweet Violet

THIN FOR YEARS

“Gains 22 Pounds in 23 Days”

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When hundreds of men and women—and there are hundreds, with more coming every day—living in every nook and corner of this broad land voluntarily testify to weight increases ranging all the way from 10 to

35 pounds given them by Sargol, you must admit, Mr. and Mrs. and Miss Thin Reader, that there must be something in this Sargol method of flesh building after all.

Sargol is absolutely harmless. It is a tiny concentrated tablet. You take one with every meal. It mixes with the food you eat for the purpose of separating all of its flesh producing ingredients. It prepares these fat making elements in an easily assimilated form, which the blood can readily absorb and carry all over your body. Plump, well-developed persons don’t need Sargol to produce this result. Their assimilative machinery performs its functions without aid. But thin folks’ assimilative organs do not. This fatty portion of their food now goes to waste through their bodies like unburned coal through an open grate. A few days’ test of Sargol in your case will surely prove whether or not this is true of you. Isn’t it worth trying?

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Why Take a Chance?

Most everybody thinks that the public library is a mighty fine institution—teaches people to read, and all that. Well, so it does, but does any one ever think of the great risk that a person, who takes a book out of a public library, runs of catching some contagious disease?

Every time a bacteriological examination is made of the public-library book, germs of every known disease are found among its pages. Probably, from your own experience, you know that lots of people never think of taking a book from the public library, until some one in their family is sick and wants something to read.

As records prove that ninety per cent of the demand for books at the public libraries is for works of fiction, it strikes us that the reading public would do better to patronize the S. & S. novel list which contains hundreds of books to be found in the public libraries, and many hundreds of others just as good and interesting.

The price of the S. & S. novels is a low one indeed to pay for protection from disease-laden literature. Why run the risk, then, when you can get a fresh, clean book for little money and thus insure your health?

STREET & SMITH, Publishers
NEW YORK

SWEET VIOLET.

CHAPTER I.
FAIREST OF THE FAIR.

Judge Camden’s two beautiful granddaughters were the pride of Fauquier County, and both were so charming that Paris himself must have hesitated long before awarding the golden apple to one alone as fairest of the fair.

Violet Mead and Amber Laurens were cousins and orphans, and looked upon as heiresses, for all of the old judge’s money would come to them at his death.

Violet was as lovely as her namesake flower, a blonde, with curling golden hair, dazzling dark-blue eyes, a pink and white skin, and an arch, spirited face, where Cupid hid in bewitching dimples. She was barely seventeen, and Amber but one year older—Amber, the brilliant brunette, with her graceful, willowy form, so tall and slender, golden-hazel eyes, olive skin, and dark-brown tresses in smooth, satiny braids at the back of her proud little head. They were as different in mind as in looks, for Violet was frank, free, spirited, with a sunshiny nature; while Amber was quite the reverse in everything—reserved and dignified, with an undercurrent of jealous pride and passion.

The two girls had never been as fond of each other as some cousins, but they were carelessly affectionate, and they might never have become so terribly alienated had they not had the bitter misfortune of losing their hearts to the same man.

How many alienations have come from this one cause; how many awful tragedies have followed in its train; how many hearts have been broken for a jealous love!

“Oh, Love! so sweet at first,
So bitter in the end;
Thou canst be fiercest foe,
As well as fairest friend!”

Cecil Grant had met Amber Laurens first while her cousin was away at boarding-school. He admired the brilliant brunette very much, and showed her enough attention to set the gossips of Greenville to predicting a match between the extremely handsome pair.

But, suddenly, when the summer was at its goldenest, the Virginia skies their bluest, the flowers their fairest, Violet Mead came home from school, her curly, golden head full of romantic fancies, herself the sweetest flower that bloomed at Golden Willows, the judge’s picturesque country home. She had never had a lover, but the romantic little maiden had begun to dream already of her fate.

When Cecil Grant met Violet, in her bonny, joyous girlhood, so happy and so lovely, it was like a revelation to his burning heart.

He realized in a moment that his admiration for Amber had been but an idle fancy for a coquettish beauty. Let others hesitate as they would over the cousin’s beauty, he thought Violet the truest, fairest, purest, and most charming girl in the whole world. His heart went out to her in a tide of resistless love, and he vowed to win her for his worshiped bride.

And if jealous, imperious Amber had not already given him her proud, passionate heart, he might have succeeded in his aim and realized his dreams of happiness and bliss.

But, day by day, Amber Laurens had marked his adoration for Violet, and at last she woke up to the fatal truth that she had lost her admirer. The sleeping tiger was aroused in her nature, and from that moment sweet Violet’s fate was sealed.

Ah, the pity of it that love should ever change to hate—that a jealous nature should stop at nothing till it had laid waste all the fair flowers of hope and joy springing to life in a young girl’s heart!

“This is where the roses grew,
Till the ground was all perfume,
And whenever zephyrs blew,
Carpeted with crimson bloom.
Now the chill and scentless air
Sweeps the flower-plots brown and bare!”

CHAPTER II.
LOVE’S YOUNG DREAM.

“Violet, I love you!”

The most romantic girl in the world could not have chosen a fairer scene for such beautiful words.

Violet had wandered down to the river, whose fringe of golden willows gave Judge Camden’s place its name. The pretty stream went singing by the foot of the sloping green lawn, and the girl loved its voice, like a mother’s lullaby.

She threw herself carelessly on the green, mossy bank murmuring, plaintively:

“I wonder if Amber spoke the truth this morning when she claimed Cecil for her lover. If she did, he is a heartless flirt, for all his looks and words and actions have seemed plainly to declare that he preferred me!”

The rosy mouth quivered with grief, and tears dimmed the dazzling, dark-blue eyes, for Amber had been very harsh that day when the two girls were quite alone. She had chided sweet Violet for going about clothed always in simple white.

“How silly you look, Violet, always in white, like a great baby! Have you no colored gowns?”

“Dozens of them, Amber, but I like my white gowns better these sweet, warm summer days.”

“My India silk is just as cool,” cried Amber, smoothing down the soft folds of green flowered silk with her dainty, jeweled hands.

Only last evening she had heard Cecil Grant declare that a pretty girl always looked angelic in white, and that was why the storm had burst on Violet’s head to-day.

But, all unconscious of her cousin’s bitter jealousy, the lovely girl shook back her golden locks and answered, smilingly:

“I like my white gowns better.”

Amber’s eyes grew dark with hate for her pretty cousin, and she flashed out, angrily:

“You wear them to please my handsome lover, Cecil Grant, because he said white gowns were pretty! You are trying to steal him from me!”

Gentle Violet stared at her angry cousin with wondering blue eyes and cried, breathlessly:

“I did not know you claimed Cecil for your lover, Amber, for I thought—thought——”

She paused, with a lovely blush.

“You thought he admired you, Miss Vanity? Well, you were bitterly mistaken, let me tell you! We were engaged before you came home from school, and Cecil has only been amusing himself with your credulity, while I looked on and applauded the fun! But the joke has gone far enough now, and the nonsense must come to an end. Ever since you came home you have tried to supplant me in Cecil’s heart, and I will no longer endure this rivalry! I——”

But she paused in her angry speech for want of a listener. Poor Violet had rushed from the room in tears.

Her grief was keen and bitter, for Cecil’s smiles and looks had wiled away her girlish heart, and it was cruel to hear that he loved another.

She had wandered down to the river-bank, her heart aching over the perfidy of handsome Cecil, who had made such audacious love to her with his tender, dark eyes while he was engaged to Amber.

“I—I—hate him!” she sobbed, miserably. “He is a wretched flirt, and Amber is no better to let him fool me so wickedly! I should like to punish them both for their treachery to me. Why didn’t they tell me frankly at first that they were engaged to be married and save me all this bitter pain?”

And all the while, behind the shade of the golden willows, Cecil Grant had been watching his little love in her soft, white gown and listening to her petulant complaints.

Suddenly he started forward, crying out, eagerly:

“Sweet Violet, you must not think such unkind thoughts of me, for I am not Amber’s lover, in spite of all she has told you. My darling, I love you!”

He gazed at Violet with adoring eyes, and she blushed to hear from her lover’s lips those sweetest words in the language, “I love you!”

“Sweet Violet, I love you!” cried Cecil Grant, ardently, and he sank down beside her, catching her little snowflake of a hand in his, pleading tenderly:

“I adore you, my little darling! Will you be my wife?”

It was an abrupt proposal, but Cecil knew that his tete-a-tetes with Violet were always interrupted by Amber, so when he saw his darling stealing down to the river all alone, he said to himself that he would follow and make hay while the sun shone.

He did not think that any one had seen him going toward the house, so he changed his course and went after Violet.

And he was just in time to catch her sorrowful, wondering exclamations over his supposed perfidy.

He comprehended like a flash the deceitful game Amber Laurens had been playing, and determined that sweet Violet should not doubt him a moment longer.

So, while the summer sunset was gilding the sky and the waves with molten gold, and the bird sang to his mate in the greenwood tree, the blue-eyed little beauty listened, beneath the shady willows, to the sweetest story man ever breathed to woman’s ears. The old but ever new story of Love.

And no nobler man than Cecil Grant ever whispered the story, no fairer, purer maiden than Violet ever listened to it with blushes of tender joy.

But the summer breeze, as it sighed through the willows, had a mournful sound, and the river gliding by the green, flowery banks murmured low of mystery and tragedy and sorrow.

“Cecil, I cannot marry you!” cried Violet, and she added, sadly:

“You belong to Amber. You were betrothed to her when I came home!”

He denied it with passionate vehemence:

“I admired Miss Laurens very much, but I only called on her to pass away the time. I never spoke to her of love or marriage!”

“Then you were a wretched flirt, Cecil Grant! for your attentions made me think you loved me, and all our friends predicted our speedy marriage!” cried an indignant voice, and there was Amber, magnificently beautiful in an elaborate white gown and gleaming, amber jewels.

She had watched him from her window going down to the river and followed him, eager for an interview on this romantic spot.

And this was her reward, to hear his avowal of love for her cousin and indifference for herself.

Oh, how cruelly her proud and loving heart was stung by the serpent of jealousy coiling there!

She could have slain the pair of lovers, so close together there beneath the shade of the golden willows.

And she could not repress the bitter, reproachful words with which she startled them from their sweet love-dream.

Cecil Grant sprang to his feet, crying, eagerly:

“I beg your pardon, Miss Laurens, if I have indeed acted so imprudently as you assert. My only excuse is that I did not think. You had many admirers besides myself, and how could I guess that your choice had fallen on me? I am very, very sorry. Will you forgive me?”

“Never! never!” she cried, bitterly, and with burning tears, as she rushed away, and left him alone with his fair young love, sweet Violet.

They gazed a moment in each other’s eyes, then Cecil drew her to his breast and held her strained in a long embrace.

“You are mine, Violet! mine forever!” he whispered, tenderly. “Never mind Amber. She will get over her disappointment and marry another.”

But he did not know the fiery, burning heart of Amber Laurens.

She had loved him with a passion that was intensified to madness by his loss.

And as she fled wildly back to the house, she registered a burning oath that Cecil Grant should never find happiness with Violet Mead.

“She must give him back to me, or I shall die of despair!” she cried, with burning tears, that almost blistered her beautiful cheeks.

She had never thought that Violet was her equal in beauty, never believed that they could be rivals in love.

The shock of her awakening was terribly intense. Reason seemed to totter on its throne.

She had loved sweet Violet in a careless, cousinly fashion before, but now all her love turned to jealous hate.

Pacing the floor of her sumptuous apartment, like a beautiful, angry tigress, she brooded over her bitter defeat, and wondered how she could punish her cousin for the triumph she had won.

Nothing she could do to Violet seemed too cruel to satisfy her thirst for revenge.

She would have liked to see her cousin dead in her coffin, and stand by and hear the clods rattling harshly down upon her grave. The sound would have been music in Amber’s ears. From a beautiful, imperious, loving girl, she was transformed into a jealous, angry, revengeful woman. Blighted love had changed the current of her thoughts, her hopes, her very life. She had but one aim now. It was to sweep her lovely rival from her path, and win Cecil Grant’s heart at last.

CHAPTER III.
THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH.

Fate itself seemed to play into Amber’s hands.

Judge Camden had been away two months, leaving his granddaughters in charge of their chaperon, a distant widowed relative, and he was expected home that evening. Indeed, when Amber came down stairs presently, she found that he had already arrived.

She met him fondly, not through excess of love, for the judge was a stern old man, but because she hoped he had brought her a gift from the great city.

“Oh, grandpapa, welcome home! I have missed you so much!” she cooed, sweetly.

“Umph!” he grunted, ungraciously. “But where is Violet, eh?”

A sullen light gloomed in Amber’s eyes as she answered, quickly:

“She is down at the river with a young man, sir!”

“A young man! Why, what the duse——Mrs. Shirley, madame!” thumping his cane loudly on the floor to frighten the meek little widow. “Now what do you mean by letting that child Violet go gallivanting around with a young man?” he cried, violently.

Mrs. Shirley cowered before his black looks and murmured, deprecatingly:

“Dear me, Judge Camden, Violet is quite seventeen years old, and old enough to walk out with a young man, I suppose, considering that her mother was married at sixteen.”

“Don’t throw her mother up to me, you spiteful creature! Wasn’t it a runaway match, I want to know? And didn’t that wretch, Lieutenant Mead, break my poor girl’s heart in two years with his dissipations? A disgrace to the navy he was, and a good riddance when he died, I say! And what must have become of that poor baby Violet if I hadn’t brought her here and raised her—eh? And now, while I’m away, you let her begin to follow in her mother’s footsteps, you careless woman! But I’ll settle Violet’s future. She shall not elope like poor Marie! I’ve picked out a nice husband for her myself, and she is to be married in a month!”

“Oh, dear! oh, dear!” whimpered the simple little widow, dismayed at this bold declaration, while Amber exclaimed, maliciously, scenting a chance for mischief:

“But, grandpapa, Violet’s engaged already to Cecil Grant!”

Judge Camden sprang from his chair, his handsome old hazel eyes glaring under the beetling white brows. He thundered, furiously:

“No, she isn’t, by Jupiter! She shall marry the man I’ve chosen for her! Cecil Grant, indeed, the young jackanapes! Poor as a church mouse, with nothing but a handsome face and a long pedigree! He’ll never get my Violet, the fortune-hunting young scamp! Go, Amber, and tell her to come here to me instantly!”

Amber obeyed his mandate quickly, only too glad of the chance to separate the lovers.

When she reached the river, she found them saying good-by beneath the willows with lingering glances and shy caresses. Violet was saying:

“You must go away now, dear Cecil, for Amber will be so angry all this evening; and, besides, we are expecting grandpapa home from the World’s Fair at any moment.”

“Then I shall call in the morning to ask him for my darling.”

“Oh, Cecil!” blushingly; but just then Amber appeared, exclaiming:

“Grandpapa has come already, Violet, and has sent me to call you in. He is very impatient to see you.”

Violet flew blithely across the daisied lawn, but Amber lingered on, eager to make up her quarrel with Cecil.

She stood in his path, so that he could not turn away from her, while she murmured, with a gentleness that was new and strange in haughty Amber:

“I spoke hastily just now, Cecil, and did not mean what I said. I forgive you for your cruelty to me, and I want to be your friend, since I cannot be your love, like Violet.”

He thought that he had never seen proud Amber so charming as now, with those downcast eyes and that sad, resigned air, so sweet and gentle. The humble, entreating voice melted his heart.

Besides, he did not feel himself entirely blameless.

A handsome young man has no business paying pointed attentions to a lovely girl, unless he means to propose marriage, and Cecil knew that he had given Madame Grundy some room for gossip.

So it pleased him to find the injured one so willing to condone his fault and claim friendship in lieu of love.

He admired Amber very much, and carried away by her generosity, he warmly pressed her extended hand.

“You are ill, Amber—your hand is hot and burning!” he cried, in dismay.

“No, no! I am excited, that is all! Now, Cecil, we are friends again, are we not? And I will not try to envy Violet’s good fortune if you will give me the second place in your heart.”

She waited for him to answer, and the murmuring river filled up the pause. If he had understood its subtle language, it would have sounded like a note of warning: “Beware!”

But Cecil saw no treachery in the hazel eyes that looked up to him with such mute imploring. Touched by her generosity, he murmured:

“I pledge you my friendship, Amber, next to my love for sweet Violet; and if you ever need a favor, claim it from me as a brother.”

“Thank you, dear, dear Cecil,” she murmured, gratefully, plaintively, and passed out of his sight.

CHAPTER IV.
AMBER’S TRIUMPH.

“Amber, why are you watching over me? My head aches and my eyes are dim. Have I been ill?”

Violet’s voice was very weak and low, and her eyes tried to pierce the dim light of the shaded night-lamp, to watch Amber at the open window in the flood of silvery moonlight.

A week had passed since Judge Camden’s return from Chicago, and ever since the next day Violet had been dangerously ill. Indeed, this was her first conscious hour.

“Have I been ill?” she faltered, weakly, and Amber answered, in a cold voice:

“Yes, so ill for a week that we despaired of your life; but I suppose you will get well now, Violet.”

“Are you sorry, Amber?” for something in the cold voice jarred on her sensitive heart.

“What a silly idea!” and Amber laughed harshly, while Violet’s weak, white hand went up to her brow in a bewildered way.

“Ah, Amber, everything comes back to me!” she sighed, wearily. “Grandpapa came home and was angry with Cecil for loving me. He told my darling we must part forever, that he had chosen a rich man to be my husband. But I rebelled against his cruelty. I vowed I would have no one but my dark-eyed lover, handsome Cecil Grant. Grandpapa was in a towering rage. His eyes blazed with anger; he flew at me, and—and——”

She paused, with a terrible shudder, and Amber coolly finished the sentence.

“That wicked old man forgot he was a gentleman, in the blind heat of his passion at your disobedience, and struck your face with his open hand. You reeled and fell, striking your head on the marble hearth. Then you were unconscious for hours, and since then very ill, sometimes raving, sometimes quiet, but never conscious until now.”

“And grandpapa, poor old man—was he sorry, Amber?”

“He has never relented for a moment, never expressed any repentance. He has ordered your trousseau from New York; and, if you live, you will be married in three weeks.”

“To that mysterious man he has chosen for me, Amber?”

“Yes; but do not excite yourself, Violet. It will make you worse again. Perhaps I ought not to tell you anything more.”

She saw the wild pulsations of Violet’s heart heaving the folds of her white gown, and knew that she had told too much already.

“But, Amber, one—word—more!” and the articulation was faint, because her heart beat so fast and chokingly. “Oh, Amber, what of—Cecil?”

“He went away to-day.”

“Knowing that—I—was ill?”

“Why not, you silly child? He had lost you forever. Grandpapa vowed he would disinherit you if you married him, so Cecil thought it best to break with his dream forever. He knew you could not bear poverty.”

“He did not know me. I could have lived on a crust with Cecil,” sobbed Violet, then plaintively: “Oh, Amber, you have seen him?”

“Violet, you will have a relapse if I tell you any more.”

“I will risk it. Only answer this, dear Amber: You have seen my darling?”

Amber’s crimson lips curved in the silvery moonlight with a slow and cruel smile.

“I have seen him every evening since you were sick. He sent me notes begging me to meet him down by the river. At first it was for news of you; then he changed. Twice he forgot to ask for you, and he seemed to go back to the dear old days before you came, when he loved me so dearly and entirely. Oh, Violet, you won’t mind hearing this now, for you will soon be married to another, and then I know Cecil Grant will come back to me cured of his fleeting fancy for you! But, Violet, why do you laugh so wildly? Heavens! she is raving again!”

It was true. Violet was sitting upright in bed, her hair a cascade of tumbled gold about her shoulders, her cheeks crimson, her lovely eyes bright with fever. From her poor, parched lips poured incoherent babblings, mixed with sad plaints of her lover’s falsity.

Amber gazed at her victim a moment with gloating eyes and stole softly away to her own room, whispering to her guilty heart.

“She has taken a relapse, and the doctor said she would die if she did. Well, what do I care? It would be a lucky thing for me. I would be my grandfather’s sole heiress then, and I could win Cecil by the force of my unbending will. Grandpapa could never frighten me to death as he did Violet! I have a will as stubborn as his own, and I would cajole him into consent some way.”

Mrs. Shirley was lying down to rest for a short time, and Amber knew that the raving girl would be all alone. A thought came to her that perhaps in her delirium she might dash herself out of the open window down to instant death.

But she did not go back to the sick-room. She sat down to refresh herself with some white grapes the maid had brought to her room. She was consumed with curiosity over the man that Judge Camden had chosen for Violet’s husband.

“He says that he is as rich as the Vanderbilts, and that he has a palace in Chicago fit for a king. Violet could live like a queen and be covered with diamonds if she chose, but she prefers Cecil Grant’s love with a crust. So do I, alas, although riches would not go amiss, even with the man one loves,” sighing heavily.

But if everything went as she hoped, Amber would have all that she most desired—wealth and the love of the man for whom she was willing to risk her immortal soul.

CHAPTER V.
THE BRIDE OF DEATH.

Meanwhile Violet had risen from her white couch, strong with the force of fever, and stolen, unnoticed, from the room and the house.

Her poor brain, crazed with the news of her lover’s falsity, had conceived a dreadful plan.

She would seek the spot by the river where Cecil had uttered those sweet, sweet vows of love that he had so quickly broken, and cast herself into the darkling waves, that would hide her forever from the bitterness of her sorrow.

“The bride of death!” she murmured, and sped with tender, bare, white feet, across the daisied lawn.

It was the last night of summer, and the first faint chill of approaching autumn was already in the night air. But the full moon poured a flood of radiant white light over the beautiful country landscape, and the dew, glittering on the grass and flowers, made the world look like fairyland.

Cecil Grant had not gone away as he had told Amber. His heart failed him at the last moment. He had heard in the village that Violet was dying, and he could not tear himself away, although he dared not venture up to the great house, for fear of a scene with the irascible old man, who had been so cruel to him and Violet.

He sought the river-bank, where he had been so happy with his darling, where he had clasped the lissom form in his arms and kissed the sweet, rosy lips.

He remembered how her heart had throbbed against his own, how she had trembled with exquisite joy.

What bright hopes they had cherished! What dreams they had dreamed of wedded bliss! Dreams that faded so soon, for, torn apart from each other, his own heart was breaking, and Violet was dying.

Alone beside the mystic river, whose low voice seemed to be singing her dirge, he watched with anguished eyes the dimly lighted window of the room where his beautiful young love lay dying.

In his tortured brain throbbed echoes of sad verses somewhere read——

“From the altar a myriad tapers down shone,

But they fell on a face and a bosom like stone;

They gleamed in the hair,

But no bride vail was there—

Their quaver and glow could not wake her, my Clare!

“The organ wept softly a wail for the dead,

And the low sound of sobbing kept time to the strain,

While afar to the Future its echoings fled,

To bring back that hour and its desolate pain;

And apart in a spot where the light could not shine,

I knelt in the gloom that henceforward is mine,

As she lay over there,

With no thought and no care,

And she was to have stood there, my bride, my Clare!”

He looked across the lawn to her window, his heart aching to stand by her side, to pillow her dying head on his throbbing breast.

“Dying, and I not there!” he groaned. “Dying, perhaps already dead!”

Suddenly he gave a start of superstitious terror and awe.

Across the grassy lawn a white form was gliding toward him so close that he could see the floating lengths of shining, golden hair, the pale, lovely face, the gleaming eyes, the thin, white gown, and the tiny, bare feet so pearly-white and fair.

“It is Violet!” he moaned. “My darling is dead, and her wraith has flown to her lonely lover to breathe a last farewell!”

She flew past him, as with a rush of wings, and hovered over the river, shrieking, wildly:

“The bride of death!”

CHAPTER VI.
“I HAVE NEVER BEEN FALSE TO YOU, EVEN IN THE MOST SECRET THOUGHT.”

It was the most thrilling moment of Cecil Grant’s life.

In one anguished instant he comprehended that it was no spirit he gazed upon, but Violet Mead herself, crazed by her illness, escaped from her watchers and about to end her sorrows in the deep and rushing river.

With a lightning bound, he flew to the rescue, a cry of terror on his blanched lips, his arms outstretched toward the flying figure, already making the fatal spring, hovering in mid-air, her white garments and golden curls fluttering in the chilly breeze that swayed the willows on the bank.

The silvery moon never shone on a face more deadly pale and anguished than Cecil Grant’s as he realized that a plunge in the cold waters of the river would be fatal to the life of the feverish girl. Already she was at the point of death, and the shock of the immersion would surely extinguish the last feeble flickering spark of her young life.

All in an instant these thoughts rushed over him, blent with a silent prayer to God for help in this hour of deadly peril to his darling.

It seemed to him afterward that surely Heaven, in its divine pity, had lent him wings, or he never could have cleared so quickly the intervening space between him and Violet.

But joy! joy! his outstretched hands clutched the hem of her white robes, and he made a fierce spring, drawing her with him back from the arms of death. In the rapidity of the recoil both fell upon the soft grass.

“Saved! saved!” the young man almost shouted in his delirious joy, and he sprang quickly erect, stripping off his coat to wrap it about Violet’s thinly clad and shivering form.

He raised the golden head upon his arm, cuddling the bare little feet tenderly against his body to protect them from the chilly air, and murmured, tenderly, anxiously:

“Violet! Sweet Violet!”

The large, blue eyes of the poor girl flared wide open, and looked up at him in wild reproach.

“Ah, Cecil! cruel Cecil! you should have let me die!” she moaned, piteously. “You are false to me, and I cannot bear my life!”

Cecil believed that the complaint arose from her fevered mind, and, bending down, he kissed her pale lips with adoring love, then whispered:

“That is only a fancy of your sickness, my own little darling! I love you better than life itself, and I have never been false to you, even in the most secret thought. Why, I have been almost crazed over your sickness! Has not Amber told you how I waited here each night with fond impatience for her to come, and tell me how you were getting on?”

Sweet Violet turned herself feebly on his arm and scanned his earnest face with eager, questioning blue eyes, and his heart ached to feel how light and frail her form had grown with the cruel sickness. With a choking sob in her throat, she cried:

“Amber told me to-night that you loved me no longer—that your heart had turned to her again! Oh, Cecil, it almost killed me to hear that you were false and fickle. When Amber left me alone in the room, I stole away to end my sorrows in the river, here by the bending willows, where you first said you loved me.”

He wondered if Amber had indeed been so false and deceitful as Violet declared, and, holding her tightly in his arms, as though to defend her from death itself, he told her that she had been wickedly deceived, that Amber was false and perjured.

“She knows well how fondly I love you,” he cried, indignantly. “I told her of my love and anxiety every evening when she came to bring me news of you, pretending to be my sincere friend. But I will never trust her again. As for you, my own sweet love, I must take you back to the house again; but before we go, you must tell me that you doubt me no longer—that you will never lose faith in your own true love again. Let me put this little ring on your finger, precious. It is an opal, and is gifted with the power to show whether plighted lovers keep their faith. If false, the gem will grow dull and lifeless, its brightness all gone; but, if true, it will glow with the fiery hues of the furnace. Wear it always, my darling, and let it be the test of my love till the happy day that unites us forever.”

“Alas,” she sighed, “do you not know, dear Cecil, that my grandfather has sworn I shall wed another?”

He kissed the little hand on which he had placed the ring, and answered, fondly:

“Yes; Amber Laurens told me that, Violet; but I was not discouraged, for they cannot force you into a marriage against your will. Only get well and be true to me, my pet, and we will defy the old tyrant, will we not, my bonny bride?”

She clung to him with a murmur of such infinite love and content that he longed to take her in his arms and fly away with her to some great stronghold, where he could defy the grim old judge’s authority, even now; but he knew that it could not be, that every moment out here in the chilly night air made it more certain that she would have a relapse of her illness. He must carry her back to her sick-bed, to those who had cared for her so carelessly as to make this dreadful escapade possible.

But he resolved to rebuke them in scathing terms for their neglect of duty.

With an aching heart he took Violet up in his arms, holding her easily, as if she had been a child, and so carried her back to Golden Willows and the stern old judge, who was raising a terrible storm outdoors, seeking for Violet, whom Mrs. Shirley had but just now missed from her bed.

The hue and cry of search had just begun, and Amber was the center of a group who listened eagerly as she vehemently reiterated that she had left Violet only a moment to get her a fresh drink, and, on returning, found the invalid gone and Mrs. Shirley alone in the room.

Her tale was so plausible that no one doubted it, for who could believe that Amber cherished a secret hatred for her sick cousin and had tortured her almost to madness, then left her to suffer alone?

So the mystery of Violet’s strange disappearance began to deepen, and Judge Camden was sending servants in all directions to search for her, when Cecil Grant came slowly up the moonlighted path across the lawn, with the missing girl in his arms.

They ran to meet him with cries of joy; even the stern old judge was excited; only Amber held back, filled with terrible dismay at this unlooked-for contretemps.

She had believed that Cecil Grant was many miles away from Golden Willows. Why had he returned, and what was he doing here, with Violet clasped in his arms so fondly that it made her heart throb with a cruel, jealous pain.

The young man paused before Judge Camden, and said, coldly:

“Sir, I have the pleasure of restoring to you your granddaughter, whom I have just saved from throwing herself into the river.”

A confused murmur of surprise from all made him raise his voice, as he continued, with indignant emphasis:

“No sick person should be left alone as Violet was, for there is no telling what a fever-distraught brain may rashly prompt an invalid to do; and, sir, if you loved this dear girl as entirely as I do, you would guard her more carefully.”

Judge Camden was so dazed that he made no move to take Violet from Cecil’s arms; he could only stare at him in boundless amazement.

Amber was almost choking with rage.

“So the girl was about to drown herself? I wish she had succeeded, I do, from my heart,” she thought, bitterly.

But assuming a charming smile, she advanced into the group and said, gently:

“Dear Cecil, do not blame poor grandpapa, for, really, I am the only one in fault. I was staying with Violet while Mrs. Shirley went to take a nap, and the poor feverish girl asked me for a drink of ice-water. I went down the hall to get it, and while I was out she stole away. That is all.”

She told the tale complacently, not dreaming that the sick girl had betrayed her; but the next moment she shrank and trembled, for Cecil turned on her with scathing reproaches.

“No, that is not all, Miss Laurens; for, before you left poor Violet, you told her some cruel falsehoods—that I was false to my love for her, and had offered my heart to you. It was that which drove my poor girl frantic, and sent her to end her sweet life in the river. But, thank Heaven, I was at hand and snatched her back, even as she made the fatal leap. I will never forgive you, Miss Laurens, for your wickedness.”

She cowered beneath his lightning glance of scorn, and Judge Camden, beginning to recover his wits, advanced and took Violet, saying, with cool courtesy:

“I am deeply grateful to you for saving Violet’s life, and trust I may be able to repay the debt some future day.”

To his wrath and amazement, Cecil replied, with a manly, respectful air:

“Violet and I are deeply in love with each other, Judge Camden, and I ask you to give her to me as my cherished wife!”

“Never!” thundered the stern old man, striding angrily away with Violet.

CHAPTER VII.
“HOW CAN I BEAR TO BE PARTED SO CRUELLY FROM MY DARLING?”

They carried Violet back to her bed, and Mrs. Shirley did everything possible to counteract the effects of her terrible excitement and exposure.

As soon as Cecil’s back was turned, Amber vehemently declared her innocence of his charges, vowing that Violet had fancied it all in her delirium.

No one contradicted her, for in their alarm over Violet, they scarcely listened to her words.

But that brief interview with Cecil, and the sweet assurance of his fidelity, had been more potent for good in Violet’s case than medicine. She yielded meekly to all Mrs. Shirley’s ministrations, and at last sank into a sweet and saving sleep that lasted until morning.

And, in spite of Amber’s secret prayers that she would die, the invalid began to convalesce slowly but surely, so that, by the middle of September, she could sit by the window in her easy-chair, and look out at the winding river and the wooded hills, whose dark green began to change to the crimson and gold of autumn.

Amber had been very shy of the sick-room after that night, when Cecil had foiled her clever scheme, but one bright morning she came into the room, determined to brave it out.

Violet was in her chair at the open window, and the sunshine came into the pretty blue and white room and beamed lovingly on its fair, golden-haired mistress in her soft, white cashmere wrapper, with its cascades of misty lace.

It did not touch Amber’s cruel heart in the least to see how frail and flower-like her rival looked. She was inwardly sorry that she had not died.

“Good-morning, Violet,” she said, coolly, sinking into a chair. “So you are in your right mind again, and can realize what a cruel wrong you did me that night?”

“Wrong!” echoed Violet, in surprise.

“Yes, in what you told Cecil Grant about me. I did not say he was false to you. You either dreamed it all, or imagined it in your delirium, for you were always crying out that Cecil loved Amber best, and that you did not want to live.”

“I do not remember any such fancies,” Violet answered, with incredulous blue eyes.

“Of course not, for people never remember the ravings of fever. But you fancied it all, Violet, for I never mentioned Cecil to you that night; and you did me a cruel wrong in telling Cecil that I did. He was my friend before, but you turned him against me by your cruel story.”

Her assurance staggered Violet’s belief in her own memory.

She had been so ill, she had suffered so much, that her brain was still a little dazed and uncertain. Was it possible she had dreamed it all—that Amber was not cruel and wicked, as she seemed?

Amber saw the doubt in the sweet, lovely face, and hastened to add:

“You see now that you were wrong, Violet.”

“Was I, Amber? Then I am very, very sorry. Will you forgive me?” sweetly.

“Willingly, child; for no one can be angry with a sick person’s vagaries,” Amber answered, with a condescending air.

Violet sighed softly and continued:

“When I see Cecil again, I will tell him that perhaps I was wrong in my accusation against you, Amber, for I was so ill and my mind so dazed that perhaps I distorted the truth.”

“Alas, Violet, I fear you will never see Cecil again, for grandpapa swears you shall not, and is hurrying up the preparations for your marriage with the man he has chosen for you.”

To her chagrin, Violet answered, firmly:

“Grandpapa is only wasting his time. I will never marry any man but my own dear Cecil.”

“Ah, Violet, how can you help yourself? Grandpapa’s will is law to us. We must obey him, for we owe him everything!” exclaimed Amber, craftily, advising the obedience she would not have yielded herself.

But Violet’s pale cheeks warmed rosily, and a flash of resentment brightened her languid eyes as she cried:

“I owe grandpapa obedience in everything but the sacrifice of my whole life, Amber. Why, it would be a wicked sin to marry another man, with my heart full of Cecil.”

“But the ‘other man’ is a millionaire, Violet, and Cecil is poor, with only an old name and some ancestral property, that he has no money to keep up properly.”

“I do not care about the money. I could be happy with Cecil in a cabin!”

“Poor Violet! And yet, as surely as you live, grandpapa will make you marry the other man!”

“Never!” cried Violet, with heaving bosom and flashing eyes. “No man but Cecil Grant shall ever call me wife. Grandpapa might force me to the altar with this hated stranger, but I should take poison and fall down dead at his feet before his ring was on my hand, like the heroine of Ralph Washburn Chainey’s beautiful poem, ‘A Broken Marriage.’”

“What did she do?” inquired Amber, who had not read the verses.

“Let me read the lines for you,” Violet answered, taking up a magazine from the onyx table by her side. She opened it and began to read aloud, in a low voice, freighted with the fullness of a sorrowful heart:

A BROKEN MARRIAGE.

“Stop the service! Still the singing!

Smile no more, but bow the head!

For the bride, so young and winning,

Lies before the chancel, dead.

“Marriage kisses change to partings;
Tear aside the bridal vail;
That golden band has rent her heart-strings;
’Stead of laughter comes a wail.

“No more want of marriage splendor,
Death has ta’en the place of pain;
No more need of bridal favor,
Love doth call on love in vain.

“Paler than the snow she lies—

Colder than the winter morning!

Oh, why did she so despise

Love’s devotion and God’s warning?

“She who swore to wed no other,
At the altar kept her vow;
When they tore her from her lover,
Made her to proud Mammon bow.

“Close the stately bridal chamber—
Ye may now those flowers save;
For the rose that scents her chamber
May perfume her new-made grave.

“Now the wedding march may be
A low requiem for the dead;
And arms that fain would bridge death’s sea
May seal the tomb that’s o’er her head.”

Even Amber’s cruel heart was touched by the sad words and the pathetic voice, and she said, in a softer voice:

“Poor young bride! it was very sad.”

“Yes, but it was better to die than marry one she could not love,” Violet answered, very seriously, and Amber began to comprehend that Judge Camden would have some trouble in enforcing his authority. What if Violet should carry out her threat of suicide? A shudder ran over her as she pictured in her mind the scene of bridal pageantry, the flower-draped altar, the joyous music, and Violet dead before the altar in her bridal robes.

After a moment’s thought, she said, consolingly:

“Cheer up, Violet, for grandpapa’s mysterious choice may be as young and handsome as Cecil himself.”

“Oh, do not talk to me of that man, Amber, but tell me, instead, something of Cecil. Oh, my heart aches for news of my darling! Tell me, have you seen him since that night?”

“No, Violet, I have not seen him; but he has not gone away, I know, for he has sent you several letters and bouquets since that night.”

“Oh, Amber, why were they not given to me?”

“Grandpapa sent them back with angry messages.”

“Oh, it is a wicked shame! Grandpapa had no right!” sobbed Violet.

“Of course not, but he is like the robber barons of old. He believes that might makes right,” laughed Amber.

“Oh, Heaven! how cruel he is! How can I bear to be parted like this from my darling? The end of it will be that I shall elope, as my poor mother did before me!” wept Violet, hiding her tearful face in her little white hands.

Amber caught the gleam of a glowing jewel that hung loosely yet on Violet’s wasted finger, and she cried out, sharply:

“Did Cecil give you that opal for an engagement ring?”

“Yes,” sobbed Violet, and added: “He told me the gem would remain bright as long as he was true to me, but if false, would grow dull and lifeless. Is not that a pretty fancy, Amber?”

“Pretty enough, but I would not wear an opal ring for anything on earth! It is a very unlucky stone, and is said to bring misfortune to the wearer. I wonder that Cecil gave it to you; but then, I suppose he was too poor to buy you a new one and made this do,” sneered Amber, adding, after a moment’s thought: “I remember to have heard that the Grants had an old opal ring in the family with a very curious history. I will try and get the particulars and tell you all about them some time, Violet. There are always strange stories in old families like Cecil’s, you know. But now I must go and dress for my morning drive, so au revoir.”

CHAPTER VIII.
“HEAVEN’S BLESSING COULD NOT FALL ON SUCH A MARRIAGE.”

Amber had been gone but a moment when Judge Camden entered the room.

He frowned darkly when he saw how Violet’s lips were quivering, and how the tears were stealing down her pale cheeks.

“I met Amber coming out. What has she said to cause those tears?” he asked, curtly.

Violet answered, heart-brokenly:

“She has been telling me of the letters and flowers dear Cecil sent me while I was sick and which you returned to him with unkind messages.”

“Tut, tut! Amber is a wretched little tell-tale, but I don’t care, Violet, for the sooner you realize that you can never have Cecil Grant, the better for all concerned!”

Violet did not answer a word. She remembered shudderingly the cruel blow he had struck her before, and which had caused her almost fatal illness. She could only listen in despairing silence while the judge continued, sternly:

“I hope you will listen peaceably to what I have come to say this morning.”

She bowed her golden head in silent acquiescence, but saying to herself that, no matter what he should say, she would die before she would marry any one but her darling Cecil.

“You know, Violet, that you owe me the obedience of a daughter. I have cared for you all your life, and but for me you would have had a hard life enough among those beggarly Meads, your father’s relations.”

“Grandpapa, I am very grateful for your kindness, indeed I am; but I must insist that you will not speak so contemptuously of my father’s people,” interposed Violet, with a sweet and gentle dignity.

“And why not, sauce-box? Your father was a scamp, no doubt of that. Besides, didn’t I tell you to listen quietly, and not answer me back?”

Violet sighed and relapsed into silence, though her cheeks burned with anger at the insulting mention of her dead father. She knew that his blind prejudice against the young soldier, who had run off with his youngest daughter, made him exaggerate all his faults.

“Well, as I was saying to you that night, my girl, your mother disappointed all my hopes; but I swear that you shall not. I’ve picked out a rich husband for you, and I want you to accept my choice like a good girl,” cajolingly. “Why, almost any girl would jump at the chance of such a husband—young, rich, and loving!”

“But, grandpapa, I have never even seen him. How can he love me?”

“He has seen you, although he didn’t tell me where, and he thinks you are the rarest beauty in the world—just worships the ground you walk on! He will settle a fortune on you the day that you marry him. Violet, think of that, my dear!”

She shuddered with disgust, and cried out, tremblingly:

“I cannot sell myself for gold.”

And suddenly she fell at his feet and lifted her imploring blue eyes to his face.

“Oh, do let me speak to you one moment,” she cried. “It is a wicked thing you urge me to do, grandpapa, to marry one man while my heart is full of love for another. The blessings of Heaven could not fall on such a sinful marriage.”

“Get up, Violet, do. I never had any taste for private theatricals, and I am disgusted at your lack of good sense in refusing this splendid offer.”

“But my heart was already given to another, you know,” tremblingly. “But,” with sudden propitiatory eagerness, “there’s Amber, you know—she’s not engaged. Perhaps she would take him, and you would still have him in the family, you know.”

“He wouldn’t look at Amber. It’s you he worships! And let me tell you, miss, he’s far handsomer than your vaunted Cecil Grant. Here’s his photograph which he gave me for you. Look! did you ever see such a man as that?”

He held up a cabinet picture before her eyes, and Violet looked at it with some girlish curiosity over her unknown admirer.

It represented a very dark and very handsome man of about twenty-five years. There was no denying that in looks he compared very favorably with Cecil Grant’s manly beauty.

But no sooner did Violet catch a glimpse of the picture than her face began to change from pale to crimson and back again, while her blue eyes glowed with disdain and anger. Drawing back, with a shudder of repulsion, she cried out, scornfully:

“That wretch! That villain! That monster in human form! To dare to offer me his guilty, blood-stained hand! Oh, heavens!”

Judge Camden was so startled by her agitation that he sprang to his feet and demanded, hoarsely:

“Now what the duse do you mean, girl, by calling Harold Castello such outrageous names? Do you know him? Have you ever seen him?”

Violet looked like one who had received some terrible shock.

She lay back in her chair, gasping for utterance, her face the hue of death, her eyes glaring as though she beheld some hideous specter.

Judge Camden shook her roughly by the shoulder, exclaiming:

“What, in the name of all that’s evil, is the matter with you, girl? Here I show you the picture of a very good-looking young man, and you shriek out as if you had seen a Medusa! When I ask you a civil question, you won’t answer, but fall back in your chair and pretend to be fainting! Now what is the cause of all this? I demand an answer! Do you know Harold Castello? Have you ever seen him? And if you have, why did you abuse him in such awful terms?”

CHAPTER IX.
THAT FATAL SECRET.

He stood waiting for an answer, his hand clutching her shoulder with a violence of which he was not himself aware, until she cried out with the pain.

“Oh, you hurt me!”

He loosened his angry grasp and said, impatiently:

“Well, answer my question, then. What did you mean just now?”

“What have I said? What have I done?” she moaned, lifting up her heavy head and awfully blanched face.

“You have not forgotten?” he cried, incredulously.

She put her hand to her brow, shuddering.

“I have had some kind of a strange turn, but I think you asked me if I knew some one. Was it Harold Castello?”

“Yes—do you?”

“No, grandpapa, I have never heard that name in my life!” shuddered Violet.

“Then why did you call him such vile names—wretch, villain, monster, murderer, thief, perhaps, as I can scarcely remember all your choice epithets?” sarcastically.

“Did I say all that?” murmured Violet, in a sort of dismay. Then she caught her breath and said, more naturally: “It is not strange that I called him names, is it? I hate him, you know, because you are trying to force him on me for a husband.”

“You need not pour out a whole flood of billingsgate on a gentleman because he does you the honor to offer you his hand.”

“The honor? Oh, Heaven!” cried Violet, in deep disgust.

“Yes, the honor,” repeated Judge Camden, angrily. “Why, you can reign like a queen in that palace of his on beautiful Prairie avenue.”

“I would not cross its threshold for wealth untold!” she cried, obdurately.

“You mean to refuse his hand, then—to disobey my commands?”

“You may kill me if you choose, grandpapa, but you cannot coerce me into marrying that man!”

Her eyes blazed into his, blue and defiant, but he restrained his impulse to strike her again and said, angrily:

“Perhaps you think you will elope with Cecil Grant, and disgrace me as your mother did.”

Her cheek crimsoned, but she answered, in a softened tone:

“There would be no disgrace in marrying Cecil. He is noble, and good, and true.”

“And poor as poverty,” he sneered.

“There are worse things than poverty!” she answered, proudly, then dropped her face in her hands and burst into tears. The strain was growing too much for her weak nerves.

But her tears only irritated the hard old man.

“You may cry, or you may laugh, but it will not alter your fate in the least,” he growled. “I have promised Harold Castello that you will marry him in a week, and you shall do it. Dare to defy me further, or to refuse obedience to my will, and I will punish you, even if you are in Cecil Grant’s very arms!”

“Would that I were!” she moaned, in terror, and, with a stifled imprecation, he left the room.

The strength of a desperate terror came to Violet when she was left alone. She walked up and down the room, wringing her little hands in despair, sobbing under her breath:

“I understand all now. I know why that fiend would force me into an abhorred marriage with himself! Oh, that fatal secret! that fatal secret! Why did it ever become mine? How shall I save myself when that doting old man, who ought to protect me, is leagued with my enemy to wreck my life? Amid all this luxury, I am friendless. Oh, Cecil, Cecil! if I could only see you for one short hour!”

CHAPTER X.
“LOVE’S SEAL IS SET UPON ME.”

Although Judge Camden was very proud of the offer he had received for Violet’s hand, he might not have insisted upon its acceptance so strongly had he not been determined to thwart her marriage to Cecil Grant.

The judge had a secret spite against Cecil’s mother that influenced him in rejecting the young man’s suit for Violet.

Mrs. Grant was a handsome widow, the descendant of a very aristocratic race, but impoverished by the war between the States, and struggling under a load of debt and worry. The ancestral estates were almost hopelessly mortgaged, and her only son, Cecil, a newly fledged lawyer, was barely able to keep up the interest and maintain his mother in simple style from his earnings and the small revenue from the stock and lands.

Judge Camden was a self-made man, very rich, and with the arrogant pride peculiar to that class of people. He fell in love with his neighbor, the poor, proud, but charming widow, and offered her his hand.

His proposal was politely, gently, but firmly rejected, and the old judge never forgave her for the slight.

He continued to cherish a secret anger against the lady, and his resentment included her son, then a young collegian.

When Cecil came home and opened his modest law-office in the village, he secretly did everything he could against the progress of the struggling young attorney, and delighted in all his misfortunes.

Now that Cecil had become a suitor for Violet’s hand, the old judge saw in it an opportunity to wreak vengeance on the son’s heart for all the pangs his mother had inflicted on his, and he was not slow to avail himself of the occasion.

No pity for the young hearts thus cruelly severed moved him from his stern resolve to force Violet, by fair or foul means, into a speedy marriage with Harold Castello.

When Mrs. Grant learned of the old judge’s refusal to sanction Cecil’s engagement to Violet, she was very indignant, and desired her son to break off the affair at once.

“I cannot bear to have my son called a fortune-hunter,” she cried, proudly, for some gossip had made her acquainted with the old judge’s insinuations.

Cecil flushed deeply as he answered:

“No one can call me so, mother, for Violet Mead is as poor as I am.”

“Yes, but it is expected that she and her cousin Amber will divide their grandfather’s fortune between them at his death.”

“That is, if they marry to please him, of course; otherwise he will disinherit them. So sweet Violet’s fate is already sealed, for she has promised to be my bride as soon as I am a little better off.”

“Oh, my son, how can you dream of taking bonny Violet away from her luxurious home at Golden Willows to live in such an old rack-rent castle as this?” demanded Mrs. Grant, in sorrowful dismay.

“We love each other, mother dear, and Violet vows that she will not mind my poverty,” he replied, gently.

“She is a child, and does not know anything about the stern realities of poverty and want. You had much better break off the engagement and leave Violet free for her rich suitor, or you might both repent your marriage when too late. And, to be frank, Cecil—I am not mercenary, but I have always hoped you would marry money, so as to pay off the mortgage and save your ancestral estates.”

“You should have thought of that yourself, mother, when you refused Judge Camden’s hand,” her son replied, demurely.

She flushed with surprise and exclaimed:

“You are guessing wildly, my dear Cecil.”

“No, mother, I am not. Do you think I do not understand that old man’s persecution of me? It is only an ignoble spite against the woman who would not marry him.”

“I believe you are right, dear,” she acknowledged, sadly; “I know that a marriage with him would have given us both many advantages we do not now possess. Are you angry because I rejected him?”

“No, mother, no! How could that hard, pompous old man have taken my noble father’s place in your heart? Not for the world would I have had you sacrifice yourself thus. But do not let your dislike of him prejudice you against my gentle Violet.”

Mrs. Grant gave him a fond, motherly smile, as she answered, kindly:

“Violet is a charming girl. I have loved her from childhood, but I cannot encourage your desire to marry her against her grandfather’s consent. He is so vindictive that nothing but trouble and sorrow could come of defiance to his will.”

She believed what she said, and had her son’s best interest at heart in thus advising him, but he turned away sighing, because he had received no encouragement.

All the opposing fates seemed to be leagued against him and Violet.

It was cruel, for they loved so truly that Heaven must have made them for each other—he so dark, and strong, and handsome, Violet so fair, and slight, and lovely.

It was very foolish that an old man’s malice over his thwarted love affair should have come between such fond and loving hearts.

Cecil wandered wretchedly along the river-bank, thinking of his darling, and planning all sorts of things for overthrowing the barriers that held them apart. He would have proposed an elopement, but he hesitated on account of his poverty. He would rather have waited until his prospects brightened so that he could give his fair bride something of the luxury to which she was accustomed at Golden Willows.

Here at Bonnycastle, his own home, the stately rooms were all out of repair, the fine oaken furniture was old and gloomy; the carpets worn and dingy; while outside the stone towers, in which his old English ancestor had gloried, were overgrown with ivy, in which owls screeched dismally by night and nestling birds sang by day.

It was little better than a picturesque ruin, although people said that it had been the finest place in the county, and would be again, if the owner could only afford to repair it and restore the ruined lawns and gardens with their rank growths to order and beauty again.

That was a dream that poor Cecil had dreamed from boyhood, but it seemed farther away from realization than ever now, as he thought of Violet and the fate her grandfather menaced her with—the marriage to an unknown wealthy suitor.

Everything looked very dark and hopeless, but he could not entertain, for one moment, his mother’s advice to give up Violet.

“She cannot dream how truly I love my darling, or she would know that the loss of her would wreck my life,” he thought. “Since I first met Violet the whole world has grown brighter and more joyful. I have seemed to live more fully, to rest more sweetly. I can never put her out of my heart, nor relinquish the hope of one day calling her mine,” and he recalled some sweet, tender lines, somewhere read, that seemed to image his own feelings:

“Forget thee, dear?
God knows how in the silence of the night,
Forgetful how tired I am,
I think of thee till, like a soothing balm,

Sleep, drooping on my lids, puts thought to flight.

“Forget thee, dear?

God knows I have no longer any choice!

Love’s seal is set upon me, nor can I,

With placid beating heart, again deny

The mastery and magic of thy voice.

“Forget thee, dear?
God knows I would not if I could;
For sweeter far has been to me the pain
Of love unsatisfied than all the vain
And ill-spent years I lived before we met.

“Forget thee, dear?
God knows if I were lying dead to-day,
To ashes turned in a forgotten grave,
And to my dust he mercifully gave

The power to speak one word, thy name I’d say.”

The sound of light wheels startled him from his sorrowful reverie, and, looking quickly up, he saw that he had wandered from the river-path to the open road, and, in a natty little phaeton rolling along the smooth gravel sat Amber Laurens, superbly attired, and handling the ribbons with consummate skill.

Cecil tried to retreat to the shade of some trees by the road, but he was too late. The beauty had seen him, and she chirped to her little gray pony to stop.

Then she called, airily:

“If you hide from me, Mr. Grant, you will miss the message I have for you from Violet.”

These words brought him quickly to the side of the phaeton, where he bowed to her, stiffly, for it was their first meeting since the night he had saved Violet from the river, and his heart was hot with resentment over her treachery.

“You have a message for me from Violet?” he cried, eagerly. “Please tell it to me quickly, for my heart is almost broken with suspense over my poor, ill-treated, suffering girl.”

CHAPTER XI.
AMBER’S FRIENDSHIP.

She could have slain him for the tenderness of his words and tone, but she only smiled blandly.

“You received my note, Cecil?”

“Yes,” and he frowned impatiently, for it was a weak attempt to deny what Violet had told him that night.

“But you never answered it,” reproachfully.

“I did not think it necessary,” he replied, coldly.

“You did not credit my denial?” sadly.

“Pray pardon me from discussing it with you,” Cecil rejoined, in icy tones, and she flushed with wounded pride.

“Oh, how cruelly I am misunderstood!” she exclaimed. “Listen, Cecil. Only this morning Violet admitted to me that what she told you that night was only a vision of her delirious brain, and begged my pardon for the wrong I did her. She is deeply grieved over it, and said that as soon as she saw you she would vindicate my truthfulness to you.”

Cecil turned a keen glance on the dark, sparkling face, and it looked so frank and earnest and truthful, that he did not know how to doubt her statement.

“Oh, please believe me,” cried Amber, with sweet solicitude. “Indeed I am your true friend, Cecil, and Violet’s, too—alas, the only friend you have, for every one at Golden Willows is against you, and if you do not trust me with your letters to her, I do not know how you are ever to communicate with her at all.”

“Will you drive with me a little way, as my pony is restless and will not stop longer,” she added, sweetly.

He assented, and they drove slowly along the road in the sweet September afternoon.

“Will not Violet come out to drive soon? Surely it would do her good,” he exclaimed.

“Yes, but grandpapa will not permit it. He is afraid she will elope with you, Cecil, and he will not allow her to leave the house until she goes as the bride of the man he has chosen for her to marry in a week, Harold Castello, a rich young man of Chicago, who has seen Violet somewhere and become enamored of her beauty. Grandpapa met him in Chicago, and he proposed for her hand.”

“But good heavens, Amber, this old man cannot force Violet to marry against her will!”

“He is trying to do so and using every means in his power to bend her to his will. Oh, I am so sorry for you and Violet!” cried Amber, with a sympathetic glance that touched his heart and made him repent his harshness of a while ago.

“Thank you,” he said, heartily. “Forgive me, Amber, if I have wronged you. I cannot afford to lose a single friend now. And will you indeed be so good as to carry letters for us, since it is impossible for me to meet my darling yet?”

“I will carry letters for you every day, and bring Violet’s replies to you,” declared Amber, with every appearance of sincerity.

“A thousand thanks,” he cried, gratefully.

“I am glad to serve you,” she answered, gently; then, with a low, tremulous sigh, “are we friends again, Cecil?”

“The best of friends,” he replied, cordially, and pressed the hand she extended with a gentle warmth, without noticing how the rich color flew to her olive cheek and the light to her large hazel eyes. In fact he had almost forgotten, in his trouble over Violet, that Amber had once loved him, and been angry because his choice had fallen on her fair cousin. He accepted frankly her profession of friendship.

“Now I must beg you to set me down at my office door, and I will at once write Violet a letter, so that I can have it ready when you go back from your drive, if you will be so kind,” he said, and Amber assented very readily to his wish.

Accordingly, within the hour, the light phaeton stopped at the corner, and Cecil brought out a letter for Violet.

“I will bring you an answer to-morrow morning, and perhaps we can yet outwit grandpapa and Harold Castello,” declared Amber, archly, and drove away, after giving him an entrancing smile, and a glance that was almost too fond for friendship.

CHAPTER XII.
CUPID’S POSTMAN.

Amber did not intend to break faith with Cecil in the promise she had made.

She carried his fond love-letter to Violet that evening.

But she had taken it to her own room first, carefully extracted it from the envelope, and read every word.

Her dark cheek paled with anger, her heart throbbed with jealous pain at the words of love that Cecil had written to his darling.

“How I hate her for this!” she cried, bitterly. “How I would like to wring her heart as she has done mine!”

And the dark flash of her eye boded no good to her innocent rival.

She replaced the letter so carefully in its envelope that no one would have guessed the seal had been tampered with, and carried it to Violet.

“I have brought you a treasure—a letter from Cecil,” she exclaimed, gayly.

How the blue eyes sparkled, how the cheeks flushed with joy as Violet caught the letter and pressed it to her warm lips, murmuring:

“My darling!”

She tore it open and read it eagerly through twice, then looked up at Amber, her eyes shining through happy tears.

“Oh, how can I thank you, dear Amber?” she cried, gratefully.

“By believing that I am your true friend,” replied the crafty girl.

“Oh, I know now; I am sure of it, or you would not have brought me this letter, that has made me so happy!” and again Violet kissed her love-letter with blushing cheeks.

Ah, how bitterly, how jealously Amber envied her that exquisite happiness, she did not dream, or she would have started in affright at the evil in her cousin’s heart.

She thought that Amber had overcome her love for Cecil, and was content to be only his friend, and to forward his love affair with another with generous self-forgetfulness.

But sweet Violet had never felt the pain of a slighted love, or she might have known that only the noblest hearts can forget or forgive a wrong either real or fancied.

Alas, a hopeless love is one of the things seldom forgotten and rarely cured, coiling like a serpent around the heart, and stinging it to death.

“Thou bidst me crush it out and live it down,
Stamp out its memory from my aching brain;
Forget I loved, remove the thorny crown
That presses on my brow with maddening pain!

“I’ll tell thee thou hast never felt the fire

Of Love’s impassioned flame, or thou wouldst know

That hope deferred, the unattained desire,

But fans the embers into brightest glow.

“I tell thee, while we hold our earthly sway,
My every pulse shall beat response to thine;
Ay, more, when from the earth we pass away

Thy spirit’s haunt shall still be sought by mine!”

Amber Laurens could have knelt in the dust at Cecil’s feet for one tithe of the fond love-words he had written to Violet, and she hated her successful rival with a bitterness that no words could have pictured.

Yet with rankling hate and jealousy in her heart, she stood there and smiled upon Violet—smiled at thought of the dark schemes weaving in her own brain for revenge upon the hapless pair of lovers whose love was her torture.

“Ah, Violet, don’t you wish you could have been in my place? I had a charming drive with your precious Cecil,” she cried. “But don’t be jealous, dear; we were talking of you all the time. Cecil wanted me to bring this letter to you and one from you to him. In short, Violet, I’ve promised to be Cupid’s postman. You two are to write to each other as often as you please, and I’ll deliver all the billet-doux. Are you pleased?”

“Pleased! Oh, Amber, I am happy! I see a rift of light in the darkness of my awful despair. I can never thank you enough for your goodness, but I pray Heaven to send you a lover as handsome and noble as my Cecil, to reward your generous heart!”

Amber gave a strange laugh, that grated harshly on her own hearing, and answered:

“Never mind wishing me a lover now, Violet, but get your pen and write Cecil a letter that I can deliver in the morning.”

“I will—oh, I will!” cried Violet, gladly, and Amber flew away to vent her rage in secret.

When the letter was committed to her care, she read it in the seclusion of her chamber before she carried it to Cecil, and she longed to tear it into a thousand pieces and scatter it to the winds of heaven before it should gladden his eyes.

“How silly they both are!” she cried to herself, disdainfully. “What a soft, forgiving little fool they must think me, to forget the injury they did me and befriend them, helping them to a happiness they cheated me of so heartlessly. Ah, it is another game I am playing, and when I am done, I fancy we can cry quits all around.”

She made herself as lovely as possible to carry the letter to Cecil, with some faint lurking hope, perhaps, of yet outshining Violet.

But Cecil scarcely looked at the dark, eager face, the rich attire, or the longing dark eyes. He almost snatched the letter from her jeweled hand, then recollected himself, with a deep flush, exclaiming:

“I beg your pardon for my rudeness, I was so anxious to read my darling’s letter. Will you honor my den by taking a seat, Miss Laurens?”

No, Amber could not stay to see him read her rival’s letter. The look of joy in his eyes would have driven her mad.

She said quietly that she must go; she had only stepped into the office on her way to the druggist’s for some eau de cologne for Violet—poor thing, her head ached so—and she would take another letter for him that evening, if he would have it ready when she took her afternoon drive.

He thanked her gratefully, and forgot her the next moment, as he turned gladly to the perusal of Violet’s letter.

CHAPTER XIII.
THE PRICE OF A TERRIBLE DEED.

While Judge Camden dawdled over the newspapers in his elegant library that evening, Amber came in and drew a chair to his side.

He glanced around at the superb young beauty, with her glowing cheeks and flashing eyes, and inquired, sarcastically:

“Well, what is it? A big dry-goods bill for me to pay?”

“Not this time, dear grandpapa,” cooed Amber, sweetly.

“Then it’s a big check to buy jewelry or folderols. You never come wheedling around me like this for nothing,” retorted the crusty old judge in a tone of conviction.

“Oh, how cruelly I am misunderstood,” sighed the girl, and after a moment of profound silence for effect, she continued:

“I came to talk to you about Violet.”

“Umph!”

“Are you determined to make her marry Mr. Castello?”

“I have sworn it!” curtly.

“In spite of her love for Cecil?”

“Cecil be—hanged!” returned the old man, violently.

“Then you entirely ignore his claim on Violet?”

“I ignore it utterly! Now look here, my girl,” and he wheeled around on her, wrathfully, “if you come to me to wheedle me into consenting to the affair between Violet and that fortune-hunting Cecil Grant, you’re wasting words, let me tell you, and also making matters worse for yourself! I won’t be interfered with, I tell you squarely; and you will mind your own business if you know which side your bread is buttered on, miss!”

“Yes, sir,” meekly.

“So now, if you’re satisfied, you can go back and tell Violet what I said, and leave me in peace to read my papers!”

“I’m not satisfied yet, sir,” demurely.

“The mischief you are not? But I won’t hear another word, I tell you—not another word! And mind you, Amber, I may leave you out of my will if you persist in meddling with my business,” furiously.

Amber smiled slyly at his perturbation, and answered in a low, deep, and measured voice:

“Grandpapa, you are more hasty than wise. You have simply jumped at the conclusion that I came here to plead my cousin’s cause.”

He stared at her in amazement and exclaimed:

“Didn’t you ask me if I was determined to ignore that fellow’s claim on Violet?”

“Certainly.”

“And didn’t you mean to take his part?” dubiously.

“Certainly not!”

“Then, by gad, what did you mean, girl? Explain yourself!”

“Don’t speak so loud, grandpapa, please. If we are heard, everything is lost,” breathed Amber, glancing timorously at the door, with her taper finger at her lips.

He suppressed another growl and contented himself with glaring impatiently at her from the shade of his heavy, beetling white brows.

Secure of her victory, Amber smiled archly at him, and cried, gayly:

“Don’t look at me so angrily, like a great lion about to gobble me up; for though I am only a little mouse I am going to help you to your wish.”

“You,” contemptuously. “You can’t persuade Violet to marry Castello, I know, and you can’t lure Grant away from her, for I think you’ve already tried that game, and failed, eh?”

The burning crimson flooded Amber’s olive cheeks and brow to the edges of her beautiful hair at this coarse jeer, but, with an effort, she kept back a stinging retort, and answered, calmly:

“If you mean that Cecil Grant was my lover first, and that Violet stole him from me, you are right; and, in the face of that humiliation, do you think I would lower myself to plead their cause with you?”

“No, not if you inherit any of your grandfather’s spirit, Amber!” chuckled the wicked old judge, with returning good humor.

“Well, I have been told that I resemble you in many things, grandpapa,” returned Amber, smilingly, and indeed she did have the same sparkling hazel eyes and determined mouth as well as the fiery temper of the old man.

“Yes, yes, you are a chip off the old block, Amber, and Violet always favored her scape-grace father too much to please me. Not that she isn’t the prettiest girl in the world; but those dark-blue eyes of hers have the same look of the scamp’s that lured my Marie from me,” angrily. “But, Amber, you said you could help me. How?”

“I have a clever plan of my own to betray Violet into a marriage with Harold Castello. You know, grandpapa, in spite of all your bluster, that you cannot force Violet into this marriage against her will. The law is against you.”

“Violet isn’t eighteen yet, and I can command her obedience until she becomes of age,” he answered, frowningly.

But Amber laughed softly, and replied:

“She could appeal to the law against your authority if you asserted it in the arbitrary manner you propose. You are a lawyer, and you know well that your rights over Violet do not permit you to drive her into an unwilling marriage. And there are her father’s kin also to consider. Suppose she appeals to them, and they come forward to protect her from you.”

“I shall take care to keep her from communicating with them,” he replied, grimly.

“Very well. But in spite of your threats and your bluster, I do not believe that you will dare to push Violet into this unwilling marriage.”

“I dare anything,” he began, stormingly; but again she interrupted:

“You cannot make her marry him. She would appeal to the minister, and he would not perform the ceremony.”

“I might find a justice of the peace less scrupulous.”

“You might, but I am doubtful. The Virginians are very chivalrous, you know, toward women, and our Violet is worshiped in the whole county. I fear you would be mobbed if the truth of this matter transpired, and Cecil Grant, who is such a favorite, might lead the mob.”

“If you came here to taunt me, Amber——” he began, in furious displeasure.

“But I did not come to taunt you, only to show you the futility of your present plans. Dear grandpapa, you cannot risk the loss of your high standing in the county by these high-handed measures with Violet. But suppose I can arrange her marriage to Harold Castello in the light of an elopement, and make Cecil Grant himself believe her false to her vows, what then?”

“You could not do it!” he averred, hoarsely.

“I can, and will, if you trust me. But—I have my price!”

“Your price?”

“Of course. It will be a great undertaking, you know; and if I succeed in outwitting Cecil Grant, and making Violet the bride of Harold Castello, you ought not to begrudge me a handsome present.”

“I won’t, my dear. Now out with it. It’s that diamond necklace you’ve been badgering me about so long, no doubt.”

“It is not the diamond necklace. It’s a liberal check, grandpa. You know I never have any money of my own scarcely, and you do tear around so outrageously about paying my bills!”

“And no wonder, you extravagant creature, for you’d ruin me if you had full sway! Well, and how much is it—a thousand dollars?”

Amber snapped her fingers disdainfully.

“Do you think I’d betray poor dear Violet for so paltry a sum as a thousand dollars?” reproachfully.

He stared at her in surprise, and replied, curtly:

“I thought you were doing it for revenge because she cheated you out of your lover?”

“Yes, but I’m running a great risk, you know, and what if I get punished in my turn? ‘Revenge is a two-edged sword,’ you know, dear grandpapa, so I must have some pay besides the consolation of paying my debt to Cecil and Violet. I will take your check, please, for twenty-five thousand dollars the hour after my fair cousin marries Harold Castello!”

“Fiends and furies! Are you crazy, girl?”

“Why, grandpapa, certainly not. But you are a millionaire, and what is that small sum to you, when it relieves you of all anxieties, and makes sure the success of your darling wish? Besides, am I not your legal heir, and I should get the money later on, so why not a little sooner?”

“Don’t be too sure of that, you minx! I shall probably leave all my money to some charitable institution! Besides, I shall live to be a hundred years old!”

So he blustered and stormed, but Amber remained as cool as an iceberg, and would not abate one dollar of her demand, so that in the end he yielded, grumpily, and promised the check.

She thanked him with an ardor he could not understand.

“You must love money very much,” he said, curiously.

“I do,” she admitted, frankly, and added: “Oh, how happy you have made me, for that check shall buy for me the desire of my heart!”

“What is it?” he asked; but Amber evaded the question, and proceeded to unfold to him a portion of her plans. They were so clever and so wicked that he was chagrined because they had not occurred to his own mind, so fertile in inventing evil.

CHAPTER XIV.
“LOVE IS THE SWEETEST THING IN LIFE.”

“If I could only see my darling Cecil, for even one short hour!” Violet sighed, day after day.

It was so lonely in her chamber, which Judge Camden would not permit her to leave, and where no one was allowed to visit her except Amber and Mrs. Shirley.

“I am quite well enough to go down stairs now,” she insisted, impatiently, to Mrs. Shirley every day, but the meek little widow shook her head and sighed:

“Your grandfather thinks differently, my dear, and of course that settles the matter.”

It certainly settled it as far as Mrs. Shirley was concerned, for she was the meek slave of the irascible old man, and lived in a chronic state of fear lest she should offend him and be sent away from Golden Willows in disgrace.

When he took her to bring up his two orphan granddaughters, he had rescued her from a life of grinding poverty and toil, the needle her only defense against hunger and privation. As she was not aggressive nor high-spirited, she preferred to endure all the caprices and ill-humor of her benefactor rather than lose her luxurious home. She did not dare oppose the tyrant in the slightest thing. His will was her law.

So Violet could not expect any help from Cousin Shirley, as they called her, her relationship being vague and distant, and her interests being centered in the preservation of her own selfish comfort in accordance with the first law of nature.

Yet Mrs. Shirley was not cruel or unkind. She was only the slave of circumstance, as we all are in a great degree.

There is no help or hope for poor Violet in that household, where her tyrannical old grandfather held the balance of power.

And she knew that quiet preparations for her marriage were going steadily forward, and that Harold Castello was expected to arrive in three days more.

She began to grow doubtful and frightened, to wonder if they really had the power to force her into a marriage against her will, to dwell feverishly on the thought of escape.

But where could she go that her grandfather, her legal guardian, could not force her to return to his protection? The protection of the wolf for the lamb, she thought, despairingly.

The only gleam of brightness in her life was when Amber brought the daily letter from Cecil, the fond, loving letters, counseling courage and patience, and assuring her that, no matter how much the judge might bluster, he could not marry her to Harold Castello without her consent.

Cecil did not really know how wicked and cruel the old man could be. Violet had kept from him, in very shame, the knowledge of the cruel blow that had caused her almost fatal illness.

She could not bring herself to confide the humiliating story to her noble lover, but she knew well that he did not fully realize the perils by which she was surrounded.

“Only to see him, if but for one short hour!” was the yearning cry of her anguished heart. It seemed as if one look into his beautiful, brave, dark eyes, one clasp of his strong white hand, would endow her with new life and hope.

“Only to see you, my darling,
Only to hear your voice;
Even its faintest whisper,
Would make my heart rejoice!”

In her despair, she turned to Amber, crying:

“Oh, Amber, you are so good, so clever, do think of some plan to let me see my darling Cecil, if only for one short hour!”

Amber smiled, gayly, as she answered:

“Those are almost the very same words that Cecil said to me about you this morning, and I have been racking my brain to invent a plan, for, oh! I feel so sorry for you both!”

“You are so good, Amber. I can never thank you enough. Oh, may Heaven soon send you a lover as noble and handsome as my Cecil!”

“You have wished that before, Violet,” laughed Amber.

“And I could not make a better wish for you, dear; for I believe that love is the sweetest thing in life.”

“And the bitterest when unrequited,” Amber answered, in so harsh a tone that Violet started in affright and cried out:

“Oh, I—I forgot! You—you once loved—Cecil, very dearly! But oh, I think, I hope, you have got over it, dear Amber, have you not?”

“Oh, yes, of course, Violet! It is so easy to get over a slighted love, you know,” laughed Amber, with a bitterness she could scarcely conceal, while to her throbbing heart she cried:

“How I will torture pretty golden-haired Violet for those words some day! I will pay her back pang for pang all the pain that I have suffered.”

And she was willing to give her some little happiness now, because in the future Violet would feel the contrast more keenly between fleeting bliss and endless despair.

So she brought the love-letters to and fro, getting her own reward in the fetters of gratitude that she was winding around Cecil’s heart, and she even planned a meeting for the lovers.

That beautiful September day, when the air was so still, so balmy and sweet, and the leaves just beginning to turn crimson in the woods, she came smiling into Violet’s room, exclaiming:

“I have tormented grandpapa until he has granted my wish, and you will be allowed to go with me for a drive this afternoon. What do you think of that for a victory, little Violet?”

CHAPTER XV.
A CHARMING SURPRISE.

Violet’s beautiful eyes beamed with joy and gratitude.

“I shall see Cecil! Oh, Amber, you will let me see Cecil?” she cried, with childish eagerness, clapping her little white hands.

“Yes, you shall see Cecil; but——” and Amber paused diffidently, then added: “There will be one drawback to your pleasure.”

“What is that, dear Amber?”

“Grandpapa suspects that I am in sympathy with you and Cecil. He made me promise that neither of us would leave the phaeton for a single moment while we are out.”

“Well, Amber?”

“Do you not see that Cecil can only come to the side of the phaeton and talk to you in my presence? Of course a third party will spoil the pleasure of your meeting.”

“Oh, no, no, no, dear Amber, for we both love you so dearly, you have been so good to us! And so it does not matter if you hear all that we have to say! For we will not have time to talk of our love, but only of our troubles,” declared Violet, frankly.

“Very well, then, Violet, you may get ready at once. Cecil will be waiting for us on the river-road, expecting to get a letter. What a happy surprise he will have in seeing you!”

“He will be overjoyed,” agreed Violet, without noticing Amber’s angry frown at her tone of happy confidence in her lover.

The joy of the anticipated meeting chased the sadness from her eyes, and brought a lovely rose-flush into her delicate cheeks. She dressed herself in a soft, white cashmere gown, with a little wrap to match, that had a quantity of fluffy white lace and blue ribbon about the neck and shoulders. A pretty hat in white and blue crowned the rippling waves of golden hair, and framed a picture of girlish beauty charming enough to enrapture the heart of a poet, a painter, or a lover.

When the two girls were seated side by side in the phaeton, the one so dazzlingly fair, the other so dark and brilliant, they embodied the poet’s fancy of a sunny morn and a starry night, and it would have been hard for any one but a lover to decide which one could claim the palm of superior beauty.

But there was not a doubt in Cecil’s mind, for, since the first moment he met Violet, he had named her in his heart fairest of the fair.

Like Violet, he had been pining to meet his love, and Amber had promised him an interview if it could possibly be managed.

But, knowing the vindictive old judge so well, he scarcely dared hope she would succeed.

So it was with no thought of seeing Violet, but in the hope of a letter from her, he waited impatiently by the river that day.

When he heard the light roll of wheels on the sandy road, he came out from the retreat where he was waiting, and his heart leaped with joy.

There was Violet, his beautiful darling, his heart’s idol, by Amber’s side, her eyes beaming with joy, her little white hands outstretched, as she called, tenderly:

“Cecil, dear Cecil!”

Amber chirped to the gray pony, and it stopped obediently, while Cecil flew to Violet’s side, and pressed her darling hands in both his own.

“You may kiss her if you choose, Cecil. I shall be looking the other way!” Amber said, lightly, and, blushing, Violet bent her head till her lips met Cecil’s in a gentle pressure, soft as dew, but thrilling as wine.

“My own!” he whispered, with a thrill of intoxicating bliss.

But if they could have seen the face that Amber had turned from them toward the blue and sunny sky, they would have been startled at its jealous pain.

CHAPTER XVI.
“I WILL LOVE YOU MORE THAN LIFE!”

If Cecil could have seen that look of deadly hate in Amber’s eyes, and read the wicked thoughts in her mind, he would have snatched Violet in his strong arms, and fled away with her to some safe refuge from the cloud of woe lowering darkly over that lovely golden head.

But Amber’s seeming kindness had lulled every suspicion in his mind to rest. He believed that she was the only friend he and Violet had in their love affair.

But he might have prayed in a new version of the litany:

“From all false friends and wicked schemers, good Lord, deliver us!”

Just now he could think of nothing clearly but the intoxicating bliss of Violet’s nearness, and the shy gladness of her dark-blue eyes as they dwelt on his, so dark, so true, so tender.

He placed his hand fondly over hers, thrilling with joy at the soft contact, and poured out, in love’s tender phrases, low and deep, all his joy at seeing her again.

But Violet, with a shy consciousness of Amber’s presence, rejoined, softly and anxiously:

“Oh, Cecil, we have no time even to rejoice over this happy meeting, for I want you to advise me how to escape from the perils that surround me.”

And, clasping her white hands in piteous terror, she added:

“Oh, I am so frightened, Cecil, at the dark and cruel fate that seems lowering over my head! I have no peace by day or night. Terrible dreams startle me from sleep, and fill me with forebodings of evil!”

“My darling, you are weak and nervous, that is all. There is no real danger, for, as I have written to you every day, they cannot force you into an unwilling marriage. Only be courageous, and persist in refusing Harold Castello’s suit, and all will be well. Judge Camden will give up his plan when he finds you are determined not to yield.”

“Ah, you do not know grandpapa as well as I do, Cecil. I fear his power, he is so harsh and cruel!”

“Not cruel to you, my little love, for no one could be that!” cried the doting lover.

Suddenly Amber looked around at them, the angry frown all gone as if by magic, from her dark and brilliant face.

“I beg pardon for interrupting,” she began, “but really I see that I must speak a word for Violet.”

“A hundred if you wish!” he said, courteously.

“Cecil, you do not really comprehend the perils that environ poor Violet, because we have kept back from you a startling fact.”

“Oh, Amber——” Violet began, piteously.

“Hush, dear; I will tell Cecil the truth! He ought to know the real reason of your illness. I am ashamed of my grandfather, but he must know that it was a cruel blow from that old man’s hand that struck you senseless to the floor, and almost cost your life!”

How nobly indignant she looked as she uttered the words! Who could guess that, deep in her heart, Amber was furious that the cruel blow had not ended her rival’s innocent life.

“Oh!” breathed Cecil Grant, in deadly wrath and amazement, while the veins stood out on his forehead like whip-cords, and his hands involuntarily clinched themselves as though they were round the throat of the dastard who had sunk so low to all gentlemanly instincts as to strike a woman.

“Oh, Amber, I wished Cecil never to hear that!” cried Violet, in deep distress.

“It was best that he should know it, Violet, so that he might be roused to a sense of your danger. Grandpapa is a cruel, violent old man, and almost loses his reason when thwarted in any darling plan. He is determined that Violet shall marry this proud millionaire, and if she continues to defy his commands, I tremble for her very life!” shuddered Amber, acting her part so superbly that no one could doubt that she loved and pitied Violet with real cousinly affection.

Ah, Heaven defend the noble heart from insidious foes, who work in the dark—foes, who, in the guise of friendship, smile in the face, with a hidden sword in the hand! Of all enemies these are the most to be feared and scorned.

There is something brave at least in open defiance and enmity, but the soul recoils from the foe in ambush, from lying lips and deceitful hearts!

She, the beautiful traitress, watched Cecil’s bitter wrath with secret satisfaction, knowing that it would bend him more easily to her plans.

“That old man, to dare to strike you, my Violet! It is incredible! But he shall suffer for his villainy. I will challenge him to fight. I—I—will kill him!” raved Cecil, in sudden, deadly anger, his eyes flashing luridly.

“Oh, no, no, no, dear Cecil, you must not harm that old man—you shall not! I forgive him freely!” cried Violet in terror.

“No, you must not harm him,” added Amber, “you must not wreak revenge on our grandfather; you must simply take measures to remove Violet beyond reach of his fatal anger.”

His face paled with despair, and he cried, wretchedly:

“Ah, Heaven, what can I do? Judge Camden will not give his consent to our marriage, and as she is his ward still, she could not marry me without.”

“But you can elope with Violet,” cried Amber, boldly.

There was a start from Cecil, a little shriek from Violet, and Amber continued:

“Washington is but an hour’s ride from here, and you could marry Violet there, you know, in defiance of the whole world. I can plan the elopement for you if you will trust to my judgment. In fact, I have been thinking it over some time, for I knew it was the only way to save Violet from Judge Camden’s fury.”

Cecil looked at Violet with dark, eager eyes.

“Would you be willing, my darling?” he breathed, tenderly.

Sweet Violet shrank and trembled.

“Oh, I had hoped never to be forced to this!” she murmured. “You know, Amber, how my poor mother brought reproach upon herself by her runaway marriage with my father.”

“Yes, I have heard all about it, and I never blamed poor Marie Camden in the least. Her father almost forced her to it, just as he is now forcing you, Violet,” replied Amber, instantly.

Cecil took his little love’s hand in his and pressed it warmly, as he murmured:

“I have but a poor home to offer you, my darling, in exchange for all the luxury of Golden Willows; but if you will come to me, I will love you more than life.”

“Like the Lord of Burleigh,” laughed Amber, repeating:

“I can make no marriage present,

Little can I give my wife:

Love will make our cottage pleasant,

And I love you more than life.”

Violet’s eyes were shining through a mist of tender tears, her cheeks flushed rosily, and she returned the tender pressure of her lover’s hand.

“Cecil, I am not afraid of poverty with you,” she cried, bravely. “I only dreaded the world’s reproach. But why should I care for that, since we shall be all the world to each other? I am afraid of grandpapa, I love you, and I should be charmed to live at picturesque Bonnycastle, with that sweet lady, your beautiful mother. So I will run away with you at any time you say so. And Amber, you must be the bridesmaid, dear.”

“I will,” was the gay reply, and Amber said to herself that she would not miss being the bridesmaid for anything, but her smile just then was not good to see.

“Now that we have decided on the elopement, I had better take Violet home, for if we stay too long, Judge Camden may come out to look for us,” she added.

“Will you bring Violet out again to-morrow?” Cecil asked, anxiously.

“I will try, and, unless grandpapa is in a bad humor, I may succeed. But, at any rate, I will be here, and will decide on our plans for the elopement,” declared Amber.

He kissed Violet’s little hand with tender passion, then they drove away, leaving him alone in the quiet road, watching them and praying and hoping that Violet would come again, to-morrow.

An impulse came over him to go and tell his mother that he would soon bring bonny Violet home to her for a daughter, to live in the old ruin of a place, and shed brightness over it, after the manner of all young, joyous things.

But half-way home he changed his mind.

“It is better she should not know. Then no one can say that she aided and abetted me in eloping with the granddaughter of the rich Judge Camden.”

He knew that Violet would be sure of a welcome from his stately mother, and he decided not to tell her anything, but to take her by surprise with his bonny bride.

He turned back toward his office, dizzy with joy, and revolving plans for fitting up the prettiest rooms at Bonnycastle for his darling’s use. He was sure that he could afford some pretty, simple, new furniture, and the blue and white hangings to brighten up the place. And, as for flowers, there were loads of them at home, and Violet delighted in them. Besides, he would love her so dearly, he would pet her so much that she should be too happy to miss the splendors she had enjoyed at Golden Willows.

CHAPTER XVII.
PLANNING THE ELOPEMENT.

Only an adoring lover can realize how Cecil waited for Amber the next afternoon, hoping and praying that Violet would be her companion.

But he was doomed to disappointment.

When the pretty little phaeton came in sight, Amber was sitting in it all alone, with a grave and thoughtful expression on her brilliant face.

“You are disappointed, I know, but it was impossible for me to bring Violet,” she cried, inwardly writhing at the sadness of his face.

“I am sure it was not your fault,” he replied, trying to stifle his pain, and speak cheerfully.

“No, indeed, but something has happened that has set grandpapa quite wild. Can you guess what?”

“Violet is not ill again? Don’t tell me that, Amber,” he cried, anxiously, his thoughts flying in terror to his darling.

“No, no, it is not that, Cecil. Violet is well, and wanted to come with me, but grandpapa made her stay at home to entertain—Harold Castello.”

“So he has come?” Cecil cried out, jealously.

“Yes, just an hour ago; and really, Cecil, he is a formidable rival.”

“Handsome, eh?” he asked, trying to speak lightly.

“He is magnificent. Dark as a Spaniard—in fact, grandpapa told me he inherited a strain of Spanish blood—and with the most winning manners, and a low, musical voice,” returned Amber, dwelling at length on Harold Castello’s perfections in order to arouse the demon of jealousy in Cecil’s heart.

She had suffered all the agonies of jealous love herself, and desired that Cecil also should have a taste of that exquisite torture.

She knew well that Cecil Grant was as handsome and even more attractive than Harold Castello, but it suited her purpose to expatiate on the new-comer.

“If Violet were as fickle as some girls I have known, I should tremble for your chances, Cecil,” she continued, banteringly. “He is very fascinating, this man, and so rich, too. Of course that would count with many girls.”

“Not with my true-hearted Violet!” he cried, proudly.

She assented, carelessly saying:

“No, for Violet is very romantic, and fancies that love and poverty combined will be very charming. I wonder how she will find the reality.”

There was a hidden sneer in the words that he vaguely felt, and his cheek flushed as he said:

“It is very noble in Violet to be content with my poverty. But I feel that fortune will one day change for me, and then she shall have all the luxuries of life!”

“Will you drive with me a little way while I unfold my plans for the elopement?” she asked; and when he was seated by her side, driving along the sandy road, with the low murmur of the river in their ears, she continued:

“Violet and I talked it over a long time last night, and decided on a plan, if it meets your approval.”

He listened to her eagerly without speaking.

“To begin with,” continued Amber, “Violet and I used to know a young divinity student in Alexandria, who now has a church in Washington. She would like this young minister, Wesley Christian, to perform the ceremony, if agreeable to you.”

“Violet’s wishes are always mine,” he replied, with the gallantry of a true lover.

“Well, that is settled,” said Amber. “Now we will go on to the next point, the elopement.”

“Yes.”

“It must take place to-morrow evening, for the day afterward is the one set for the marriage of Violet to the millionaire.”

“One word, Amber. This young man, this rich suitor for Violet’s hand, does he know that she is averse to his suit? Is he willing to accept an unwilling bride?”

“Grandpapa says that he knows all, and is willing to take Violet on any terms, feeling confident that he can win her heart after marriage.”

“He is a dastard!” cried Cecil, with kindling anger.

“Granted,” replied Amber, with a peculiar smile, and then she added: “But he is madly in love with her, and, being backed by her grandfather, is naturally eager to win the prize. So our only defense against him is to steal Violet away.”

“But how to do so under that old man’s watchful eyes?” he groaned.

“It is a difficult undertaking, but I hope to accomplish it,” she smiled, confidently.

“How clever you are, Amber!” he cried, gratefully.

“Thank you!” she beamed, happily. “Now listen, Cecil.”

“I am all attention!”

“I have written to Wesley Christian, taken him into our confidence, and appointed seven o’clock to-morrow evening as the time, and his own little chapel as the place for the ceremony.”

“Yes.”

Amber continued:

“Violet is to be very gracious to Monsieur Millionaire to-morrow, so that when I beg grandpapa to let her go for a drive with me, he will consent. Then we will drive straight to Washington in the phaeton. You will come by train and meet us at St. Paul’s, you understand. After the ceremony you and Violet will start on a little wedding tour, while I return home alone.”

“But it will be late and cool for driving back alone through the woods,” he objected, thinking of her comfort.

“I shall not be afraid—not in the least. I shall be thinking all the while of the good deed I have accomplished in uniting two persecuted lovers. And now, Cecil, here is the card of Rev. Mr. Christian, with his church address. You cannot fail to find it, and success is ours, unless grandpapa follows with a shot-gun,” ended Amber, with a light, rippling laugh.

CHAPTER XVIII.
“NOT LOVE, BUT FEAR!”

“Oh, grandpapa, spare me, I entreat you! I cannot, will not meet that man!” cried Violet, in a mixture of despair and entreaty.

He was urging her presence in the drawing-room, to meet Harold Castello, but with streaming eyes she implored his clemency.

“Do not force me into this man’s detested presence, I pray you! Oh, grandpapa, what has your poor little Violet done to you to be treated in this cruel fashion?”

“Treated cruelly! Well, of all the charges, you silly child, that I ever heard, this is the most unfounded! Is it cruel to offer you a rich and handsome young man for a husband?”

“Yes, when all my heart is given to another!” cried the girl, vehemently.

A stifled oath escaped the judge’s lips.

“You shall never marry that poverty-stricken young Grant, you may be sure of that, my girl; and the sooner you realize it, the better!”

Violet trembled, but she did not reply, fearing the violence of his wrath.

“Come, now, Violet! make up your mind to meet Mr. Castello as I wish you to do,” he added, cajolingly, for he really believed that a sight of the handsome and fascinating Spaniard might alter the girl’s sentiments toward him.

Weary of his threats and importunities, she said, despairingly:

“If I grant him the wished-for interview it will only be to refuse his suit in the most positive terms.”

“Very well, my dear; only let him see you, and you may change your mind,” grimly.

“I am ready to go now,” continued Violet, summoning all her courage for the dreaded interview.

“Well, but my girl, you’ll change your gown first, won’t you? That plain white gown isn’t nice enough. Ring for Phebe, and let her dress you in your pretty blue silk with the lace rufflings—do, Violet,” coaxed the old man, who was a connoisseur in the matter of ladies’ dress.

“I shall go as I am, grandpapa, or not at all,” declared Violet, perversely, and he had to yield.

“But your eyes show traces of tears, Violet. Hadn’t you better bathe them in a little cold water?”

“No. I want him to see that I have been crying. Perhaps he will understand, then, how I loathe and hate him!” she burst out, bitterly.

“Come, then, you cross-grained little minx!” he growled, and, taking her arm, led her down stairs to the drawing-room, where the unwelcome suitor was waiting, impatiently, for her appearance.

Judge Camden almost dragged the shrinking and reluctant girl forward to the center of the room.

“Here she is, Mr. Castello—my spoiled, willful little girl; and now I will leave you alone with her to plead your own cause,” he exclaimed, thus informally introducing Violet and making his escape.

They were left alone in the long, magnificent drawing-room, the dark, handsome man, and the fair, beautiful girl. She stood still, with downcast eyes a moment, then lifted them shudderingly to his eager face.

He sprang forward and tried to take her hand, but she hid it in the snowy folds of her gown.

“Dear Violet, how glad, how rapturously happy I am to meet you again!” he exclaimed, in a low and musical voice.

She was trembling so that she could not stand, and sinking into a chair, with a weary sigh, she essayed to speak:

“Harold Castello, words of love are wasted between you and me! You do not love me. Why profess to do so? It is ghastly fear for your own safety, not true love, that impels you to bind my life to yours.”

CHAPTER XIX.
“I LOVE YOU AS MADLY AS YOU HATE ME!”

As Harold Castello looked at Violet and listened to her words, his dusky complexion grew lividly pale, and his eyes dilated with something like horror.

Darting close to her side, he bent close to her ear, whispering, hoarsely:

“Speak lower. What if you should be overheard, girl?”

“You have made me reckless with your persecutions, and I scarcely care,” she breathed, almost defiantly.

He shut his lips tightly over a stifled oath and stood with his arms folded on his breast, regarding her with a baffled air.

Seeing that he did not speak, she looked up and said, angrily:

“Why have you come here to persecute me? You need not have feared me.”

“Because betrayal would have been as bad for you as for me,” he sneered, and Violet answered, dauntlessly:

“Yes, that is the only thing that could have sealed my lips.”

“Darling, how cruel you are! Can no memory of the past soften your heart?”

“Do not speak words of love to me, sir. I loathe, abhor, detest you, and I would die before I would become your wife.”

“Violet, I love you as madly as you hate me, and I have sworn to possess you. Will you not listen to me? I am very rich, and you shall be housed like a queen if you will marry me. See what splendid jewels I have brought you!” and he held out to her a case of diamonds, sparkling on white velvet beds, the most exquisite set that could be imagined.

She pushed the case away so angrily that it fell from his hands to the floor and lay all in a heap of cold white fire upon the rich velvet carpet.

“You despise my offering?” he exclaimed, bitterly, as he stooped to gather his scorned gift from the carpet, and restore them to the case.

“I despise it and you! How often must I reiterate that fact?” cried Violet, angrily.

“As often as you please, fair beauty, but it will make no difference in my determination to win you for my own,” he cried, with a certain defiance, enraged at her scorn.

She made no answer for a few moments, but she thought, with a happy thrill at her heart that in a few more hours she would be safe from his persecutions, the bride of her own beloved Cecil.

Strong in this hope, she said, presently:

“It is useless for you to press your suit with me. I fear and loathe you so deeply that I could never even tolerate your presence. The sooner you realize this the better. But I can assure you that it is not necessary to make me your wife to insure my silence on the past. Rest easy. My lips shall be sealed.”

With these words, she arose to leave the room.

He saw by her flashing eyes and compressed lips that it was quite useless to seek to detain her, and he stood in angry silence while she left the room, thinking:

“How superb she was in her anger! Her eyes glowed like stars, and her little red mouth was so charming in its disdain that I longed to kiss it. By Heaven, I love her more dearly than ever; and, when she is mine, I will tame her if it is in the power of mortal man to do it.”

He laughed aloud at thought of the clever plot that was to give her to his arms.

“How she will rage at first!” he thought, but the prospect did not deter him from his purpose, perhaps only added zest to his desire to have Violet for his own. He liked the difficulty of the whole affair, and would rather have had Violet unwillingly than any other more eager bride.

With heaving bosom and flashing eyes, Violet returned to her own room, thankful that the dreaded interview was over, and hoping that never again on earth need she be called upon to face that man again.

It was but a few hours now to the time for her drive with Amber that was to end in the marriage with Cecil, her heart’s darling, and, locking her door, she proceeded to pack a hand-satchel with such changes as she would need in her little wedding journey to Niagara Falls.

Violet loved Cecil with the unchangeable love of a lifetime, and her dearest wish was to be his wife. Yet her young heart was heavy over this enforced elopement.

She deplored its necessity, and would have preferred to wait for him several years rather than incur the notoriety of an elopement, but Amber had assured her over and over that unless she married Cecil Grant this evening, Judge Camden would find means to force her to wed Harold Castello to-morrow.

Her packing finished, she unlocked the door and sat down at the window, to pass away the intervening time with a book.

But she could not interest herself in its pages, and, laying it down, she took some embroidery from her little work-basket and sewed mechanically, her eyes on the work, her mind far away.

She was restless and unhappy, despite the fact that she would soon be the happy bride of the man she adored, and who adored her in turn.

A weight of trouble, doubt, and strange foreboding lay like lead upon her girlish spirits, and now and then deep sighs heaved her breast, and tears would sparkle out upon her thick, curly lashes.

At length the embroidery dropped unheeded in her lap, and Violet sat turning her engagement ring round and round upon her finger, her blue eyes fixed on the far-away landscape.

CHAPTER XX.
THE STORY OF THE OPAL RING.

Suddenly the door opened and Amber entered the room.

The handsome brunette looked as gay and smiling as if she, and not Violet, were the prospective bride.

“Ah, Violet, moping here all alone! What is the matter?” she cried, lightly.

Violet turned her dark-blue eyes from contemplating the distant hills, and fixed them on the smiling, treacherous face of her cousin, sighing:

“Ah, Amber, I am so unhappy!”

“Unhappy? When a few hours more will see you Cecil’s bride! I am surprised at you, child.”

“Oh, Amber, there is a dreadful weight on my heart—a foreboding of evil that I cannot reason away!”

“Perhaps you are repenting your promise to Cecil.”

“No, no!”

“You have had an interview with Mr. Castello. Perhaps his handsome face and the splendid diamonds he gave you, combined with his ardent pleadings, have caused your heart to waver between him and Cecil,” continued Amber, in a bantering tone.

Violet looked at her reproachfully and cried:

“How can you dream of such a thing, Amber? I hate the man and his jewels. Grandpapa forced me to go down and see him, but I told him candidly how much I hated him, and that I would rather die than marry him!”

“But he did not withdraw his suit for your hand?”

“No,” Violet answered, with a deep and heavy sigh, and again turned her eyes toward the sky with a sorrowful look, while she restlessly turned the opal ring upon her finger.

Amber’s eyes watched the gleaming jewel with interest and presently she said:

“I am sorry you feel so blue, my dear, but I suppose it is the suspense of waiting that makes you so nervous. But it is several hours yet before we can start for Washington, so I will beguile your impatience by telling you the story of the opal ring you wear.”

“Has it really a story, Amber?” the girl asked, listlessly.

“Yes, a very thrilling one. If I were a novelist, I could make a charming story of it; but I have no talent that way, so I must put it in plain words.”

Violet’s sad eyes began to look brighter. Everything about the Grants interested her, because she loved Cecil so dearly.

“Ah, I see you are looking brighter already,” laughed Amber. “Well, now I am about to begin. Once upon a time——”

“Yes,” Violet murmured, encouragingly, for her cousin had suddenly paused thoughtfully.

“Well, once upon a time,” resumed Amber, “a girl as young and beautiful as you wore that opal ring. Her name was Linda—Linda Grant—and she was young and gay and romantic, and as she was so charming, she had hosts of lovers; but, strange to say, none of them could win her favor. They said her mind was filled with visions of an ideal lover, grander and handsomer than any man she knew, and that for him she kept her heart.”

“Just as I kept mine for Cecil,” murmured Violet, tenderly.

“Yes,” Amber answered, with a frown on her averted face. Then she continued:

“Suddenly this beautiful Linda Grant, the boast of this whole country, disappeared as strangely as if the earth had opened and swallowed her.”

“Oh!” breathed Violet, in sorrow and dismay.

“It was on a Hallow Eve,” went on Amber. “The Grants were rich in those days, and there had been a grand party at Bonnycastle that night. They said afterward that Linda Grant that night was gayest of the gay and fairest of the fair. She wore pink brocaded silk in a court-train, with white lace draperies looped with wild roses, little high-heeled pink slippers, and pearl ornaments. On her finger glowed this opal ring, a mysterious gift from some unknown lover who had sent it with a perfumed note that declared himself to be the Prince Charming for whom Linda was waiting. The mysterious unknown begged her to wear the opal as their betrothal ring, until he came to claim her, which should be very soon. This romantic proceeding delighted the young girl, and she wore the opal ring for the first time at the Hallow Eve party. At midnight she left her friends with a light excuse, promising to return in a few minutes, and—was never seen again!”

“Her mysterious lover had claimed her,” breathed Violet, in a voice of awe.

“So it was believed for a long time, when all search for her had proved futile, but years passed away before it was learned that death itself had claimed the romantic little beauty that night.”

“Death?” cried Violet, trembling.

“Her remains were found five years afterward in an old unused well, and the explanation was perfectly clear. The romantic girl, believing in the witcheries of Hallow Eve, must have slipped away at midnight, when the moon was full, to look for her lover’s face in the old well. She probably lost her balance and fell in, and the mystery of her fate remained unknown all that time.”

“Poor Linda!” sobbed Violet, with tears upon her cheeks. “And the lover, Amber—did he ever come to seek his betrothed?”

“No, never; and when Linda was found in the well, with the opal ring on her skeleton hand, superstitious people shook their heads and declared the ring was of evil origin, that the Evil One himself had sent it to summon Linda to her dreadful death. Many, many strange stories were told by the credulous country people, and especially the silly slave-folk, but the one most generally credited was the story of Linda’s singing.”

“Her singing!” Violet echoed, in affright.

“Yes, she had an exquisite voice, and sang like a nightingale, ’tis said, and after her death she assumed the part of a banshee at Bonnycastle. It is said that whenever trouble or death hovers over that household, a phantom voice is heard singing over the old tower, in tones so sweet and sad and ghostly, that the very blood of the listener is curdled in the veins.”

Violet shuddered and looked with new interest at the ring on her hand—the mysterious betrothal ring of poor romantic Linda, who had met so terrible a fate.

“Does it frighten you to wear the ring now that you know its gruesome history?” inquired Amber, adding: “I am not a coward myself, but nothing could induce me to wear that ring. For one thing, the opal is always considered unlucky, and you must acknowledge that it brought misfortune to poor Linda Grant. Besides, I should always be wondering if it really had an evil origin, and it would frighten me to remember the years in which it was hidden from sight in the old well on that dead girl’s skeleton hand.”

She expected to see Violet tear the magnificent jewel from her finger, and cast it away in horror, but she was disappointed, and chagrined, for the fair young girl raised it to her lips and kissed it as though it were sacred.

“How different we are, Amber,” she said, softly. “All that you have told me only makes this ring dearer. My heart aches for poor dear Linda, and the lover who could never claim her for his own. I am sure he was a real, living lover, and probably her disappearance broke his heart. Their ill-fated love makes it sacred to me; and, besides, I must always remember that it is a pledge of my Cecil’s love, and that so long as it keeps its radiance undimmed, his love for me remains unchanged.”

And as she had kissed the ring first for the sake of hapless dead Linda, she kissed it again for Cecil, her noble lover, with the love-light in his dark, tender eyes, and the music in his wooing voice.

Amber was chagrined and baffled in her longing to see Violet cast the ring away in fear and disgust. So far her clever plot for possessing herself of the jewel had utterly failed, and her hazel eyes flashed malignantly under their drooping lashes.

Trying to keep the bitter anger out of her voice, she added:

“I will tell you how that old story was recalled to my mind to-day. Phebe told me that she met Mrs. Grant’s old servant, Uncle Bob, down the road this morning, and the old darky was in a state of excitement because the ghost had been singing over the tower last night, and Mrs. Grant was almost in hysterics to-day looking for some dreadful misfortune to befall the family.”

“May Heaven watch over that beautiful lady and her noble son, my beloved, and keep them from misfortune!” breathed Violet, turning her sweet, blue eyes heavenward.

Amber gave a low, sarcastic laugh, and exclaimed:

“It would seem as if the Grant’s family ghost considers your approaching marriage to Cecil in the light of a misfortune.”

“Ah, Amber, do not say such a thing, even in jest, for it would break my heart to bring trouble to my darling Cecil!” almost sobbed Violet, in nervous alarm.

“Of course I was jesting, child, although I fancy that the proud Mrs. Grant might be better pleased if her son had married some rich heiress, who could help him redeem the family estates, than a poor girl who will be only a burden to them both. But it cannot be helped, since Cecil has chosen you, and I consider that the banshee showed bad taste in bewailing the affair,” Amber rejoined, in a tone of delicate sarcasm.

“Oh, Amber, I do not believe that Cecil’s mother is at all mercenary, for I have heard it several times hinted that she refused our rich grandfather several years ago.”

“She must be a very silly woman if she did, for grandpapa’s money would have restored old Bonnycastle to its original splendor. But perhaps she thought Cecil would be sure to marry an heiress. Won’t she be furious when he brings home Judge Camden’s disinherited granddaughter as his bride!” said Amber, determined to torture her cousin all she could in a sly way.

She was succeeding well, for Violet burst into low, nervous sobbing, hiding her lovely face in her little white hands.

“Pshaw, Violet, do not cry like a baby. I was only teasing you, and if I did not approve of the marriage, I certainly would not have proposed the elopement,” Amber cried, reprovingly, and added:

“Do you know it is but two hours now until we start? You had better lie down and get a little sleep, Violet, so as to look fresh and pretty for the wedding. I will leave you now; and, remember, I will be back in two hours for you; you must be ready in your traveling dress and hat, and we will slip away without any one knowing.”

She went away, and Violet lay down as she was bidden, but sleep refused to visit her eyes.

Amber’s artful innuendoes had made her cousin ten times more unhappy than before. The shadow of a lowering sorrow, heavy but inexplicable, hovered with black vulture-like wings over her heart, filling it with a nameless terror. Frightened and despondent, she rose and knelt down to pray instead of sleep, asking her heavenly Father to be good to her and Cecil.

CHAPTER XXI.
AMBER’S REVENGE.

In the little Washington chapel an anxious group waited for Cecil Grant’s appearance. They were Violet and Amber, together with the Reverend Wesley Christian and his young wife.

The hour of seven had passed, and the early autumn twilight was casting weird shadows within the chapel, with its stained-glass windows. It had grown so dark that they could scarcely see each other’s faces.

But Amber had stipulated that there should be no light to lure passers-by to enter. She did not wish to be recognized by any one lest her grandfather should find out her share in the elopement.

“But there will be light enough at seven o’clock,” she said, plausibly enough.

But seven o’clock had passed and the half-hour, also, and yet Cecil Grant did not appear. Amber was loud in wonder and disapproval of the tardy bridegroom, but Violet only trembled and sobbed nervously in her little lace handkerchief until her eyes were blinded with burning tears.

She knew that it was strange, very strange, that Cecil had not kept his appointment, but it pained her gentle heart to hear Amber blame him so relentlessly for his tardiness.

“Oh, Amber, do not speak so harshly. He will come, I know he will come,” she whispered, through her choking sobs, and just then they heard a carriage stopping outside.

The next moment a tall, dark young man, with his hat pulled over his brows and his form enveloped in a long, traveling ulster, rushed wildly into the church, panting, in a muffled voice:

“I am pursued by Judge Camden! Let us hasten the ceremony, or we will be interrupted!”

He drew Violet’s little hand in his own and led her forward to the altar, followed by Amber in a state of suppressed excitement.

Violet’s heart gave a throb of the joy at thought that Cecil had kept his troth, but she did not lift her sweet, tear-dimmed eyes to the face of the man by her side, or even in the twilight gloom of the chapel she would have been startled.

The young minister and his wife having never seen Cecil Grant, had no thought that anything was wrong. They shared in the bride’s satisfaction over the bridegroom’s coming, and the young divine stepped to the front of the altar and made the lovers one as hastily as he could by somewhat curtailing the Episcopal marriage service.

Like one in a dream, Violet felt the ring slipped over her finger, the bridegroom’s kiss on her lips, and an exultant murmur:

“My wife!”

But why did her heart sink down like lead instead of thrilling with a young bride’s tender joy?

“I congratulate you, Violet. May you be very happy—you and your husband,” she heard Amber saying, gayly, but her new-made husband was dragging her away to the carriage, muttering:

“There’s not a moment to be lost! Come, dearest, or Judge Camden will overtake us, and—there might be bloodshed, for he has sworn to shoot me.”

She gave a little frightened cry as he lifted her into the carriage, and sank half swooning among the cushions. He followed, the door closed, and the carriage clattered away over the stony street through the deepening night.

The minister, who had received a liberal fee, in spite of the bridegroom’s haste, lingered only long enough to put Amber into her phaeton, then said good-night and walked away briskly with his pretty little wife, leaving the successful schemer to return to her home and complete her clever work.

She laughed mockingly, as she took up the reins and chirped to the pony, and the wandering breeze echoed her own voice back and made her shudder. It sounded like that of some mocking fiend.

She drove swiftly out of the city streets, and soon gained the lonely country road full of rustic sights and sounds. Night had fallen, and the sky was gemmed with stars, the full moon rising over the hills throwing a flood of light on the scene.

Amber had no fear of the night and the loneliness. She was full of elation and triumph, her pulses bounding with joy.

“Out of my path forever!” she cried, aloud, happily, and the low winds sighing through the trees that skirted the road seemed to echo “Forever!”

She had plotted a wicked and a cruel thing, and she had succeeded in carrying it out, but no remorse touched her as she thought of her nefarious work.

“I have my revenge on her now, the little baby-faced beauty,” she whispered to her exulting heart.

Suddenly she heard in the distance coming toward her, the sound of a horse’s feet, in a hard gallop over the road.

Her heart leaped into her throat, and she involuntarily drew rein in terror, exclaiming:

“It is he! just a moment too late!”

Nearer, nearer sounded the thunderous hoofs as of one riding for his dear life. Amber’s guilty heart told her too surely who was coming, and the cold dew of terror beaded her brow.

“I have the worst task to go through yet, but I will not flinch. A little courage, and it will be over!” she thought, resolutely.

The approaching rider thundered into view, mounted on a splendid black horse, satanically beautiful and powerful. He was coming straight toward her, but the animal shied suddenly at sight of the phaeton waiting in the moonlighted road, and reared upward, almost throwing its rider.

The gray pony Beauty whinnied with fear, and Amber held the reins tight while she called, eagerly:

“Cecil! Cecil!”

With some difficulty, the young man restrained his frightened steed and rode forward to the side of the phaeton.

It was Cecil Grant, as she had suspected, and she noted with a throbbing heart how handsome he looked, sitting so straight in the saddle, the moonlight on his pale, eager, excited face.

Did no pang of remorse touch her cruel heart for her treachery toward this man whom she called friend?

Alas, no; she only rejoiced in her sin that left him still free to love and win, if every effort did not fail.

“Amber, is it you?” he cried, excitedly. “Good Heaven! why are you returning, and alone? Where is Violet?”

Oh, what love and even worship breathed in his tone as he pronounced that name! It thrilled Amber’s heart with rage, but she held it in check and said, quickly:

“Cecil, we waited more than half an hour in the chapel and you did not come. Why were you so tardy?”

“I will explain later, Amber. Let us go on to Violet now. She must be very uneasy over my detention.”

“Uneasy does not express it, Cecil; she was bitterly angry,” Amber replied, with a hard, bitter laugh.

“Angry with me, my sweet little Violet! I can scarcely believe it, for surely she would know that I was unavoidably detained. But let us hasten to her so that I can beg her pardon, for I am eager, oh, so eager, Amber—to call my little love my wife.”

“Wait, Cecil, there is really no hurry now,” cried Amber, meaningly.

CHAPTER XXII.
BETTER DEAD THAN FALSE.

“But, Amber, I differ with you. Every moment is an hour until I reach my darling,” cried the impatient lover.

“And I repeat, Cecil, that there is no hurry. Oh, why did you make that fatal delay? Do you not know that a bridegroom can offer his bride no greater affront than to be late at the marriage hour?”

“I know that you speak the truth, Amber; but, oh, Heaven! the cause that detained me was so pressing and sacred and distressing that even a bride could excuse it. Oh, Amber, there is cruel sorrow at Bonnycastle this night, and my mother lies low on a bed of anguish. I was summoned to her side just as I was about to go to the train, and in my horror and distress at my mother’s illness, and while I was comforting her with all my poor power, the train left the station. I tore myself from my poor mother’s couch, rushed to the stable, saddled Prince, and started for Washington at the maddest pace that ever man galloped to his bride. See how the sweat pours from Prince’s flanks, and my blood is rushing through my veins like fire. Violet will forgive me, I know, for my darling cannot help but sympathize with me in the blow that has almost killed my mother.”

“What is it, Cecil? for I, too, can sympathize with you in sorrow,” murmured Amber, very sweetly.

“It will pain you to hear it, Amber, my gentle friend. Spare me the recital. Let us hasten to sweet Violet. Is she waiting at the chapel?”

“She is not waiting at the chapel, Cecil.”

“Then where? For surely she came with you to the city! You said just now——” he began, but she interrupted, with a voice of anguish:

“Ask me no more questions, Cecil, for I have cruel news for you—news I would far sooner die than tell you.”

He cried out in alarm:

“Violet is not ill—not dead! Speak quickly, Amber!”

The girl answered with consummate, tragic force:

“She were better dead than false!”

“Oh, Heaven!” he gasped, hollowly.

“False!” repeated Amber, most bitterly, and went on:

“Oh, Cecil, I tried to prevent it; I told her you would come; I begged them to wait, but——”

“Go on!” he implored, and she continued, sadly:

“Oh, Cecil, call all your strength and pride to your aid, for it is cruel news I have for you. Violet was bitterly resentful at your delay. She wept wildly, hysterically, and raved out that she was a forsaken bride, jilted at the very altar.”

“My poor Violet, my sensitive little love,” he groaned; but Amber went on:

“While she was raving in her anguish, Harold Castello suddenly entered the chapel. He had suspected the elopement and followed us.”

“The serpent!” Cecil cried, angrily, and she murmured:

“You may well say so, for no arrival was ever more fatally inopportune. Of course he was delighted at what looked like deliberate skulking and perfidy on your part. He made the most of it, and boldly offered to take your place with Violet.”

Some sounds of inarticulate fury came from Cecil’s lips, and she smiled to herself as she went on stabbing his heart:

“Oh, Cecil, forgive me that it is my cruel task to bring you this news! She listened to him, poor Violet—she was always weak, and vain, and childish—and he made her believe that you would never come, that she was really jilted. She was wild with resentment, she would not listen to me. Before I could realize it, they turned to the preacher. He married them, and they sprang into his carriage and drove away.”

CHAPTER XXIII.
OH! THE TORTURING AGONY OF LOVE BETRAYED!

Amber’s deep-laid scheme had succeeded beyond her wildest hopes.

Every detail had been carried out, with one exception.

She had hoped ardently to secure the opal ring, and to give it to Cecil at this moment, saying, cruelly:

“Violet tore this ring from her finger in scorn, saying: ‘Give this to Cecil Grant, and tell him I despise him, and am glad I have escaped a life of poverty as his wife!’”

Violet had clung so faithfully to the ring that this master-stroke was not possible to Amber, but, after all, it was not necessary, for Cecil did not dream of doubting her plausible statements.

But oh, the torturing agony of love betrayed! The anguish of loss and despair! the burning jealousy that filled his soul at Amber’s disclosures, no words could tell!

She had craved revenge upon Cecil Grant, because he had turned from her dazzling charms, to sun himself in the tender light of Violet’s dark-blue eyes. She had full measure of revenge now in the deadly blow she had struck at his loving heart.

A dagger in his heart would have been more welcome and less painful, for the keen thrust would have soon been over, and then merciful oblivion.

“’Twere better far

Never to love than love and lose again!

Better to have a sky without a star

Than for one setting weep in bitter pain!”

Amber’s gloating eyes did not lose one change of the pale, writhing face of her victim as the poisoned blade of her keen revenge rankled in his quivering heart.

He had uttered one terrible cry, and reeled in his saddle so that she feared he was going to fall; then his strength returned, he sat erect again, his handsome face ghastly pale in the moonlight, his eyes dark with despair.

There was a moment’s blank silence, then Amber heard him murmur, in a voice of bitter anguish:

“God have mercy on poor Violet and me!”

“I should think that you would curse her!” burst forth Amber, indignantly.

With a sigh from the bottom of his heart, he cried:

“No, I cannot curse sweet Violet, for I can enter somewhat into her feelings, and I know that villain taunted and tempted her, or she would not have lost faith in me so quickly! Oh, Heaven, why could she not trust my love a little longer?”

“It looked so strange—the delay you know—for we knew the train had come in, and we could think of no reason for your absence,” reminded Amber.

“No one could have thought of such a reason, no one could have suspected such a fiendish deed!” he cried, warmly. “Oh, Amber, how it will pain and grieve your gentle heart to hear this new proof of Judge Camden’s wickedness!” he almost groaned.

“Oh, what has grandpapa done? Tell me quickly, for I cannot bear the suspense!”

Her eager eyes scanned his face closely, taking in all its agony without one throb of remorse at her hard heart. She even smiled to herself at the accomplishment of all her plans, remembering that not only had she secured her revenge on Cecil and Violet, but gained a large sum of money for her treachery.

While she waited anxiously, he said:

“My horse is very restive. Suppose we ride on toward home, and I can explain as we go. There is no need of lingering here,” sighing heavily, “and my poor mother needs me by her side.”

He turned his horse’s head and cantered along by the side of the phaeton, while Amber exclaimed:

“Your mother is not ill, I hope!”

“Yes, she is ill—of grief and worry, and that terrible malady, an aching heart. She has received a terrible blow dealt by the pitiless hand of that heartless old man, Judge Camden.”

“You astonish me, my dear Cecil! What under Heaven could my grandfather do to distress your gentle mother?”

“He has done what no one could have dreamed of doing, for it was the act of a fiend, and must have been put into his head by the Evil One himself! Out of wrath and resentment against me, he has bought up the mortgage upon Bonnycastle, and foreclosed it. We are ordered to vacate the place in one week.”

“Good Heaven!”

Amber uttered that one cry and relapsed into silence, like one too dazed for further speech.

How often she had rehearsed this scene, how often laughed to herself at the tragic voice in which she would cry:

“Good Heaven!”

“I do not wonder at your horror!” exclaimed Cecil. “It was a wicked—nay, an infernal deed! It will break my poor mother’s heart to go from the home, to which she went a young and happy bride, and where she had hoped to stay until death closed her eyes on the trials of life! For myself, I could bear it all; but, Amber, I am heart-broken for my mother’s sake!”

“Can nothing be done, can no one help you?” she cried, tenderly, sympathetically.

“No, it cannot be helped. It is too large an amount of money for me to raise. I could give no securities for such a sum. I have been barely able to pay the interest on the debt,” the young man answered, gloomily and hopelessly, for this burden of debt had weighed heavily on his young manhood. He had borne it bravely for his mother’s sake, but he had long ago resolved that at her death he would sacrifice everything, let the old place go, and, forsaking the neighborhood, seek a new place for himself in the wide world outside the simple country town.

Alas, the cruel, unexpected blow had fallen heavily on his poor mother’s heart, and he could not avert it; he was helpless, hopeless!

Amber gazed at him with wide, dark eyes, full of tender pity.

“How much is the whole amount of the debt, Cecil?” she asked, gently.

“A trifle to your grandfather, Amber, but a fortune to me. It is twenty thousand dollars!”

“Twenty thousand dollars! Only twenty thousand dollars, Cecil. Why, then you shall not lose Bonnycastle! You shall pay off the mortgage and keep the old home for your mother!” cried Amber, joyously.

“My dear friend, I do not comprehend you!” cried Cecil, in perplexity.

“I will explain, Cecil, for oh, I am so happy that I can help you. Why, it is perfectly easy. I have some money of my own—more than twenty thousand dollars—and I will give it to you to pay off the debt and outwit that wicked old man who wants to vent his spite against you by aiming a cruel blow at your gentle mother’s heart!” cried Amber, eagerly.

He gazed at her in mournful surprise and gratitude as he replied:

“This is very generous and noble in you, dear Amber, as well as most unexpected; but it would be very improper for me to accept your offer. Still, I thank you from my heart, although I must decline!”

“But, Cecil, I will not permit you to decline! I insist on giving you this money, which is entirely my own. It need not offend your pride, for I can bestow this gift upon you, and no one shall ever know of it. We will keep the secret in our own hearts,” urged Amber, tenderly and anxiously, adding:

“Think of your mother and accept it for her sake!”

He was touched to the heart by her noble generosity. He felt that he had never fully appreciated Amber Laurens at her best.

But he was resolute in his refusal.

“I thank you more than I can say, but I could never accept such a gift from you, my noble friend,” he answered.

“Then, Cecil, let me lend you the money, to be repaid at your leisure! You can at least accept this favor from one whom, next to Violet, you have promised a place in your heart.”

“Do not speak to me of Violet. Let me forget her fatal mistake if I can, in the distress of this other calamity!” he cried, feverishly.

“I will not breathe that false girl’s name to you again, my poor, unhappy Cecil; but I insist upon lending you the money. I shall be wounded if you refuse it,” persisted Amber.

But to all of her urgings, Cecil Grant returned a grateful refusal, assuring her that the offer had placed him under as heavy obligations to her as if he had accepted it.

“I shall not consider the matter settled to-night. Take time to think it over, Cecil, and perhaps you will change your mind and accept my offer. In the meantime, I shall scold grandpapa roundly for his wicked revenge, and try to make him revoke the foreclosure. And now good-night, my dear, dear friend; and remember that one heart aches for your sorrow, and sympathizes with your distress,” cried treacherous Amber, as they parted, he to return to his unhappy mother, she to rejoice with her grandfather over their signal victory.

CHAPTER XXIV.
“WHY AM I SO WRETCHEDLY UNHAPPY?”

Amber had prosecuted all but one of her schemes to a successful fulfillment, but Harold Castello had not been so fortunate.

His greatest task lay before him in the near future.

He had secured an unwilling bride by strategy—he had now the even more difficult task of holding his prize and winning her heart.

That heart belonged to another man. How could he wrest it from his keeping?

He knew well that Violet’s faith in her lover’s fidelity was too strongly anchored to be disturbed by any falsehoods he could invent.

His momentary triumph as he rode away with the duped girl by his side, was mixed with anxiety over the thought of the recognition that would soon take place on Violet’s part, and the exciting scene that would follow.

Violet was still sobbing in her corner of the carriage, in a low, hysterical fashion, seeming oblivious of her new-made husband’s presence, and in truth she had not experienced one throb of the sweet elation natural to a young bride’s heart. Instead, there was a leaden weight of woe on her spirits, and touching all her thoughts with grim despair.

Harold Castello drew close to the young girl’s side, slipped his arm about her waist, and clasped her close, so that the golden head nestled against his shoulder, and he could feel the quick pulsations of her heart as she rested so near him. He did not speak, fearing that he might not so successfully disguise his voice as he had done in the church.

His heart throbbed with passionate joy as he held Violet, poor unconscious Violet, so close to his heart, stealing caresses that would never be permitted him when she should learn his identity with the rejected suitor she both hated and feared.

Violet began to wonder at her own heavy heart.

She had expected to feel so blithe and happy when she was Cecil’s bride!

Suddenly she sobbed, heart-brokenly:

“Oh, Cecil, speak to me! Tell me why I am so wretchedly unhappy in this hour that promised so much bliss!”

“My darling!” he murmured, indistinctly, as he pressed his burning lips to the pure white brow against his shoulder.

“Oh, Cecil, I am so frightened! Will grandpapa overtake us, do you think? Will he—do anything—dreadful?” continued the deceived girl, apprehensively.

“No, no, my own darling, he will not overtake us now! Rest easy, for your adoring husband will defend you against the whole world!” reassured Harold Castello, in a muffled voice, hoping that she would not detect the strange sound.

But Violet half lifted her head from his shoulder, exclaiming:

“How strangely your voice sounds, dear Cecil!”

“I am very hoarse from a severe cold, and my voice seems strange in my own ears,” he answered, suddenly gathering her closely in his arms, and pressing burning kisses on her quivering lips, her fair brow, dimpled cheeks, and even her warm, white throat.

Violet did not return her husband’s kisses. She only endured them at first in a passive way, then suddenly gave a little startled cry, and tried to writhe herself out of his arms.

“What is it, my own love?” he murmured, tenderly, but without releasing her.

“Oh, Cecil, you seem so strange! You do not kiss me as—as—you—used to do!” faltered the trembling bride.

Harold Castello gave a low laugh and answered, lightly:

“I was your lover then, my Violet, and dared not take all the kisses I wanted. Now I am your husband, sweet, and you are mine, all mine! and I can feast myself at will on your sweet, red lips! And the more I kiss you, my darling, the more intoxicated I grow, for your breath is like wine—it thrills me with bliss, it makes me dizzy!”

With every word she recoiled farther from him, lifting up her face, and trying to see him in the darkness of the carriage, while she almost moaned:

“I—I—you frighten me! You do not—do not—seem like my love, Cecil! I wish I could see your face. Your voice is so strange! It sounds like—oh, God—like the voice of the man I hate! Release me, release me! I die with fear! Oh, pitying Heaven, you are not Cecil! I have been duped!”

The words died on her trembling lips, her form collapsed in a deadly swoon.

The darkness had not saved him as he had hoped until they should reach their destination.

His strange voice and the instincts of her own loving heart had informed her of the truth.

But fortunately for his purpose, the realization of her awful mistake had brought with it an unconsciousness most favorable to him.

Like a broken lily, snapped by some fierce storm-wind, she dropped in his arms seemingly lifeless, dead for the present to her terrible position.

He took her in his arms and held her close, murmuring:

“How very, very fortunate that she fainted at this juncture! I am saved from using chloroform with its unpleasant after effects. Now, at the rate Jehu is driving, we shall reach the retreat I have chosen for our honeymoon before she revives! And, then, my bonny bird cannot escape her cage!”

CHAPTER XXV.
A GILDED CAGE.

Ten minutes’ rapid driving brought Harold Castello to a dreary suburb of Washington, where the carriage paused before a large, square, brown-stone building standing in the midst of fine, well-kept grounds, that were walled in with stone, like a prison. It had once been the home of a wretched misanthrope, who had chosen to seclude himself from the world he hated behind the gloomy walls that hid him from his kind in almost prison-like solitude. The house stood far back from the road, and there was not another one within half a mile of this lonely place, on whose dreary walls the moonlight shone, giving it even a more than usually forbidding aspect by contrast with its silvery radiance.

Harold Castello alighted from the carriage with unconscious Violet in his arms, and knocked at the high stone gate with sculptured dragons guarding the posts.

From the windows of the dreary house, not a single ray of light gleamed forth, and it had the appearance of being totally uninhabited; yet Harold Castello was expected, for the heavy gates were promptly unlocked, and a man and woman were discovered standing obsequiously within.

“Lead the way!” the young man said, impatiently, and bore his lovely burden to the house.

The man unlocked the door and exposed a wide, tiled hall, with marble statues glimmering whitely here and there, and a broad, shallow stairway of black oak, dimly lighted by overhanging gas-jets. Up this splendid stairway Harold Castello followed the woman to a magnificent suite of rooms, luxuriously furnished in white and gold, glowing in warmth and light and perfume, from rare vases of exotic flowers. It was a veritable bridal-bower, and no expense had been spared to make it worthy the occupancy of a queen.

Harold Castello entered the dainty boudoir and laid his stolen bride upon a soft, white couch, kissed her pale, cold lips, then turned to the woman, who had the air of a ladies’ maid.

“She has fainted. Of course you will know how to restore her, Suzanne,” he said, anxiously.

“Yes, monsieur, you may trust me,” smiled the trim maid.

“Very well,” he said; then added: “And you may change her traveling clothing for a pretty white robe de chambre, so that she will feel more comfortable. When she is ready to see me I shall be waiting at the door.”

He retired to a luxurious suite of rooms across the hall, to smoke a cigar and wait, with mingled eagerness and trepidation, for the interview with his stolen bride, the fair and hapless Violet.

Meanwhile Suzanne was busy with her unconscious charge.

She brought from the dressing-room a robe of soft, silvery white silk, with a loose front trimmed in billowy cascades of frosty white lace. Then she proceeded to undress Violet and array her lovely form in the dainty garment. Then, and not till then, did she make the least effort to restore Violet from her heavy swoon.

While she bathed the pale face and hands in eau de cologne, she gazed in amazement and delight at the exquisite face and form, the curly golden tresses, the marvelous grace of the hapless girl.

“Mon Dieu, what wealth of golden hair! What beauty! of a certainement, zis bride is ze fairest of ze fair!” she exclaimed, in rapture.

Suddenly Violet’s fair breast heaved with returning life, her white lids trembled, then flared wide open, and the woman beheld her charge’s greatest charm, the splendid dark-blue eyes like violets in the spring, touched with golden sunshine.

She gave a low cry of admiration, and drew those glorious eyes to her face.

“I—I—oh, who are you, and where am I?” cried Violet, weakly, staring in amazement at the dark, strange face of the French maid.

“Miladi, you are at home. You have arrived with your husband one little while ago, remember you not?” replied the vivacious Suzanne.

Violet pressed her hand to her brow in bewilderment, and, lifting her head, gazed about the unfamiliar apartment.

She saw a spacious apartment hung with draperies of white and gold—a sumptuous apartment lined with massive mirrors that reflected everywhere luxury and beauty, couches of white velvet and gold satin, exquisite statuettes, costly pictures in richly gilded frames, flowers everywhere, roses and violets predominating, and the whole scene lighted softly by wax candles burning in exquisite candlesticks fashioned like white lilies—a room fit for a queen.

Mademoiselle Suzanne waited eagerly for some cry of admiration from miladi, but none came, and she exclaimed:

“It is beautiful, magnifique, is it not?”

The blue eyes turned back to her face.

“What is your name? What are you doing here?” asked Violet.

“Suzanne, miladi, your French maid. Monsieur, your husband, engage me to have care of you.”

“You must not call me miladi. I am an American girl and my name is Miss Mead.”

“Oh, madame, I crave pardon. You are married now. Do you forget? Your name it is Mrs. Harold Castello.”

She saw the beautiful face blanch to the hue of death, heard a stifled cry of anguish cross the pale lips, and cried out, soothingly.

“Be comforted. You have a rich and handsome husband. That is what all the ladies desire. Is it not so?”

“Go, send that man to me. I must speak to him!” exclaimed Violet, with flashing eyes and a tone of command.

CHAPTER XXVI.
AT BAY.

“I am here, my darling Violet, eagerly awaiting the summons to your presence!” exclaimed Harold Castello, quickly entering the room.

She sprang from the sofa and stood up like an indignant queen to receive him.

“Ah, how lovely you are, my fair bride, among these congenial surroundings!” he continued, his eyes gloating on her lovely face and form, set off so exquisitely by the white silk robe.

“A truce to compliments, sir,” Violet answered, coldly, and he started with surprise.

He had expected tears, upbraiding hysterics, and threats from the lovely girl he had tricked into becoming his wife.

Yet how calmly she spoke!

Was it possible she was going to take it coolly, after all—to resign herself to the inevitable?

He devoutly hoped so, and with a smile he answered:

“I can no more help telling you of your beauty, Violet, than I can help breathing. You are the most beautiful woman in the world, and I rejoice that you are my bride!”

He saw a spasm of despair move the beautiful face and added, quickly:

“Ah, my adored one, forgive me for the treachery that won you! Think how I love you, remember how rich I am and what a luxurious life you can have as my wife. Can I not teach you to forget my rival, and to love me?”

He threw himself at her feet, and was proceeding with his passionate protestations, but, with a queenly gesture, she interrupted him:

“Rise, Harold Castello. I did not send for you here to listen to your abhorred love. I summoned you to tell me how I was entrapped into this unholy marriage.”

The calmness of despair breathed in the low, musical voice, the pallor of despair was on the exquisite face. She was no longer the simple girl, Violet, moved to tears or laughter at a breath; she was a woman who had lost her love, whose life lay in ruins, whose soul quailed in secret at its terrible betrayal.

She realized the despotic power of the man who had cheated her into this union, she knew as well as if he had already told her that this gilded cage was her prison, that she was surrounded by his minions, that nothing remained to her but submission or—death. That would be her only escape from her loathed husband.

So, with a calmness that she could not understand, she faced him:

“It’s too late for recriminations, too late for entreaties. I know your flinty heart too well. I realize my fate too thoroughly. Only tell me why Cecil did not come; tell me who detained him; tell me who plotted this terrible thing?”

“Suppose I answer that it was all my own doing, Violet?”

“All your own? Then, how did you keep Cecil away? It seemed to me that nothing but death could have kept my beloved from my side in our bridal hour! Did you—did you”—her face blanching to yet more deadly pallor—“meet him and murder him on his way to me?”

“Good heavens, no! Cecil Grant is alive and well.”

“And loves me still,” she cried, suddenly lifting her hand on which the magnificent oriental opal glowed in rainbow hues. Then she saw above it a plain gold band, and wrenching it off, flung it far from her in disgust. “How dare you?” she half sobbed, in sudden, futile passion.

Harold Castello laughed lightly.

“As for his loving you still, that is doubtful. He believes you false to him, and your cunning rival will perchance catch his heart on the rebound.”

“Rival? I have no rival!” she panted, wildly.

“Do you forget your cousin, beautiful Amber Laurens?”

“My cousin Amber, my best friend—you are mad!”

Harold Castello laughed again harshly, significantly.

“Ah, Violet, what an innocent baby you are! Can you dream that an angry, jealous rival can be turned into a friend?”

Something came into her throat, and seemed to choke her like a murderous hand.

“Do you not remember,” he continued, “that Amber once loved Cecil Grant, and was angry because you won him? She only duped you when she pretended forgiveness. All the while she was working against you. It was Amber who helped her grandfather in his pet scheme of making you my bride. It was her revenge.”

“Revenge?” echoed Violet’s pale, writhing lips.

“Yes, she wanted you out of the way, that she might have another chance with Cecil. She has told him you were false, that you married me willingly, out of resentment at his delay—the delay that she planned so cunningly.”

Her intent blue eyes invited further confidence, and without hesitation he told her all that he knew, eager to divert her wrath against himself to Amber.

She did not doubt one word of his story, false and wicked as she knew him to be.

But the past rushed over her in dizzy waves—Amber’s rivalry, Amber’s jealousy, Amber’s hate, with later looks and tones that had wounded, although scarcely understood. Now she realized all their dreadful import.

“She was false to your trust and plotted against you, Violet. Can you wonder that I took advantage of the situation to win you for my own? I loved you madly, and love is my excuse. Forgive me dearest,” pleaded Harold Castello.

“Leave me!” she answered, with a look of proud disdain, pointing to the door.

“You forget you are my own now. My place is by your side.”

With cold, scornful lips she replied:

“I acknowledge no right over me given by that fraudulent marriage ceremony. I will never be your wife save in name.”

“Nonsense, Violet. These lofty airs do not become you. You had better reconcile yourself at once to circumstances. I may as well tell you that you are virtually a prisoner, and will remain so until you give yourself to me with a wife’s obedience. As for your last lover, why grieve for him? He has not a roof to shelter his poverty-stricken head to-night, since Bonnycastle has been wrested from him by Amber’s arts. But doubtless she will find means to console him and to make herself his bride.”

“That is enough. Now go,” the stricken girl answered, with icy calmness, but he laughed mockingly and answered:

“Forgive me for disobeying you, sweet one, but I should be desolate without your company. Come Violet, one kiss, and let us get reconciled to each other.”

He advanced a step, but her outstretched white hands waved him back.

“No nearer, as you value your life!” she cried, wildly.

He halted in consternation.

“What do you mean, Violet? Have you a hidden dagger about you?” he demanded.

“No, I have no weapon to defend myself, Harold Castello, and yet I solemnly swear that your life shall pay the forfeit if you force your love upon me. Do not stare, for I will find a way to kill you unless you leave me. I am desperate, maddened. I am your prisoner, but I shall never be more to you than I am now! So go and leave me to my misery!” she answered, in such a voice and with such a face, that he deemed it politic to obey, momentarily awed by the contact with a desperate woman at bay.

CHAPTER XXVII.
“THAT BEAUTIFUL FORM WAS MADE TO BE DRAPED IN RICH ATTIRE!”

As the door closed on Harold Castello’s form, Violet flung herself on the couch with a choking sob.

“Oh, Heaven, how wicked I feel! There is murder in my heart!”

The wrongs she had suffered had indeed almost maddened gentle Violet.

Torn from her lover, betrayed by her cousin and her grandfather into the power of the man she hated, hers was indeed a terrible fate. No wonder that her gentle nature was almost frenzied by the shock, and that she felt a mad, guilty longing to take the life of the man who had come so fatally between her and happiness.

“I could kill him if I only had a weapon, and rejoice in my crime. Oh, they have changed me into a fiend!” she cried, wildly.

Her loathing eyes wandered about the beautiful room that her hated husband had prepared for her, and she shuddered in disgust, hating it all with sickening horror.

Yet how differently she would have viewed it had it been as Cecil Grant’s bride she had come to this place.

The beautiful rooms would have charmed her then, in her happiness with the one she adored.

But Harold Castello’s bride! Oh, the limitless anguish and horror of that awful thought!

“His from the dainty foot’s slight tip
Up to the crimson of the lip—
His from the halo of the hair
To the white hand’s magic in the air!

“All her bearing seemed to say:

I am yours. Bid me obey;

But the rebel in my soul

Spurns to answer your control.

“Rich was the shadow of the room,
And warm the shifting firelight’s bloom
That lofty wall and ceiling wreathed;
Heavy the perfumed air she breathed.

“But the lightnings of her eyes
More than swift and low replies,
Whose music hid the words they said,
Sharper than an arrow’s head.

“Hushed and told him all was loss,
All his wealth but gilded dross;
Bars retain nor rubies buy
Love, whose light wings cleave the sky!”

She thought with anguish of her lost lover’s cruel plight, exiled from his ancestral home and believing her false, perhaps cursing her very memory for the trick she had seemingly played on him in marrying Harold Castello.

“Oh, that is the most cruel blow of all, for Cecil to believe me false and hate my memory!” she cried, and involuntarily flung out her white hand with a gesture of despair. The opal ring threw out a hundred changeful, shifting lights, and she suddenly recalled the words Cecil had uttered when he placed it on her hand:

“Let me put this little ring on your finger, precious. It is an opal, and is gifted with the power to show whether lovers keep their faith. If false, the gem will grow dull and lifeless, its brightness all gone; but if true, it will glow with the fiery hues of the furnace. Wear it always, my darling, and let it be the test of my love till the happy day that unites us forever.”

The beautiful jewel, glowing with its rich prismatic hues, put new faith into the heart of the poor, unhappy girl.

“He loves me still, I know it by my ring,” she cried, tenderly kissing the gem. “He loves me still, in spite of all they have done to turn his heart against me. Oh, Cecil, could I but escape from my prison, I would fly to you, and you would find some means to break these cruel fetters and set me free from Harold Castello.”

She began to turn over in her mind wild schemes for escaping from the prison in which Harold Castello had sworn to keep her till she became reconciled to her fate.

She knew well that she would have no help from the outside world, since Amber had made every one believe she was gone of her own free will to be a rich man’s bride.

Within this house she was surrounded by the minions of Harold Castello, who were paid to keep her a prisoner. She had not a dollar of her own to bribe them with, and no jewels of any value save Cecil’s ring. With this she could not part.

To God alone must she look for help in this dark and fateful hour.

Dismissing her dark and evil mood, Violet fell on her knees by the white velvet couch, and with clasped hands and earnest, upraised eyes, prayed Heaven to aid her in this darkest hour of her young life, to look with pity on her terrible strait and deliver her safely from the power of the man she hated and feared. Then she prayed for her dear lost lover, that God would comfort him in his distress, and open up some way to save Bonnycastle from falling into the hands of her cruel grandfather. She knew that the old man had done that cruel thing to punish Cecil for loving her, and she lamented bitterly that through her such harm had come to her darling.

A little comforted by her earnest prayer and the hope that God in His infinite mercy would answer it kindly, Violet rose from her knees and began to pace up and down the room, trying to form some plan of escape.

She was interrupted by the entrance of Suzanne with a tray of delicious refreshments.

“You have had no supper, Mrs. Castello, so your husband ordered something sent to you,” she said, courteously, as she set the silver tray down on a little stand.

Violet would have delighted in the dainty edibles and exquisite fruits at any other time, for she had the appetite of a healthy young girl, but now she shuddered with loathing and exclaimed, imperiously:

“You may take the food away at once, Suzanne, for I shall not taste one morsel. I have no doubt it is drugged, and I need all my senses about me to plan my escape.”

“Escape, miladi?” with pretended surprise.

“Yes. You know perfectly well that I am a prisoner here against my will, Suzanne, and that I shall escape at the first opportunity.”

“Oh, madame, that will ever be impossible! You are locked into this house, watched and guarded so that you can never get free!” returned Suzanne, with a knowing look that struck despair to the heart of her hapless young mistress.

She cried out, desperately:

“Oh, Suzanne, you are a sister woman, and ought to have a kind heart in your body! Have pity upon me! I will tell you all my sad story, and surely, surely you will help me to escape!”

The tears in the beautiful blue eyes might have moved a heart of stone, but Suzanne was pitiless, although she listened with all the curiosity that is imputed to the female sex.

Poor Violet poured all her tortured heart into the appeal to the French maid.

She told her, through raining tears, of her hapless love affair and the opposition it had encountered, of her cousin’s treachery that had brought her into this terrible pass, and she besought her aid in escaping from Harold Castello.

When she had finished, the woman did not betray any surprise. She simply bowed and began to argue the case, although in the most respectful manner.

She told Violet that since she had become Mr. Castello’s wife it would be wiser to accept the situation.

“Even if you escaped you would have nowhere to go, for your grandfather would only return you to your husband if you went there,” she said.

“I should not return to that cruel old man and my treacherous cousin, Amber. I should seek out my dead father’s people and throw myself on their protection. They would help me to break this unholy marriage,” cried Violet, desperately.

“That you might marry Monsieur Grant, the poor man; is it not so?” queried the Frenchwoman, with a contemptuous emphasis on the epithet “poor man.”

“Yes, that I might marry my darling Cecil,” Violet answered, proudly.

The woman gave a derisive laugh and said, curtly:

“You are a silly girl to wish to exchange a rich husband for a poor one. No girl in her senses would do that, Mrs. Castello. Beauty like yours, madame, so fine and rare, should be beautifully arrayed. That beautiful form was made to be draped in rich attire; that ivory-white neck, those finely molded wrists to be encircled in pearls and diamonds, such as Monsieur Castello can give you. It were a shame that a beauty like you should wed a poor man. Oh, think, miladi, you would have to wear common calico and cook your own food; your lovely little white hands would be soiled with dish-washing and sweeping, and soon you would grow to hate the man who had sunk you into poverty! Perhaps there would be little children clinging round your knees, and you would have to toil for them, perhaps take in sewing or washing to buy bread for them, and——”

“Hush! No more; I will not listen!” Violet cried, indignantly; then her voice sank to a pleading cadence as she added:

“Once more, Suzanne, will you pity me? Will you help me to escape?”

“Certainly not, madame,” the woman replied, bluntly, taking up the rejected tray of food to leave the room.

“Certainly not,” echoed Harold Castello, gayly, as he abruptly entered again, having listened outside to the whole conversation.

CHAPTER XXVIII.
SAVED BY FIRE.

“Suzanne!” called her young mistress, sharply.

The woman halted on the threshold and looked back questioningly.

“I wish you to return and spend the night in my room.”

“Oui, madame,” answered the woman, retiring.

Then Violet turned passionately on the intruder.

“Leave the room, Harold Castello! I will not endure your presence!” she cried, angrily.

His answer was a mocking laugh.

“Obey me!” she exclaimed, imperiously, her blue eyes flashing scorn.

He stood immovable, his arms folded over his breast, his dark eyes fixed on her admiringly.

“What a magnificent beauty you are, Violet, especially when you get in a rage! But I like you all the better for your fire and spirit. There will be a zest in taming such a pretty tigress!” he laughed, insolently.

Her face became dead white; the lightnings of her indignant eyes might have blasted him where he stood. In a voice that vibrated with scorn and loathing, she cried:

“You are mad—mad! How can you dream that I will ever tolerate you? Why, I shrink from you in abhorrence too deep for words! Can I forget that a young girl’s ruin lies at your door, dastard? Can I forget that your hand is red with her father’s blood—murderer? Can I ever forgive myself that I did not risk the worst and denounce you to the law for your fiendish crime? Ah, had I not been such a coward, had I only done my duty and faced the consequences, I had never come to this terrible pass!”

“Hush! hush! the walls have ears!” he hissed, with a stifled oath, and the dew of deadly terror started out on his brow beneath the loose waves of his jetty hair.

“I will not hush! I have been silent too long! If the voice of conscience is dead in your heart, let me arouse it by taunting you with your sin!” Violet cried, in a passion of loathing anger that carried her beyond the bounds of prudence.

In another moment she realized her mistake, for, infuriated by her scorn, Harold Castello threw discretion to the winds, and sprang toward her, crying, maliciously:

“You shall not taunt me, lovely one, for I will smother the words on your lips with kisses!”

His arms were outstretched, his hot breath fanned her cheek, and in another moment he would have clasped her in his arms, but Violet eluded him by stooping suddenly, then darting forward in breathless flight toward the door.

With a bound, the man placed himself in her way; then commenced a terrible pursuit that could have but one end—his victory.

Violet flew round and round the room, shrieking in terror, and pursued by Castello, whom she cleverly eluded by darts and turns and doublings like a fleet-winged swallow, aiming always to reach the door and escape into the corridor, while her pursuer bent all his energies toward preventing her exit from the room, feeling sure that her strength would give out presently and leave her helpless at his mercy.

In this way the contest must surely have ended, for Violet was already growing faint and dizzy, and only her deadly terror of Castello enabled her to maintain her frenzied movements, but a sudden accident saved her in the very nick of time.

The draught of air created in the room by the swift movements of herself and Castello as they flew round and round blew the long lace curtains against a cluster of wax candles in a bunch of silver lilies on a stand close by, and the flame ignited the delicate draperies. In another instant leaping tongues of deadly flame sprang up to the ceiling.

The roar of the fire as it rapidly caught everything within reach and licked out crimson tongues for more prey, struck terror alike to the hearts of Violet and her pursuer. A cry of fear came from her lips, and an oath from his. Both came to a pause of blank dismay that lasted but an instant on the man’s part, then he sprang forward bravely and began tearing down the blazing curtains, trampling them under his feet, and throwing upon them heavy rugs caught up here and there, until in five minutes he had the fiery element under control, although his face and hair were scorched and his hands frightfully burned.

Then he glanced around for Violet.

Poor girl! her fictitious strength had given out just a moment too soon. She had tottered to the door, dragged it open, then fallen down unconscious upon the threshold.

The beautiful room was ruined, all the snowy furniture scorched or blackened with smoke or cinders. The master of it had burned his hands so severely that he shuddered with pain.

At that moment the vivacious Suzanne appeared, exclaiming in horror at the wreck of the room and the spectacle of her mistress like one dead across the threshold.

“The curtains ignited from the candles,” explained Harold Castello, adding: “I have burned my hands fearfully in extinguishing the flames, and must go to my doctor and have the burns dressed. You may take your mistress into another room, Suzanne, and care for her until my return.”

He disappeared, and Suzanne brought restoratives for Violet, applying them so skillfully that she soon opened her eyes, murmuring, languidly:

“Oh, what is this? Where am I?”

“With a friend,” murmured the French maid, significantly, and she assisted her mistress to rise and led her into the dressing-room adjoining the ruined boudoir.

“Lie down here on the sofa and rest, my dear,” she said, in quite a different tone from that she had used in her former interview, and the languid girl obeyed, for she was trembling so that she could not stand or even hold up her golden head.

Suzanne brought her a glass of wine, but she shook her head, exclaiming:

“I will touch neither food nor drink in this house.”

“Then rest a while in quiet, and I will return to you,” the woman replied kindly, and left the room.

She went down stairs and ascertained that Harold Castello had left the house with his valet, to seek a physician and have his burns dressed. The only other occupant of the house, a man-cook, was nodding sleepily over his kitchen table with a newspaper.

The woman returned to Violet, whom she found sitting up, looking with displeasure at the beautiful white silk gown she wore.

She said, coldly:

“Suzanne, I have just observed that you took the liberty of changing my dress while I was in a swoon.”

“It was during your first swoon, lady, when Mr. Castello first brought you in, and at his command.”

“Very well, Suzanne; but now I command you to bring back the traveling dress I wore when I came. I wish to resume it.”

She had feared a refusal, but to her surprise and relief the maid consented with alacrity and deftly assisted her to change her robe. She even brought Violet’s hat and placed it carefully on her golden hair.

“Now you are ready for your second journey,” she said.

A quiver passed over the beautiful form, and Violet cried:

“Does that man mean to take me away from here to-night?”

“No, my lady, I am going to rescue you,” breathed Suzanne, in a low and thrilling voice that startled Violet by its altered tone. She threw out her white hand and clutched the woman’s arm, sobbing, hysterically:

“Oh, Heaven, can this be true? Are you indeed my friend, or,” suspiciously, “is this a treacherous plan to lead me into some new danger?”

“Not so loud, dear lady, lest some one overhear us,” breathed the maid. “Sit down one moment and let me explain as rapidly as I can, for we must be gone from this house ere Harold Castello returns.”

While Violet gazed at her in blended hope and fear she went on, in a low, intense voice:

“Lady, I am no more a French maid than yourself. I disguised myself and answered Castello’s advertisement for a maid to further my own designs. My eyes are brown, to be sure; but my skin is as white, my hair as golden as yours, only that both are darkened by a brown dye that changes my appearance entirely. Else I should not dare venture into Castello’s presence for fear of recognition.”

“Who, then, are you, and why——” began Violet, but the maid interrupted:

“I am your friend and Castello’s enemy! When I talked to you so strangely in the boudoir it was all for effect, because I knew he was listening at the door. I bided my time to tell you the truth, and to help you to escape from the fiend’s power!”

Violet’s eyes began to glow with hope and joy.

“Oh, may Heaven bless you and reward you for your goodness!” she cried, clasping the speaker’s neck with grateful arms.

But with a long-drawn sigh, full of remorseful grief, the woman shrank away, answering, fearfully:

“Lady, you might not wish to touch me if you knew who and what I am. Have you ever heard the name of Lena Lavarre?”

CHAPTER XXIX.
“MY OWN HONOR MADE ME KEEP THE AWFUL SECRET.”

“Lena Lavarre!” cried Violet, with a start and shudder, and the woman shrank away still farther.

“You have heard my name—my story! You shrink from me!” she cried, humbly.

“No, no, my poor girl, I pity you!” cried Violet, and held out her hand.

Lena Lavarre took it in both her own and kissed it gratefully; then continued:

“You know that I eloped with Harold Castello and was deceived by a mock marriage in Chicago and then deserted. You know that my father pursued the villain and was murdered by him. You witnessed the deed, lady, for I heard you declare as much to Harold Castello. You taunted him with the ruin of an innocent girl and the murder of her father.”

“It is true. I was a witness to that old man’s death at Harold Castello’s hands,” shuddered Violet, turning deadly pale, and almost swooning again at the recollection.

“Oh, lady, why did you not denounce the murderer, for your evidence would have convicted him? Why did you let the case baffle all Chicago and remain a mystery to this day, when you should have brought that fiend to justice?” almost wept Lena Lavarre.

Violet flushed crimson, then grew deadly pale again.

“I did wrong in keeping silence, Miss Lavarre, but I will tell you how it was. My own safety, my own honor, made me keep the awful secret.”

“Your honor, lady?”

“Yes; but you must not believe evil of me,” answered Violet, crimsoning painfully again. She added: “I happened to be in Harold Castello’s company by an accident that I will fully explain at another time. But my situation was a terribly compromising one, and when I became unwittingly a witness of the murder, Harold Castello threatened to blacken my name irretrievably if I dared to betray him. I was young and innocent, and terribly afraid of the world’s verdict, so I kept his secret, and let that old man’s blood cry out in vain against his destroyer for the sake of my own good name.”

“But you are sorry you did not risk it all, lady, now that you see what a terrible fate it brought on you. And it is not yet too late. I will help you to escape, and you shall denounce him to the law for the black-hearted murderer that he is!”

A terrible groan was Violet’s only reply, and Lena continued, eagerly:

“Oh, lady, you will not surely refuse my prayer, for I have sworn to bring home justice to my father’s slayer! And you are the only one who can help me! Oh, when I heard you taunting him to-night my soul rejoiced, for I knew that now I was near to my revenge—that Heaven itself had sent you to my aid.”

“Oh, this is dreadful, dreadful!” sobbed Violet. “Hush, Miss Lavarre; let me explain.”

“Oh, for sweet pity’s sake do not refuse me!” wept Lena Lavarre, wildly.

“But, my poor, unhappy girl, you do not understand my position. He has married me, that fiend, to keep me silent, because no wife can testify against her husband. Do you not know that this is the law?” explained Violet, her heart racked with pity for the wronged girl, and stung with remorse for the silence she had kept too long, and which now could never be broken.

The rage and despair of poor Lena Lavarre were beyond description.

She paced up and down the beautiful apartment, raving in excitement and breathing maledictions on her destroyer and the murderer of her father. Her beautiful brown eyes, once so soft and tender with the light of love, now glared wildly, almost insanely, and she seemed to forget Violet entirely until she crept timidly to her side, and whispered:

“Is it not time for us to go if we hope to escape our enemy?”

“Yes, oh, yes—I was forgetting everything in my passion! Come, lady,” cried Lena, catching the girl’s hand and drawing her softly forward to the hall, “you must go as noiselessly as a cat,” she continued, as they stole along the corridors and down the stairs to a little side entrance.

“I have found a key to this door,” whispered Lena. “The master did not trust me very much, although I expatiated loudly on my fidelity. But, all the same, he locked us all into the house before he left. But I had this key ready before he arrived with his bride to-night, for I meant you to escape. I did not trust his story of a crazy wife who would swear that she had been carried off against her will. Step softly, dear, lest Monsieur Cook catch our footsteps as he dozes in the kitchen. There!” and with a sigh of relief, she pushed the fugitive bride out before her into the moonlighted garden.

She drew Violet quickly along in the shade of some dense shrubberies.

“Do you see that high stone wall? We shall have to scale it, because that cunning fox has locked the gate and carried off the key. Do you dare it?”

“I should dare it if almost certain death awaited me on the other side, so that I escaped my enemy!” Violet whispered, dauntlessly.

“Bravo! Come, then, for it may not be so dangerous in the ascent. I know there is an old step-ladder close by. Now, then, we go up easily enough, and drop down on the other side. There is the risk in the descent. Let us pray Heaven to save us.”

“Amen!” murmured Violet, as she poised her lithe form on the wall for the spring.

“Let me go first. Perhaps I can catch you,” cried Lena Lavarre; but both of them landed almost simultaneously on the yielding grass of the field at the back of the wall.

CHAPTER XXX.
“I WAS MAD WITH SHAME AND DESPAIR.”

“Thank Heaven, we made the jump safely,” cried Lena. She caught Violet’s hand and drew her forward, saying, breathlessly: “There is an old deserted cabin in the woods about two miles from here where we can stay in hiding to-night. Harold Castello will not dream of searching for us there. Indeed, he will be sure to think we have gone straight to Mr. Cecil Grant, while in fact we shall be in quite an opposite direction.”

Hand in hand they hurried toward the woods, their hearts beating wildly with the joy of escape. Poor Violet! she was dreaming of her love again, her dark-eyed Cecil, the idol of her dreams.

“I shall seek my own relatives, the Meads, as soon as I can, and they will call in the law to free me from these hateful fetters. Then I can marry my own love, my Cecil,” she thought, fondly, as she hurried pantingly on by the side of her friend, poor, wronged Lena Lavarre.

When they reached the safe, quiet shelter of the lonely woods, they slackened their pace and talked softly together.

“Oh, if I were only free of this hated marriage!” cried Violet; and added: “Miss Lavarre, you told me Harold Castello deceived you by a mock marriage. Are you sure it was not legal?”

“Call me Lena, dear lady; it sounds more friendly; and I am but a little older than yourself, not yet nineteen,” answered the girl.

“Very well, Lena; and you shall call me Violet.”

“But I should not so presume—I on whom the shadow of such deep disgrace is resting,” half sobbed the poor girl in her wretchedness.

“It is not a real disgrace, for you were pure and innocent at heart, dreaming not of sin, when that villain deceived you; therefore you are not really to blame, and I can take your hand and call you friend, and love you,” answered Violet from the depths of her grateful heart, and she slipped her arm around Lena’s waist and nestled closer to her side.

Her tenderness went straight to Lena’s heart and soothed some of its sore and aching chords. Stifling back a sob, she exclaimed:

“You are like an angel to me, Violet, and I will always love you. But now let us go back to your question, dear.”

“I asked if you were sure that your marriage was illegal?” reminded Violet.

“It seemed very solemn to me, Violet, and the man looked just like a preacher; but Harold Castello swore to me two weeks afterward that it was his valet in disguise, and that he had performed the same ceremony for him several times before with silly, trusting girls like myself. Oh, Violet dear, I was mad with shame and despair, for I had worshiped my handsome husband, and he seemed to adore me. And, indeed, I was called a beautiful girl, with my dark-brown eyes, rosy cheeks, and golden hair. But he must have wearied of my devotion, for he soon threw me over.”

“Oh, Lena, I wish we could prove your marriage legal. Then I should be free from my bonds and could testify against your father’s murderer,” cried Violet, thoughtfully.

“Alas, it is vain to hope it; not that I could wish him for my husband now, only to lift the burden of shame and grief that is killing me, for I no longer love him. My heart turned against him when he cast me off so heartlessly. But here we are at our refuge, dear,” said Lena, as they came upon an old, dilapidated cabin in the very heart of the thick woods.

She pushed open the door, and they entered the dreary place—an empty room with a broken window, through which the moonlight poured in ghastly gleams upon the floor.

“I have been here before,” said Lena. “There is a loft with some broken chairs in it, and we can stay up there to-night and talk over our plans for the future.”

CHAPTER XXXI.
“IT WILL BREAK MY HEART TO GO!”

At Golden Willows Judge Camden and Amber were quietly triumphant, and Mrs. Shirley weakly dazed at the news of Violet’s elopement with Harold Castello.

“I never could have believed that Violet would jilt Cecil Grant!” cried the little widow, in surprise.

“And why not?” cried Amber, tartly. “Mr. Castello was as handsome as Cecil, and much richer; so I suppose that when Violet saw him, his wealth turned the scale in his favor.”

“Perhaps so,” was the meek response of the downtrodden little widow, who would not presume to argue with any one in that house.

But in her secret heart she was surprised at Violet, who had always been her favorite cousin, and she was very sorry for Cecil Grant. Her sympathies went out to him because he was poor and unfortunate like herself, and she could not help suspecting that there had been foul play somewhere.

“For why need Violet elope with Mr. Castello when her grandfather was willing and anxious for her to marry him at home?” she asked herself; but she did not dare to breathe the thought aloud, although she observed with suspicious eyes the great friendship that had grown up between the judge and Amber.

“How did she manage to get on the good side of the old sinner? I am sure he used to regard Violet as his favorite,” she thought, in wonder.

But Amber cared nothing for Mrs. Shirley’s suspicions. She was jubilant over the success of her plans for getting rid of her rival.

Judge Camden had given her the promised check for twenty-five thousand dollars, and she was now ready to carry out the second part of her scheme, to lend the money to Cecil Grant, and so place him under a heavy obligation that he could only requite by the offer of his hand.

Even her grandfather had been surprised at the fertility of her brain in conceiving wickedness, and had almost shrunk at first from her advice to buy the mortgage upon Bonnycastle and turn the Grants out.

“The whole county would be down on me, Amber, for the Grants are highly esteemed by everybody,” he objected.

“No one would dare to blame you to your face, grandpapa, and what would you care for their inward thoughts? You are the richest man in the county, and it would be a triumph to let that proud Mrs. Grant feel the weight of your power,” cried the wily Amber.

“That’s so! I’ll do it!” cried the old man, still smarting under the sting of his rejection by the mistress of Bonnycastle, and thus Amber gained her wish.

She waited eagerly all the morning after the elopement for a note from Cecil to tell her he would accept the loan of her money, but none came, and she began to grow alarmed for the success of her scheme.

“He shall take it! I will go to his mother and tempt her so that she cannot refuse,” she decided, and set out that afternoon for a stolen visit to Bonnycastle, not daring to let her grandfather suspect her design.

It was a chilly afternoon in October, and Amber made herself as charming as possible, putting on her handsomest carriage gown and a stylish new hat just received from New York, hoping to impress Mrs. Grant with her beauty and grandeur.

She left the carriage at the gate and walked through the grounds, now glowing in autumnal splendor, up to the splendid old ruin with the ivy draping its battlemented towers, hoping she might perchance meet Cecil loitering about.

But Cecil was nowhere to be seen, and when she lifted the rusty knocker at the hall-door, the old black servant who took her card looked at her as angrily as if she had been the old judge himself.

“I donno as missis is to home or not—leastwise she’s berry po’ly,” she said, drawing herself up in grim majesty, for Judge Camden’s evil deed was known in the kitchen as well as in the parlor, and deeply resented.

“Wha’ fer she come pokin’ aroun’ here arter her old grandad done act so shameful? S’pose he done sent her to see how po’ ole miss takes it to be turn outer house an’ home like dis?” thought Aunt Dinah, angrily, and Amber read her thought.

“Oh, Aunt Dinah, please don’t be angry with me for my grandfather’s doings! I am so sorry he has foreclosed the mortgage, and I came to tell dear Mrs. Grant that I am ashamed of it all,” cried the beauty, so sweetly that the old woman’s anger was at once disarmed, and with returning smiles, she ushered the visitor into the large, shabby parlor, with its faded carpet and curtains, and took the card to her mistress.

Mrs. Grant was in her own cozy little sitting-room, lying dejectedly upon a sofa drawn near the glowing wood-fire in the grate, and she looked with a weary frown at the bit of pasteboard, exclaiming:

“Amber Laurens! Why, what does the girl want with me? I should think she would have better taste than to come to Bonnycastle now.”

“Oh, missis, she tole me dat she am real sorry her grandad act so ugly by you, and she come to tell you so. An’, missis, she am got on de beautifulest gown I ebber seen, all black and yaller silk, and de fines’ hat, black velvit wid yaller canary birds onto it, as nateral as life! I sholy did like dem fine clothes!” admitted Aunt Dinah.

“But, Dinah, I do not feel well enough to see callers to-day. You must tell Miss Laurens to excuse me,” murmured the lady, shrinking from a meeting with any of the household from Golden Willows.

“Oh, sho, now, missis, you can see her jes’ as well’s not, for you needn’t go down to de parlor room at all. She can come to de settin’-room, and talk ter yer, layin’ dere so comf’able, dere now,” urged Aunt Dinah, thinking that the call might divert the lady’s melancholy thoughts.

“Oh, very well, Dinah; bring her in here, then. You will always have your way,” sighed Mrs. Grant, and the old woman retreated, chuckling, and soon ushered the beautiful young visitor into the presence of her mistress.

“Dear Mrs. Grant, will you pardon me for coming at this time? Oh, I could not help it! My heart ached for your trouble. I had to come and tell you how grieved and sorry I am, and how ashamed of poor grandpapa, who is getting so old that he is too much under the influence of his lawyers. They have persuaded him to do this grasping thing, I know; but although I have begged and begged him not to do it, he will not listen to me. Oh, do say you will not blame me!”

Mrs. Grant had risen in her iciest manner to receive the unwelcome guest, but Amber’s gushing outburst completely disarmed her hostility.

She took the outstretched hand and lightly kissed the inviting, upturned lips.

“You are very good, my dear girl,” she said, falteringly and made room for Amber on her sofa, though she realized in a moment how shabby her worn black cashmere looked by the side of the visitor’s rich striped silk.

Aunt Dinah withdrew, with a low chuckle of satisfaction, and Amber sat gazing with curious eyes at the mistress of Bonnycastle and thinking how much older she had grown since only yesterday, when this crushing sorrow had fallen upon her. The wavy dark hair was thickly streaked with gray, the pretty face was pale, the dark eyes dim and shadowed from constant weeping.

“Oh, Mrs. Grant, how ill you look!” pursued Amber, tenderly. “It is a burning shame that grandpapa should have distressed you so, and I will never forgive him—never! I told him so only this morning, but I could not move his hard heart. But we will outwit him, dear Mrs. Grant, for I have a plan if you will only permit me to help you.”

“You, my dear Miss Laurens!” exclaimed her hostess, doubtfully, but with a little thrill of hope.

It would break her heart, she knew, to leave the dear old home, and she caught eagerly at every little gleam of hope.

“Please call me Amber—Miss Laurens sounds so distant. And Cecil always calls me Amber. We are great friends, you know,” cried the girl, eagerly.

“Indeed?” returned the lady, with slight surprise.

She thought but did not say that it was Violet surely in whom Cecil was so much interested.

“Oh, Mrs. Grant, you have not heard the news about Violet, I suppose? She eloped last night with a gentleman who has been visiting at Golden Willows—a Mr. Castello, of Chicago. Oh, how surprised you look! You thought she was Cecil’s sweetheart, did you not? So did we all, but our Violet was always a sad flirt, and always preferred her latest lover. Mr. Castello was very rich, too, and that carried the day with Violet. So off they went to Washington last night and were married. Did not Cecil tell you?”

“No, he did not mention it. I suppose he thought it unimportant compared with our trouble!” Mrs. Grant answered, proudly, treating the whole matter lightly, though her heart ached in secret for her poor boy, thus made the victim of a heartless jilt.

Amber did not wish to wound her sensitive pride too deeply, so she made no further reference to the elopement, and began, wheedlingly:

“Dear Mrs. Grant, my heart is almost broken over this affair. I cannot bear to have you and Cecil give up your old home and go away among strangers. It would be very cruel for you both.”

“It will break my heart to go!” cried Mrs. Grant, choking back a sob that rose at Amber’s sweet sympathy.

“It must not be! You shall remain at Bonnycastle!” cried the young girl, with a resolute air.

“Ah, my dear young girl, we are compelled to go! Cecil cannot raise the money to pay off the mortgage, and Judge Camden has sworn that unless he does so, we must give up the place in a week. Do not distress yourself, my sweet young friend, over our fate, for it is fixed, and I must cultivate resignation,” sighed the unhappy lady.

“Perhaps if you would appeal in person to my grandfather——” began Amber, but Mrs. Grant shook her head decisively.

“Never!” she replied, with flashing eyes, and lips curled in disdainful pride.

“How she despises the old gentleman!” Amber thought, with secret amusement, then said, aloud, gently:

“Perhaps you are right not to humble yourself to that hard old man. And, indeed, there is no need, for you can defy his power. I can help you to do it.”

Mrs. Grant looked in unfeigned wonder at the beautiful creature whose face was so bright and spirited in the leaping flames of the firelight.

“My dear Amber, I do not understand you,” she answered, with a helpless little sigh.

“I know you do not, dear Mrs. Grant, but I will soon make it clear to you. I did not intrude on you this morning to offer useless sympathy, but to give you real help. I have a little fortune of my own, quite independent of my grandfather, and I will lend you the money to pay off the mortgage on Bonnycastle and keep your home.”

The startling words were spoken, and Mrs. Grant could not answer, from sheer surprise.

She had not known that either of the nieces of Judge Camden possessed a dollar in their own right, and she instantly decided that some of her father’s relatives had left Amber a legacy. But her kindly sympathy, her generous offer of so large a sum struck her dumb.

Amber saw the effect of her words and exulted. Without waiting for a reply, she continued, eagerly:

“Do not refuse my offer, Mrs. Grant, for it will make me very happy to enable you to pay off the mortgage and remain at Bonnycastle. And grandpapa need never know the truth. My money is under my own control, and I can convey it to you without his knowledge. Oh, how proud and glad I should be to do this small favor for you and your dear son!”

“This is very noble, very unexpected, and very—tempting—to me, dear Amber; but—but—I am sure it would not be right to accept. Cecil is very proud,” Mrs. Grant sobbed, almost breaking down in her gratitude to the fair young girl, her eagerness to accept her offer, and her consciousness that Cecil was far too proud to accept this favor from Judge Camden’s granddaughter.

Amber did not tell her that she had already spoken to Cecil on the subject. She answered, hopefully:

“I cannot believe that Cecil would be so cruel as to let you leave Bonnycastle, if by any fair means he can retain it for you. I know he loves you very dearly, and would be willing to sacrifice his pride a little for your dear sake. May I stay with you, dear friend, till he comes, and we will plead with him together?”

“Yes, stay, dear,” was the glad reply.

CHAPTER XXXII.
LENA LAVARRE’S STORY.

The two girls, Violet and Lena, spent the remaining hours of the night in the garret of the lonely old woodland cabin.

As there was no bed, they could not sleep, but indeed they were so excited that they did not care to do so. They preferred to remain awake and discuss their plans for the future.

Although Violet was wild to communicate at once with Cecil Grant, she permitted Lena to persuade her that it would be unwise to attempt it yet.

“Harold Castello will be watching him very closely, and detection might follow on the slightest correspondence. It is best to wait a while,” she said.

For the same reason Violet’s first intention of seeking her father’s relatives was tabooed, since it was natural that suspicion should be directed toward them.

“Your best plan is to come home with me to my poor widowed mother, and remain a while in hiding,” advised Lena Lavarre.

“But I have no money, dear Lena.”

“That makes no difference, my friend, for we have a cozy little home of our own. Ah, would that I had never left it at the temptings of that black-hearted scoundrel who won my heart and betrayed my trust!” sighed Lena, with unavailing remorse.

“Tell me how it happened, please,” cried Violet, with girlish curiosity over a love affair.

The poor girl dashed the bitter tears from her brown eyes and answered:

“It is a very simple story, dear Violet, though it ended so tragically. To begin at the beginning, I made his acquaintance in a way that I am ashamed of now—by a street flirtation! Pretty young girls are often very vain and thoughtless; I’m afraid I was both, for I delighted in the admiring glances I met from gay young men upon the street. I forgot to tell you that my home is in Washington. My poor father was a druggist, and we had a neat little home of our own. I was the only child. Father and mother had married late in life, and they fairly doted on me, and gave me all the advantages they could afford. Ah, how good they were to me, and how poorly I repaid their love!” sighed the unhappy and repentant girl.

“Poor Lena!” murmured Violet, tenderly, and, choking back a sob, the girl continued:

“I was called very pretty, and I kept company with some very gay young girls in my own class of life. We delighted in dressing in our best and promenading on Pennsylvania avenue, where we were guilty of flirting in a way that makes me bitterly ashamed now, for I realize too late that no pure young girl who respects herself should stoop to court attention and admiration from strangers. But I was giddy and thoughtless, my companions the same, and thus I made the acquaintance of the man who wrecked my life. He was handsome, as you know, and a few chance meetings and stolen glances completed the conquest of my silly heart. I permitted him to call on me at my home, and he told me that he lived in Chicago, and if I made a visit to the great World’s Fair he would be pleased to escort me through its wonders. He would return home in a week and ardently wished I were going then, so that he might have the pleasure of my company.

“To hasten over this unpleasant story, I begged my parents to take me to the great fair, but they refused to do so, and desired me to put the notion out of my head. They also disapproved of my fine new lover, and bade me drop his acquaintance.

“Smarting with resentment, I told Harold everything. A few secret meetings followed, then he persuaded me to elope with him. I agreed, and we were married, as I thought, by a Methodist minister and left for Chicago.

“Violet, I believe, before Heaven, that he loved me at first as much as it is possible for such a nature to love. He gave me one week of the wildest happiness. Some days we attended the Fair, on others we visited the sights of the great city. He often called me wife, and the servants in the hotel called me Mrs. Stanley, for that was the name I knew him by at first. But as the days went by he seemed to weary of me. He indulged in drink, and became coarse and brutal, declaring that he had acted hastily in bringing me away with him. At last—why need I linger over it?—he told me to go, that I was not his wife—never had been! When I came to myself, having fallen in a faint at his cruel words, I found myself deserted, with a purse of gold by my side, and a curt note bidding me return to my parents.

“I retained my senses just long enough to have a telegram sent my father to come for me, then I collapsed, and brain fever set in. My father arrived, and from my raving gathered the terrible story of my deception and desertion by Stanley, as he called himself.

“I shall never know how it all came about, perhaps, Violet, for it was a mystery from beginning to end; but while I still lay on my sick-bed, ill unto death, my poor father was found lifeless in a vile house in the city—murdered, with a knife thrust in the heart. No evidence was produced to prove who was his murderer, and to-day he lies in an unavenged grave—my poor, poor father, who was so fond of his little Lena.

“But, Violet, I have never doubted how my father came to his death. He was no doubt on the track of my betrayer. He found him, and in an altercation was murdered by the man I afterward found was Harold Castello, a fast young man of Chicago. But I could not bring home his guilt to him, although I have been on his track ever since my recovery. But now all is different, dear, for you saw him commit the murder. You can help me to bring it home to him.”

CHAPTER XXXIII.
AN ADMIRING STRANGER.

Violet had been sobbing softly at the recital of her friend’s sorrows, but now she lifted her fair head, and dashing the tears from her eyes, answered, tenderly:

“I will tell you the whole harrowing story, Lena, for I was indeed the horrified witness of your poor father’s death, and the memory of that scene will never leave me while life lasts!”

Lena pressed her cold little hand and waited anxiously for her to begin.

“I must tell you first how I came to be in Chicago at that time,” said Violet. “You see, I was at boarding-school, and last June our lady principal and her senior class formed a party to attend the World’s Fair together for a stay of ten days or so. I wrote to grandpapa, and he readily gave his consent to the plan and inclosed me a generous check for expenses. On the first of June our party, consisting of Mrs. Maynard, our teacher, and ten young girls, arrived in Chicago, full of joyous anticipations over the wonderful sights we were to see.

“As you have been to the Fair yourself, my dear Lena, I need not dwell on its glories, but only remind you that among the hurrying throngs that filled the immense palaces on every hand, it was utterly impossible for such a large party to keep close together. Mrs. Maynard realized this the first day, and directed her young charges that in the event of getting separated from each other, we should all meet her at the closing hour at the Virginia Building, in order to go home together. We found this plan worked nicely, affording each a better opportunity to inspect the buildings that appealed most strongly to our individual tastes.

“On the ninth day of our attendance at the Fair we separated into parties. Mrs. Maynard and three girls decided to spend that day at the Woman’s Building, two girls went to the Midway Plaisance, two more to the Electric Building, and two more to the Building of Liberal Arts and Manufactures. I found myself alone in the eager desire for a whole day in the magnificent Art Gallery.

“There seemed no possible harm in leaving me there alone, and Mrs. Maynard consented to my wish, saying, kindly:

“‘I can trust you, Violet, I know, to meet me at the Virginia State Building at six o’clock.’

“‘Surely,’ I replied, and she kissed me and turned away with the three girls toward the Woman’s Building, while I ran lightly up the steps of the magnificent Art Palace, thrilling with anticipations of the pleasures in store for me in the contemplation of the wonders of art. Securing a catalogue at the door, I plunged into the eddying throng that filled the rooms, and gave myself up to the keenest delight.

“The hours passed like minutes, and I never even remembered the luncheon hour in the feast of pictures and statuary spread before my appreciative eyes. Oh, how sorry I was that I should have but the one day for viewing all the wonders of this building!

“But you have seen and enjoyed the Art Palace, Lena, so let me hurry on,” cried Violet, as she continued:

“Quite late in the afternoon I observed that a very handsome and elegant young man seemed to be making the tour of the same rooms as myself, and even seemed attracted by the same pictures, so that he kept near me almost all the time. I was a little annoyed at first, fancying he wished to strike up a flirtation with me, but by completely ignoring him, I kept my suspected admirer at a distance, and finally I saw him turn aside into another room and supposed myself rid of his polite but admiring espionage.

“Relieved at the thought, I continued my tour of the rooms until it grew late, and I hastily looked at my watch. But, after the careless habits of womankind, I had neglected to wind it that morning, and it had run down.

“Turning to an old lady near me, I inquired the time, and was told it was half-past five o’clock. I thanked her and decided that I could remain some little time longer, as it would not take me over ten minutes to walk to the Virginia Building.

“At the same time I observed that the crowd was rapidly thinning out, and the next moment a Columbian guard came through the rooms, telling the people that it was six o’clock and the building would now be closed.

“My old lady’s watch had been too slow, and I realized with dismay that my friends at the Virginia Building must be very impatient waiting for my return.

“Walking as rapidly as I could to the entrance of the Art Palace, I discovered, to my surprise, that the heavens were pouring out a perfect deluge of rain. It was so dark as to look like twilight. The ground was covered with a miniature river, and the vast crowds of people were moving toward the various gates under a forest of umbrellas.

“Alas! I had lost my own umbrella that morning on coming out, and had rather rejoiced in my ill-fortune, it had proved such a nuisance to carry through the crowds.

“I stood at the top of the broad steps, dismayed at the thought of venturing into that awful downpour in the thin costume I had worn for comfort this warm day. I realized that in less than five minutes I should be soaking wet, and not being very hardy, might probably suffer an attack of illness from the effects.

“Suddenly an ingratiating voice sounded by my side:

“‘Permit me to offer my umbrella, miss.’

“I glanced up into the eager dark eyes of the young man I had seen so often in the building that afternoon.

“I shrank with instinctive dislike, and was about to utter a nervous refusal, and plunge out into the pouring rain, when a loud clap of thunder and a vivid flash of lightning made me draw back in terror so great that I could not speak the words that trembled on my lips.

“‘This is dreadful!’ exclaimed the young man, holding the umbrella carefully over my head to shield me from the storm. ‘You had better draw back out of the rain, miss, and when it holds up I will escort you to the gates and find a carriage for you.’

“‘Oh,’ I cried, my anxiety loosening my lips, ‘my friends are waiting for me at the Virginia Building! I cannot wait, for they will be uneasy over my delay.’

“‘At least take my umbrella!’ he exclaimed, so kindly that I hesitated.

“‘I cannot rob you of it, sir,’ I replied.

“‘Then permit me to hold it over your head, if you must go,’ he returned, gently, and drawing my hand through his arm, hurried politely down the steps.

“We reached the Virginia Building, but it was closed and deserted. Mrs. Maynard and the girls were gone.

“‘They are probably waiting for you at the gate. I will conduct you to them,’ said my companion, and we joined the draggled, hurrying throngs that were rushing toward the Fifty-seventh street entrance. Alas! in the twilight gloom, the pouring rain, and the rush and confusion, my friends were not to be found.

“I was wretchedly uncomfortable, my feet soaked, my heart heavy with an indefinable horror that I thought was fear of a scolding from Mrs. Maynard, but which I realize now was an awful presentiment of what was hanging darkly over me. I was on the very point of bursting into babyish tears when my companion said, kindly:

“‘It seems impossible to find your friends in this confusion, miss, and it would be better to take a carriage and go straight to your hotel, where you will probably find them awaiting you.’

“I assented, and, after some delay, he secured a carriage, and when I had named my hotel, he spoke to the driver, then sprang into the carriage by my side.

“‘Oh, sir, this is not necessary. You need not accompany me,’ I protested, in strange haste to get rid of my handsome escort.

“‘I beg your pardon, but I had better see you safely with your friends,’ he replied, so gallantly that I feared I had seemed discourteous, and let him have his way. After all, I reflected, he had been very kind and respectful; I really had no grounds for dreading him.

“While we drove along the rainy streets, he told me that his name was Adelbert Stanley, and that he lived in Chicago. I returned his courtesy by giving him my own name, and added the particulars of my visit to the World’s Fair with my teacher and friends.

“By this time we had reached our destination. The carriage stopped, Mr. Stanley handed me out, and led me up the steps of a large, gloomy looking house that in the still pouring rain I did not notice bore no resemblance to my hotel. But when I was led along a broad hall into a garishly furnished apartment, I stared about me in sudden alarm.

“‘This is not my hotel! the room is perfectly strange to me!’ I cried, starting toward the door in haste to get away.

“‘No, no, there is no mistake in the hotel. A blundering servant has simply shown you to the wrong room. Please remain here quietly a minute while I have the mistake rectified,’ returned Mr. Stanley, with a pleasant smile, as he went out, leaving me alone and half terrified in the room.”

CHAPTER XXXIV.
“I WISH I COULD WARN EVERY YOUNG GIRL IN THE LAND TO BEWARE OF FASCINATING STRANGERS AND SILLY FLIRTATIONS!”

Lena Lavarre was listening with breathless interest to every word that fell from the lips of Violet. The full flood of moonlight pouring through the curtainless window of the otherwise unlighted room, showed her face strained and eager, her brown eyes dilated and gleaming.

But not a word came from her parted lips to break the thread of the speaker’s narration; she was too eager to come to the climax.

Violet drew a long, sobbing breath, and continued:

“I waited impatiently for about ten minutes, when Mr. Stanley suddenly returned, followed by a servant with a tray containing an elegant repast, which she proceeded to arrange on a table. In the meantime the young man said, easily:

“‘You were right, Miss Mead. The stupid driver brought us to the wrong place; but, unfortunately, he has gone, so I had to send out and order another carriage, which will soon be here. In the meantime I judged it wise to order refreshments for you, as it grows late and you must feel the need of food.’

“Nothing could have been more kind and respectful than his manner, yet a dark cloud of terror brooded over my mind. I knew well that many gay young girls would have regarded the affair as only a merry lark, without suspecting evil; but I was full of apprehension over the anxiety Mrs. Maynard and my schoolmates were suffering. I was afraid of a scolding, and I was vaguely distrustful of the elegant young man who had taken me under his protection in such a masterful way. So, although I was almost sinking with weariness and fear, and had taken no food since breakfast, I felt no sensation of hunger; and, shaking my head dolefully, I declared that I could not eat.

“The attendant had left us alone now, and Mr. Stanley poured out a glass of wine and offered it to me.

“‘At least drink this claret,’ he said, in a pleading tone. ‘You are wet and chilled, and a glass of wine may prevent your taking a heavy cold.’

“I knew that what he said was true, but a subtle instinct warned me not to place the tempting glass to my lips, and we were beginning to have quite an argument, he insisting, I refusing, when, suddenly, the door was burst violently open, and an old gray-haired man rushed into the room.

“He sprang toward my companion, clutching his arm with a haste that made him drop the glass of wine, to shiver into a hundred fragments on the floor. He turned quickly, and they were face to face, both seeming to forget my presence.”

“Ah!” breathed Lena Lavarre, like one awaking from a trance of horror, her deep eyes burning on Violet’s face.

With a violent shudder, the young girl proceeded:

“‘Ah, Adelbert Stanley, you know me, do you not?’ cried the old man, hoarsely and angrily. ‘I am the father of Lena Lavarre, the poor girl you betrayed by a mock marriage, and deserted in this great, wicked city, and I have tracked you down! I saw you entering this place, and I followed you to demand justice!’

“‘Justice!’ sneered the infamous betrayer of innocence.

“Mr. Lavarre made a great effort at calmness, and answered:

“‘Yes, justice, Mr. Stanley. I ought to kill you, but what would that avail my disgraced daughter, my only child? I despise you, but you must remove the stain from Lena’s name, and make her your wife in reality.’

“The young man laughed derisively, but Mr. Lavarre added:

“‘Lena lies upon a bed of illness from which she may never arise; but I demand that you come with me this moment and make my poor child your legal wife, that she may rest at least in an honest woman’s grave!’

“It was pitiful, the sorrow of that old gray-haired father. My tears fell like rain.

“But Mr. Stanley was pitiless. He mocked at the old man and his deceived daughter, and refused the outraged father’s demand with insulting words that made my very blood run cold. Ah, he was a fiend in human shape!”

“A fiend!” echoed poor Lena Lavarre.

“His insulting words seemed to cut the old man to the heart, and beat down the barriers of self-control that he was trying to hold intact. His face paled with wrath, his eyes blazed, and he sprang wildly at Stanley’s throat, catching it in his long thin fingers. There was a moment’s struggle, then—I caught the gleam of a slender dagger in Stanley’s hand, and—the next moment it was sheathed in the old man’s heart! With a groan, he fell dead at his murderer’s feet!”

“Father!” moaned the hapless Lena, and her head sank on her breast.

Violet thought, for a moment, she had fainted, but presently she lifted her head, sighing in a hollow voice:

“It was just thus I fancied my poor father died! But, oh, Violet, I feel myself accessory to his death! If I had only listened to my parents’ advice, if I had not been an ungrateful, disobedient daughter, this sorrow had never come upon me. Oh, Heaven, to think of my dead father, my widowed mother, my own wrecked life, and all for one man’s sin! Oh, I wish I could lift up my voice in clarion tones and warn every young girl in the land to beware of fascinating strangers and silly flirtations!”

With a bursting sob of keen remorse and agony, her head again sank on her breast.

Silence reigned a little while, and through the broken pane of the garret window the moonlight streamed on the two unhappy girls crouching together with aching hearts.

CHAPTER XXXV.
“A YOUNG GIRL’S HONOR IS DEARER THAN HER LIFE.”

Violet sobbed violently for some moments, then murmured, tremblingly:

“Can you listen to the rest, Lena, so that we may be done with this tragic subject?”

She was eager to unburden her mind of its bitter secret so long hidden in her tortured breast.

“Yes, tell me all,” sighed the hapless girl, and Violet resumed:

“When I saw your poor father fall, weltering in his blood at the murderer’s feet, I was so horrified that I could not utter the shriek that rose to my lips. My tongue seemed paralyzed, my limbs relaxed, and I dropped half-fainting into a chair.

“I saw the murderer start across the room and turn the key in the lock; then he looked back, and the sight of me seemed to blast his eyes. I heard him murmur, with an oath, that he had forgotten me, that he would have to kill me to silence my tongue.

“Ah, Lena, you know that life is sweet to all of us, especially the young and fortunate! Fancy my horror when I heard that I, too, must die!

“I was about to shriek aloud, but with flaming eyes he rushed to me and clapped his hand so rudely over my mouth that my lips were bruised.

“‘Be silent, or you shall share that old man’s fate!’ he hissed, savagely, in my ear.

“I dared not speak, but my dilated eyes must have expressed my horror and aversion, for he went on, as if in apology:

“‘I did it in self-defense, you know, for the old wolf was choking me to death!’

“I could not answer for the cruel hand upon my lips. He still held it there as he proceeded:

“‘I do not like to kill you, for I am charmed with your beauty, and it would be terrible to kill such a fair young girl. But my own life is at stake, and I must look to myself. If I spare you, if I let you go free, will you take an oath never to betray me?’

“He released my lips, and I cried, indignantly:

“‘It would not be right for me to shield you, Mr. Stanley. You have betrayed an innocent young girl and murdered her father! You are not fit to live!’

“‘So you would like to denounce me to the law?’ he sneered, but I could see that he was very uneasy.

“‘Yes,’ I replied, frankly, as I turned my shuddering eyes away from the sight of the bleeding corpse upon the floor.

“He was silent a moment, gazing into my eyes with a hard, mesmeric gaze, but I shuddered and looked away. He sighed, and said:

“‘I cannot bring myself to kill you, as I killed that old man in the heat of passion; you are too beautiful to destroy in wanton malice. I will reason with you, and show you why you must, in self-defense, keep the secret of this old man’s death.’

“I listened defiantly, for I was determined, if I escaped, to denounce him. My heart was burning with sympathy for the wronged girl and her murdered father.

“But the first words he uttered were these astounding ones:

“‘If you should escape and betray me, you would at once blacken your own character irretrievably.’

“I stared at him in horror and dismay, and he smiled grimly as he added:

“‘When it became known that you were here with me alone, in one of the vilest houses in Chicago—a house that no decent lady would dare to enter—what would the world say of you, Miss Mead?’

“As I gasped for breath to answer, he added, tauntingly:

“‘I fell in love with you at the Fair, and determined to make you my own. Fate played into my hands, and I succeeded in fooling you into this house, and I never meant to let you go until I had wearied of my new toy. That wine was drugged, and I would have forced it down your throat only for the entrance of that old man! Well, I have no time to linger in love’s dalliance now! I must escape before this crime is found out. I must let you go, lovely one, still pure and innocent. That is,’ darkly, ‘if you will promise to let me go free and keep your lips sealed on the events of this night. Refuse, and—you are still in my power!’

“Oh, Lena, the awful threatening, the dread import of his looks and words almost struck me dead at his feet! I gasped, like one dying:

“‘Open the door and let me go, and I will never betray your agency in this awful deed!’

“He knew I spoke the truth; he knew that a young girl’s honor is dearer to her than life. His awful secret was safe in my hands.

“‘You shall go unharmed,’ he said. ‘I am sorry to give you up, but it is the price I must pay for my crime. Luckily I brought you in by a private door, and no one saw your face. It need never be known that one of the most beautiful and virtuous girls in the world entered this house, and after remaining half an hour, left it as pure as when she came into it. That old man’s death saved your honor, beautiful one. Now come,’ and drawing my vail close, I followed him unnoticed into the street, where the rain was still pouring in sheets like another deluge.

“‘You must endure my presence until I can find you a carriage,’ he said; but this was soon accomplished, and I thanked Heaven when the carriage door closed on his evil, smiling face, and I was rolling toward my hotel.

“Mrs. Maynard and the girls were wild with joy to see me. They had sought me vainly in the Fair grounds and outside, and then returned to the hotel, hoping to find me there. I told them the truth, as nearly as I could, that I had missed them at the Virginia Building, and a gentleman had secured a carriage for me and sent me home. As I told it, it seemed a very commonplace story, and no one dreamed of the secret tragedy it held—not even when Chicago was ringing the next day with the story of the mysterious murder of an old man at a notorious house in the suburbs. I was ill with a deep cold during our remaining time in Chicago, and went out no more until my return to Virginia.”

In a few more words Violet told of her grandfather’s visit to Chicago, his acquaintance with Harold Castello, and the attempt to force an elopement which had ended so disastrously in her wedding the wrong man. Harold Castello had doubtless brooded over the fear of Violet betraying him until he had decided that the safest plan was to make her his wife, and thus place it forever out of her power to testify in a court of law to his infamous crime, the murder of a noble old man whose innocent daughter he had cruelly betrayed.

While she was talking the moon went down, and the first gray beams of daylight began to lighten the darkness of the world.

Lena Lavarre rose and took Violet’s hand.

“We will go home now to my mother,” she said. “Our house is but two miles from this place, and we can soon reach it. Our enemy will never think of looking for you there. He believes that poor Lena Lavarre died in Chicago of brain fever, and he would not suspect you of knowing her mother.”

Hand in hand they stole from the old house out into the frosty woods, creeping timorously along, and starting in fear if a dry twig crackled under their feet, or a dead leaf rustled overhead, for they were flying from a pitiless fiend whom they feared and abhorred, and every moment was an hour until they struck into the quiet suburban street where Lena’s widowed mother lived alone in a pretty little six-roomed cottage.

Mrs. Lavarre was her daughter’s confidante in everything now, and so she was not much surprised when she returned, bringing with her a beautiful stranger guest. She welcomed Violet very kindly, and soon set before them a nice warm breakfast, after which they retired to sleep off the chill and fatigue of the cold night spent in the woodland hut.

CHAPTER XXXVI.
MRS. SHIRLEY’S TROUBLE.

Several days passed very quietly and uneventfully at Golden Willows; for, strange to say, Harold Castello did not come there to seek for his fugitive bride.

Amber was bright and happy, and gave herself up to the entertainment of company. Whenever this source of amusement failed her, she stole away to Bonnycastle, where she was now a welcome visitor.

Judge Camden suffered from twinges of his old enemy, the rheumatism, and Mrs. Shirley moped in her most doleful fashion. Indeed, she was once or twice surprised by the old gentleman in tears.

When he caught her for the third time surreptitiously wiping her eyes, his wrath broke bounds, and he demanded, curtly:

“Now, what the duse is the matter with you, madame? Always going about red-eyed and sniveling.”

Mrs. Shirley protested meekly that nothing ailed her but a bad cold.

“Come, now, that is a fib, old lady. Tell me the truth immediately! Has anybody been treading on your feelings?” cried the old man, whimsically.

“No-o-o, sir.”

“Is anybody dead, then?”

“Oh, I hope not, sir; but——” and the meek little widow’s voice broke in a stifled sob. Judge Camden eyed her in silence a moment, then thumped his stick on the floor and made her jump, thus revealing her reddened eyes and grief-stricken countenance.

“Aha! so there is something the matter! Out with it now!” he exclaimed, in his sternest voice.

“Oh, sir—please, it is nothing—only—only—I don’t want to offend, sir—but—I’m troubled over—Violet.”

His grim countenance reddened with anger.

“Troubled over Violet, eh? And why, may I ask?”

“Oh, I don’t know, but I’m afraid she isn’t happy!” and the poor old woman trembled all over.

“Not happy! I don’t see why,” he muttered, grimly. “Wouldn’t you be happy, Mrs. Shirley, if you were young and beautiful and off on your bridal tour with a rich and handsome husband?”

“Not if I didn’t love him, judge,” she quavered, faintly.

“What the duse do you mean? Didn’t Violet love Mr. Castello?”

“Oh, sir, you know she didn’t. She told me every day how much she hated him, and how she adored Cecil Grant.”

Mrs. Shirley had gone too far to retreat now, although her teeth were chattering with terror of his anger. But her whole sympathies were with Violet, and she could not keep back the words.

Judge Camden’s eyes snapped viciously, and he cried:

“If she didn’t love Mr. Castello, why did she marry him, eh?”

“That’s what is troubling me,” returned Mrs. Shirley, frankly. “I know she hated him; and when Amber told me she had run off to marry him, it gave me a dreadful turn, for I thought what if he stole her off against her will?”

“Tut, tut, tut! what a silly old woman! Violet married him for spite, if you must know the truth! It was Grant she was going to elope with, but he failed to meet her at the church, and Castello followed her there and pleaded his cause so well that she forsook her laggard lover and married him instead. That is the story, as Amber told it, and I think myself that Violet did a wise thing in giving young Grant the slip; although I ought to cane him for not keeping his appointment with my granddaughter.”

Mrs. Shirley was dazed at this plausible explanation, but, true to her colors, she cried, sadly:

“Oh, I am very, very sure that something dreadful must have happened to keep Cecil away, for he is a very noble young man, and——” she was going on tremulously, but he interrupted, with a frowning brow:

“That will do, madame; no more praises of that young scamp, if you please! I knew,” sarcastically, “that the young ladies of my family were both in love with the beggar; but an old woman like you ought to be thinking of something else besides a handsome young man!”

“Judge Camden, I——”

But the tormenting old wretch added, teasingly:

“You need not encourage his attentions, madame, for I should refuse my consent, just as I did in Violet’s case.”

The insulted old lady hurried from the room, weeping indignant tears, and Judge Camden laughed maliciously at the way in which he had routed Cecil’s friend.

But it made him unreasonably angry to know how every one admired the manly young fellow, who was so noble and true, and who was struggling against such overwhelming odds in the battle of life. The judge was not really a wicked man, and he would have pitied and admired any other such hero, and have offered him a helping hand; but he hated Cecil for his mother’s sake, and was pitiless. Only that day the young man had argued and gained a case in court before him, and the judge would have admired his masterly speech had it been any one else; but for Cecil he had only anger, and perhaps a spice of envy; for the old man well knew that any girl, rich or poor, in the whole county, would have been glad to marry the handsome and noble though impoverished heir of Bonnycastle.

While he sat fuming over his unpleasant thoughts, the clang of the door-bell penetrated to the library where he sat, and presently a servant entered with a card.

“Mr. Grant begs the favor of a short interview,” he said.

The judge viewed the card with round-eyed wonder and astonishment.

“Well, well, well! What business can the young jackanapes have with me? But show him in,” he ejaculated, and the next moment Cecil Grant bowed himself over the threshold, and into the presence of his surprised and wondering enemy.

From her window above Amber had watched Cecil approach, and her heart beat tumultuously as she drew back into the shadows, picturing to herself the surprise and chagrin of the old judge at learning the object of the young man’s call.

“How he will fume and wonder!” she thought, maliciously, for Amber had triumphed again.

Mrs. Grant’s entreaties had overcome Cecil’s sturdy pride, and, to save her heart from breaking at leaving the dear old home, he had reluctantly accepted the loan of the twenty thousand dollars to pay off the debt on Bonnycastle.

“And I wish,” cried Amber, fervently, “that I had twenty thousand more to give you to restore the dear old place to its pristine splendor; for I do love Bonnycastle, with all my heart!”

Mrs. Grant beamed with pleasure and gratitude on the fair schemer, and Cecil murmured his thanks in a husky voice, and with a heavy heart, for although he said no word to his mother, he had an innate conviction of what Amber would expect in return for her generosity. He knew that the old love, so cleverly masked for a while under the guise of friendship, still lived in her heart, and how could he pay the loan he had accepted from her but by the sacrifice of his life, by offering his hand and name, without the heart that still belonged to Violet?

So it was a heavy heart that he carried with him into the old judge’s presence; and when the wicked girl saw him come forth again fifteen minutes later, his head drooped dejectedly on his breast, and there was no triumph in his walk, although he had paid off his debt to Judge Camden and saved Bonnycastle for his doting mother. He was indeed overwhelmed with shame and pain at having accepted such a favor from a woman—and especially a woman he did not love.

Amber guessed something of the humiliation that bowed that dark head toward the earth, and her lips contracted with pain.

“He is wretched because his mother forced him to accept a favor from me; but if it had been Violet instead, how differently he would have felt!” she thought, bitterly; then broke into a choking sob. “Oh, Heaven, why is it that I cannot win his love when I worship him so dearly?”

At that moment her maid appeared at the door.

“Judge Camden wishes to see you in the library.”

Assuming an indifferent look, although her heart beat wildly, she sought her grandfather’s presence.

He was pacing the library in high excitement. Turning, at her entrance, he exclaimed:

“I have startling news for you! Cecil Grant has just left here!”

“Yes, grandpapa, I saw him from my window leaving the house, and I was wild with curiosity to know what had brought him to Golden Willows.”

“You could not guess in a year,” he replied, with an air of conviction.

“I am sure I could not, dear grandpapa, for of course he did not come to accuse you of treachery in Violet’s marriage to Mr. Castello.”

“Violet’s name was not mentioned between us. He did not stay above fifteen minutes, and the interview was purely a business one.”

Amber, with knitted brows and a puzzled air, exclaimed:

“Surely he was too proud to plead with you to let him stay longer at Bonnycastle! I have heard that his mother’s heart is breaking because she has to leave it, but I did not think that Cecil would humble himself even for her dear sake.”

How superbly she acted her surprise and wonder. If the old man had had the least lurking suspicion that she had lent Cecil money, her insouciance completely deceived him, and he replied, angrily:

“No indeed; my Lord Grant of Bonnycastle, Virginia would not humble his proud crest to living man, you may be sure. It was a mission of triumph, not humiliation, that brought him this afternoon to Golden Willows. In short, the young beggar had got hold of twenty thousand dollars—the Lord only knows where!—and he paid off the debt on Bonnycastle, and took my receipt!”

“Grandpapa, you amaze me, you astonish me! Where in the world did Cecil Grant get the money?”

Amber’s surprise was grandly acted. She was a consummate actress, and met his keen gaze with innocent eyes of wonder.

“I have no idea where he got it,” the judge rejoined, testily. “But he borrowed it, I suppose. He gave me a check on a Washington bank where he said the money was on deposit.”

“I have never had such a surprise in my life!” declared Amber; but her further protestations were interrupted by a knock at the door.

A servant appeared, saying that there was a strange man at the door, who would not come in, but wished to see the judge on particular business.

CHAPTER XXXVII.
JUDGE CAMDEN TAKES A STRANGE JOURNEY.

Amber could not understand the uneasy thrill that went through her at the mention of this stranger wanting to see the judge. She sank almost terrified into a chair, while the old man went to the hall-door to receive the visitor.

Yet there was nothing unusual about the matter, nothing that could possibly affect her, she thought over and over, to allay her strange excitement; but when her grandfather returned, she sprang up, pale and trembling, dreading she knew not what.

But he spoke very quietly:

“Amber, I am summoned to the bedside of a sick friend in Washington, and shall start at once. If I do not return until to-morrow, you need not be alarmed, as I may be obliged to remain even longer. Good-by,” and he bustled away, leaving her to the company of her own thoughts.

On the whole, she was relieved. A sick friend did not matter. She was rather glad to have him out of the way so that she might visit oftener at Bonnycastle without fear of detection.

She was eager to force Cecil into a declaration, although she could not yet see how she was going to bring the old judge to consent to the marriage. She did not wish to run the risk of offending him and losing her chance of inheriting his money, but she was determined to have Cecil, and trusted in her usual good luck to bring matters about as she desired.

Her thoughts followed Cecil longingly on his way back to Bonnycastle, and she smiled as she thought how Mrs. Grant would rejoice at the news that the debt on Bonnycastle was paid, and she would not be ousted from the home she loved so dearly.

“Ah,” thought Amber, in triumph, “she will be very grateful to me, and of course she will be forever sounding my praises in Cecil’s ears. Surely then his heart will turn to me!”

She forgot the perversity of love that has puzzled all the wise ones of the earth—forgot that love exists like jealousy—

“We are not jealous for a cause

But jealous for we are jealous!”

Cecil Grant might marry Amber through gratitude for her seeming kindness, but the feeling would be far different from the passion he felt for his only love, sweet Violet—the passion that lived in his heart despite her desertion:

“Every feeling hath been shaken,
Pride, which not a world could bow,
Bows to thee—by thee forsaken,
Even my soul forsakes me now.

“But ’tis done—all words are idle—
Words from me are vainer still;
But the thoughts we cannot bridle
Force their way without the will.

“Fare thee well! thus disunited,
Torn from every nearer tie,
Seared in heart, and lone, and blighted,
More than this I scarce can die!”

Amber could not believe in the constancy of Cecil’s love for Violet now that he believed her false and fickle. She was wildly determined to push this love from his breast by the force of her own will.

She hurried over to Bonnycastle the next morning and succeeded in her design of intercepting Cecil on his way to town as he walked along the bank by the murmuring river that always seemed to whisper to him of Violet, his fair, lost love.

It was a chilly morning in November. The frost-blighted willows drooped forlornly over the stream, and the lonely path was strewn with dead leaves that rustled to the tread.

When Cecil saw Amber coming toward him, he reproached himself for the feeling of regret that arose in his heart at the meeting with the brilliant beauty whose eyes beamed so joyously at his approach. He knew, although he despised himself for the instinctive thought, that she had come out purposely to intercept him on the way to the office.

“Good-morning,” she cried, pausing before him, with a bewitching smile. “I am glad I met you. I have a letter from our naughty Violet.”

“Indeed!” and Cecil grew paler, and would have passed on, but she detained him.

“Yes, it came this morning. They have arrived in Chicago, and she is delighted with her magnificent new home. She says she will be a social queen by reason of her husband’s wealth, and declares she is glad she married him instead of you. I am ashamed of her, the fickle, heartless girl! She even twitted me on my old love for you, and suggested that perhaps now she had proved faithless, I might win you back to your old allegiance.”

Stung by Violet’s heartlessness, he cried, warmly:

“Ah, would that I had never wandered from that first allegiance, and wounded your true heart, dear Amber.”

“Cecil! oh, Cecil!” she cried, with a melting glance that encouraged him to add:

“Is it too late to go back, Amber?”

CHAPTER XXXVIII.
BETROTHED.

It was the proudest, happiest moment of Amber Lauren’s life when Cecil Grant, stung to madness by the supposed mockery of Violet, cried out in the heat of resentful passion:

“Ah, would that I had never wandered from that first allegiance, and wounded your true heart, dear Amber. Is it too late to go back?”

By a clever falsehood she had stung his pride and forced him into a proposal sooner even than she had dared to hope.

He could think of nothing for a moment but his blind anger against heartless Violet, and his sudden wish to show her that he was not wearing the willow for her wicked desertion.

How sweet and noble Amber’s conduct seemed by contrast with Violet’s perfidy. He felt conscious of a torturing regret that she had ever come into his life, with her luring blue eyes and golden hair, to cheat him with a promise of happiness never to be fulfilled.

He had no love to give Amber, but he knew that she would prize gratitude and esteem; so he rushed into the trap she had set for him, and looked kindly into the hazel eyes that were swimming with joy as he exclaimed:

“Is it too late, Amber?”

“Oh, Cecil, dear Cecil!” she cried, joyfully again, and held out both her hands to him. He took them in his, pressed them gently, and dropped them again.

This was their betrothal. Amber longed for a single caress, for even one cold kiss, but Cecil was too honest to proffer a wretched semblance of love that never could be a reality.

He was paying his debt to Amber, and he was showing Violet that he could console himself; that was all.

But, oh, the dazzling light of love on Amber’s face, the exultation in her flashing eyes! She cried out, happily:

“I am glad that you can throw off Violet’s spell so easily, dear Cecil, and I will try to make you happier than she ever could have done.”

“I thank you!” he answered, gently, although he knew in his heart that her boast was impossible.

All his soul cried out for Violet, his beautiful lost love. She was false, but he knew that he could never forget.

As he stood there gazing at her radiant face, he suddenly remembered that the stern old judge who had refused to give him Violet would reject his suit for Amber as well. He was ashamed of the relief that came with the thought, but he cried out, quickly:

“Ah, Amber, what is the use of our plighting any vows? Your proud grandfather would never consent to our marriage.”

“He shall consent!” Amber replied, with a proud toss of her graceful head, and she added, quickly: “I always told Violet that she could have her way with grandpapa by being more resolute, but she was timid and half-hearted, and her love for you was not strong enough to make her courageous in fighting her battles. It is different with me, Cecil, for I shall triumph, you may be sure.”

He smiled at her without replying, and she added:

“But, of course, we will keep it a secret just at present, and tell only your dear mamma. I think she is fond of me, Cecil, and I hope she will be pleased.”

“I am sure she will be pleased,” he replied, kindly, then added: “I wish I could go back with you, Amber, to tell her the news, but I am compelled to meet a client at the office this morning.”

“I will excuse you, since your business is imperative,” she replied, gayly, and kissing the tips of her fingers to him, passed on toward Bonnycastle.

Cecil merely lifted his hat, in token of farewell, and hastened toward his office, his mind a chaos of gloomy thoughts.

Violet’s desertion and her mocking letter to Amber rankled in his heart with a pain that the devotion of his new betrothed could not assuage.

It seemed like a cruel mockery of fate that Amber, and not Violet, was to be his wife.

How often he had dreamed in his doting fondness of the glad future day when he should lead his beautiful, golden-haired love to his mother, telling her proudly that Violet was to be his wife and her daughter, and make joy and sunshine in their home.

Alas! the dream was over. Violet was false and vain; she loved gold and social rank more than a true and loving heart. She had thrown him aside, and Amber was to reign in her stead—Amber, who was true and noble, but whom he could never love as he did her heartless cousin.

“This withered spray of mignonette
You gave me, from my heart I take,
This sick sad heart you taught to ache,
And fling it in the restless sea.
I would my thoughts of you could be
So flung away from me; and yet
I cannot break the cruel net!”

Poor Cecil! the future looked very dark and gloomy to his despondent heart as he wended his way officeward, and Violet filled his thoughts, to the exclusion of triumphant Amber, who had hastened to Bonnycastle and imparted her news to Mrs. Grant.

The lady was surprised, though she did not permit Amber to suspect it. Intuitively she had read the girl’s heart, and knew that love for Cecil had prompted all her kindness, but she had not expected that her son would so soon forget his lost Violet.

The truth flashed quickly over her mind.

She understood that Cecil had sacrificed himself to pay the debt he owed Amber for saving Bonnycastle to his mother.

“Dear, noble boy!” she thought, tenderly, and kissed Amber very fondly, while she registered a silent prayer that Cecil would soon learn to love the beautiful girl to whom he had plighted his hand since she had proved more worthy of his heart than lovely Violet, who had once been her favorite.

CHAPTER XXXIX.
“I HAD HOPED—BUT ALL IS OVER NOW!”

A week passed, very quietly and wearily to our sweet Violet in her seclusion at the home of Mrs. Lavarre.

To her restless heart, tortured by suspense and anxiety, the time seemed endless, but the advice of her two new friends was still to wait a while and take no steps to break up the mystery that surrounded her flight.

“If I might only write to Cecil,” she sighed, and the thought of his trouble weighed like lead upon her spirits.

She knew not what story her enemies had invented to impose upon his credulity. Perhaps Amber had declared that she was false and heartless, and had married Harold Castello knowingly, and of her own free choice.

“She will win his heart from me, and then I shall die of despair,” she moaned; but when she gazed on her opal ring she saw the beautiful jewel glowing with dazzling hues of rainbow light, and knew that Cecil’s heart was still her own, no matter what cruel story of treachery and desertion they had poured into his ears.

“He loves me still, my darling!” she murmured, and took comfort in the thought, forgetting that she was bound by irrevocable ties to another, and that Cecil’s love could only be sorrow.

But when she pleaded so piteously that she ought to write to Cecil, Lena Lavarre gently reminded her of the hideous truth that she was Harold Castello’s wife.

“To write to your lost lover would only augment his misery,” she said. “Besides, your enemies will be watching for that very clew, and they would pounce upon you like merciless hawks. Be patient, dear, and wait a little while before you make a single move in this strange game you are playing with destiny. It seems to me that Heaven itself will interfere to save you from Harold Castello.”

“Heaven did not interfere to save you, Lena,” Violet answered, bitterly.

A heart-rending sigh heaved Lena’s breast, and she answered, sadly:

“I did not deserve Heaven’s mercy, Violet, for I was a willful, disobedient daughter, and ignored the fifth commandment in my determination to please myself. So I was punished for my sin. But with you, dear, it is different. You are good and gentle, but you fell a victim to the wicked plots of your enemies without fault of your own, so I believe that God is watching to save you and restore you to happiness again.”

“How can I ever be happy again, bound to that guilty wretch, Harold Castello?” cried hapless Violet, with the big tears raining from her blue eyes down upon her pale, lovely cheeks.

“Trust in God and wait,” answered poor Lena, reverently, and after a moment’s thought, she added:

“Who knows even yet but that I may be Castello’s lawful wife? In that case your own marriage would be a sham, and you would be free from your hateful bonds. I’ll tell you, Violet, that I have been trying to see his valet—the one that he said acted the parson in our marriage ceremony. I shall ask him if it is true, and thus settle the doubt forever.”

All Violet’s hopes hinged on this doubt. She prayed night and day that the truth might be revealed, and Lena Lavarre proved to be Harold Castello’s legal wife.

“Then I should be free again—oh, blissful thought!—and my undying love for Cecil would no longer be a sin! I should send for him to come to me here, and throwing myself into his dear arms, tell him how cruelly we both had been tricked and deceived. We would be married soon, and Amber’s wicked arts could never part us again!” she thought, hopefully.

But this faint, lingering doubt, that in its uncertainty saved her from complete despair, was soon to be dissipated by the truth.

Lena Lavarre had washed from her face and hands the brown dye she had assumed when she answered Harold Castello’s advertisement for a French maid for his bride, and with her fair complexion, rich golden hair, and large brown eyes, appeared so beautiful that Violet did not wonder at Harold Castello’s infatuation with the dazzling coquette. Even now, with the pensive shade of a tragedy on her exquisite face, she was very charming.

But Lena no longer exulted in the beauty that had brought her so much sorrow. When she went abroad on simple domestic errands for her mother, she always wore a thick vail that obscured her face, and she appeared unconscious of the admiring glances that rested on her queenly form and graceful carriage. The zest for flirtation was over now, for her proud heart was broken, and Lena would be glad when death released her from her undying remorse for her ruined life and her father’s untimely death.

One day her mother sent her into the heart of the city on an errand, and when she returned they saw by the expression of her face that something startling had happened.

“What is it, my poor Lena? What has grieved you so much, and washed out all the light of your eyes in tears?” cried the anxious mother.

Lena had, indeed, been weeping bitterly all the way home. Her thick vail was wet with the tears she had shed.

With a stifled sob, she threw off her hat and wrap, and sank wearily into a chair, while Violet and her mother hung about her in surprise and sympathy.

“Oh, Lena, what is the matter? What new sorrow has come to your poor heart?” cried Violet.

Lena lifted her beautiful streaming eyes to her sweet friend, crying, bitterly:

“My poor darling, it is for you that I weep so bitterly! I had hoped—hoped—but all is over now. I have seen Jacques, the valet. I know all the bitter truth!” and clasping Violet’s hand, she pressed it to her feverish lips in passionate sympathy.

“You have seen Jacques Brown, Harold Castello’s servant? When? Where?” exclaimed Mrs. Lavarre, in keen agitation.

CHAPTER XL.
“VIOLET, PLEASE COME HOME!”

Violet had fallen back in agonized silence, guessing the fatal truth from Lena’s incoherent speech. Her eyes grew dim, her face pale, and a hand of steel seemed to clutch her throat, pressing out all the joy and hope and life. She waited in dumb despair for Lena’s reply to her mother’s words.

“Look to Violet, mamma; she is almost fainting! Yes, that is right—make her lie down on the sofa and listen, for I have that to tell that will almost break her heart!” sobbed Lena.

When Violet was listening quietly on the sofa, her burning gaze devouring Lena’s tear-wet face, the speaker continued, hoarsely:

“Where did I see him, mamma? What does that matter? But I will tell you. As I was crossing Ninth street, I met a little funeral cortege on its way to the grave, with some poor soul doubtless happily released from the miseries of its earth-life. ‘Who was it?’ you ask! How do I know? I did not ask, I did not care; I only wished that your unhappy daughter lay in that black hearse with its funeral plumes nodding over her deep repose! But, Jacques? Yes, I saw him in one of the carriages, his evil face leering out at me! I stood dumb with surprise one moment, then I made a desperate gesture that I wished to speak to him. The carriage stopped for him to speak to me. He sprang out and came to my side.

“‘Miss Lavarre, is it you, or your ghost? I thought you died months ago, of brain fever, in Chicago. Really, this is a strange renconter at this time,’ he smirked.

“I could have killed the villain, I hated him so bitterly; but I schooled myself to calmness, and said, hastily:

“‘No, I did not die, although I wish that I had! But, Jacques Brown, as you value the salvation of your soul hereafter, tell me the truth! Was I legally Harold Castello’s wife, or—did you play the parson as he swore to me in Chicago, and help to deceive me into a mock marriage that wrecked my life.’

“The valet gazed into my tortured face almost pityingly for a moment, then answered, frankly:

“‘It’s no use for me to deny it to you, Miss Lavarre. Mr. Castello made me play the priest in your case, as he did in two more besides your own, only a few months before. He was a hardened roue, my master, and that’s the truth. But he paid me well for helping him in his wicked pleasures. Perhaps you know that he was married, though, fast and tight, only a week ago, to a beautiful young girl, Miss Violet Mead, who ran away from him the same night?’”

“‘You swear that Violet Mead alone is the legal wife of Harold Castello?’ I asked him, so solemnly that he grew pale and raised his hand to heaven, exclaiming:

“‘I swear before God that Miss Mead was his legal wife. All the others were deceived, like you, Miss Lavarre. But, excuse me; I am delaying the procession,’ and with a grim smile, he bowed to me, sprang back into the carriage, and it fell into line behind the funeral cortege that wound slowly along its solemn way, while I returned home with my cruel news for Violet.”

She sobbed hysterically again, but Violet lay still and white, the heavy lids shut tight over the dark-blue eyes—not unconscious, but still as death in her terrible despair.

The last hope was cut from beneath her feet. She belonged by law to the man she loathed and feared. At any moment he might ferret out her hiding-place and claim her as his own. His power was paramount, and no one could disclaim his right to take her away with him. What though she knew that he was one of the vilest criminals—what though she had seen him commit a foul murder—the law would not permit her to testify against her husband! She was his wife, she was powerless, almost friendless, a helpless fugitive hiding from her master!

The three unhappy women sank into hopeless silence, and Mrs. Lavarre sat down and mechanically unfolded the silk waist Lena had just brought in from the dressmaker’s. The package was wrapped in a newspaper of the day previous, and her sad eyes wandered carelessly over the advertising pages that lay open to her gaze.

Suddenly she gave an almost frightened start, and her passively sad countenance grew animated.

“Miss Mead!” she cried out, eagerly, and Violet opened her heavy eyes with a vacant gaze.

The newspaper was rustling nervously in the widow’s shaking hands, and she said, quickly:

“This must be intended for you, my dear girl.”

“What is it?” Violet asked, languidly, and Lena dashed the tears from her eyes, and gazed curiously at her mother.

“It is this paper that you brought around my silk waist, Lena,” explained Mrs. Lavarre. “I was just sitting here musing, with my eyes downcast, when they alighted on the personal column, and I read these words:

“Violet:—Will you please communicate at once with your anxious grandfather?”

“It is grandpapa!” cried Violet, sitting upright in eager excitement, while Lena cried, indignantly:

“A trap to betray you into your husband’s power.”

Then she started wildly at the cry of remonstrance that came from Violet’s trembling lips.

“Ah, Lena, for sweet pity’s sake, do not speak of that fiend as my husband again. Call his name, if you will, but never say of him that he is my husband, or that I am his wife. It drives me mad with despair.”

“My poor darling, I will try to remember,” soothed Lena, gently, and then they fell to discussing Judge Camden’s personal.

They agreed that it was best that Violet should ignore the personal, for her wicked old grandfather could have only one object in desiring to learn her whereabouts, and that object to betray her into the power of Harold Castello.

But the newspapers of the next day and the succeeding day were eagerly searched, and it was found that they contained the same personal, day after day. Then it varied into other words:

“Violet:—Please come home. I have good news for you.”

And again:

“Dear Violet:—For Heaven’s sake, write to us or come home. We are very unhappy over your fate!”

Each of the personals was signed “Grandfather,” and each one provoked only a contemptuous curl of the lip from sweet Violet.

Her bitter experience of his cruelty and unkindness had left Violet no faith in her grandfather’s affection. She believed that he was only acting on Harold Castello’s behalf.

Accordingly she ignored the personals, and clung more closely to her refuge under the hospitable roof of the gentle Widow Lavarre and her hapless daughter Lena.

At the end of a week the personals assumed another form:

“Will Violet please let me know where she is, and I will keep her secret if she wishes me to do so. I am very unhappy over her flight.

Uncle George Mead.”

Violet’s heart was so touched by this appeal that she would have replied to it, but her friends dissuaded her and whispered caution.

“Harold Castello has perhaps enlisted the Meads on his side, and if you write to them, it may be they will deliver you into his hands. Remember how rich he is, and what a power his great wealth gives him in influencing other people. Doubtless your relatives think that yours would be an enviable fate as his wife,” declared Lena; and there was so much truth in her words that Violet decided to ignore this personal as she had done the others. It seemed to her that the whole world was in league against her, that she had no friends outside of the two lonely women who gave her so warm a welcome beneath their roof.

CHAPTER XLI.
JUDGE CAMDEN’S RETURN.

“It is quite strange how long Judge Camden stays away!” Mrs. Shirley remarked to Amber, when the old man had been absent two days.

“I am sure it is quite as pleasant without him!” that young lady returned, flippantly.

Truth to tell, she found it pleasanter, for half of her time was now spent at Bonnycastle, and no one questioned her movements. She knew that a grand explanation must come some day, but decided to defer it as long as possible.

So she rejoiced in her grandfather’s absence, and the letter that came from him that day contained very gratifying intelligence, as it stated that he would not probably return for a week, owing to the dangerous condition of his sick friend. He also requested that all letters that arrived for him might be promptly forwarded to the general post-office in Washington.

Mrs. Shirley was quite curious over the mysterious sick friend on whom the judge was attending with such assiduous care.

But Amber disclaimed all knowledge of the name and estate of the interesting invalid, and, absorbed in her own affairs, she had no interest in the matter, little dreaming how vitally it affected her own future.

But Mrs. Shirley fretted more than ever.

“What if it should be our Violet who is sick?” she said, uneasily.

“Nonsense! Violet has arrived in Chicago long ere this,” Amber said, carelessly; but she did not think it necessary to tell the old lady the falsehood that she told Cecil about receiving a letter from Violet. She cared nothing for the meek and gentle old widow who in that stately house scarcely dared claim her soul as her own.

So she turned away rejoicing in her grandfather’s absence, and went away gayly to the piano, where she spent an hour playing brilliant operatic gems, trying to while away the time until she could start on her afternoon visit to Bonnycastle.

“How I wish that Cecil could come to visit me here!” she sighed, and then fell to wondering how she could re-reconcile her grandfather to her marriage with Cecil.

She did not wish to lose her chance of inheriting jointly with Violet the large fortune of Judge Camden, but she did not see how she could retain the old man’s favor and still achieve her heart’s desire.

She brooded often over the subject, thinking how proud she would be to carry a fortune to her husband, so that Bonnycastle could be restored to its pristine splendor, and herself become the great lady of the county, as Mrs. Grant had been in the palmy days, before the war had desolated old Virginia and swept away her fortune and her husband’s health.

A dark thought came to her one wakeful night, and haunted her with horrible persistence.

What if the old man should die soon—die before he found out that she was betrothed to Cecil?

Amber knew that the judge’s will had been made long ago, and that, after a legacy to Mrs. Shirley, all his wealth was divided between her and Violet. She bitterly begrudged her cousin her share; but she knew that no effort of hers could divert it from her.

The thought of his death grew into a secret, guilty wish.

What a fortunate thing it would be for her, how it would smooth out all the difficulties in her way.

And he was old, too—past seventy. He had lived out the measure of his days, grown feeble, grumpy, disagreeable, his headstrong temper making him the terror of the whole household at Golden Willows. Decidedly his death would be a relief to all. Amber began to wish for it with a desperate longing. Her hopes made it seem possible, probable.

In the meantime she kept secret her betrothal to Cecil, and her stolen visits at his home, waiting for Death to seize the old man who stood between her and the wealth she was eager to inherit.

It almost seemed as if Fate was going to grant her wish, for at the end of a week the old man returned to Golden Willows, so ill, so harassed, so changed from his usual pompous self as to fill every one with surprise.

“No, I have not been ill, but I have had a great shock,” was all he would answer to their anxious inquiries; and he took to his bed at once, saying that he must stay there till he grew better.

His first inquiry, on reaching the house, was for his letters, and he turned them over with a groan of disappointment.

“Has no one heard anything of Violet?” he asked, looking anxiously from Mrs. Shirley to Amber.

“Not one word,” answered Amber, quickly.

“Not one word!” echoed Mrs. Shirley, dejectedly.

“It is very strange!” he muttered, and his old gray head drooped dejectedly on his breast.

Some great trouble had surely come to him, they thought.

He declared that he was not ill; he would not have a physician summoned. He repeated over and over that he had sustained a great shock, and must have time to recover.

“Did your sick friend die?” asked Amber, carelessly, one day.

“Yes, he died,” replied the judge, and quickly turned the subject to something else.

This aroused Amber’s curiosity, for it seemed as if he must have loved the deceased very much to suffer so keenly over his death.

But no clever hints could elicit anything further about the mysterious dead man.

Judge Camden’s sole anxiety now was over his letters.

He dispatched a servant to the post-office for every mail that arrived, and he invariably groaned with disappointment when he turned over his batch of letters.

Amber watched him with blended curiosity and dread. She could not understand this strange anxiety over the girl he had treated so harshly and cruelly.

She said, on the third day, almost petulantly:

“Grandpapa, why are you so anxious for a letter from Violet? You cannot surely expect her to write to you after the cruel treatment she received from you.”

They were alone in the old man’s bedroom, where he lay very pale and feeble among the pillows, while Amber sat near in an easy-chair, having volunteered to read the morning papers aloud for him.

How bright and beautiful she looked in her warm, crimson morning dress that set off so exquisitely her olive skin, hazel eyes, and wealth of satiny brown braids. You would not have dreamed that such a beautiful body could have harbored such a wicked soul; yet at that moment she was thinking that her grandfather certainly looked very ill this morning, and that the secret anxiety that seemed to be consuming him would soon wear out his feeble life. Oh, how she exulted in the thought that at his death all her deep-laid schemes would be crowned with bright success. Violet was wedded to another, and out of the way, and she was betrothed to Cecil. Soon the old man would be dead, and she would inherit a fortune and could marry her lover whenever she chose.

All these bright thoughts were passing through her mind as she uttered the petulant complaint, and she hoped that the words would silence his strange anxiety over Violet; for why should he worry over the girl’s silence, when he had so doggedly doomed her to the fate of an unloving bride?

She was startled when a bursting sigh heaved the old man’s breast, and he cried out, with strange agitation:

“Ah, Amber, I treated Violet very cruelly in letting her be deceived into that dreadful marriage!”

Amber’s eyes dilated in angry surprise. She thought he had surely fallen into his dotage.

“That dreadful marriage!” she cried, indignantly. “Why, how you must have changed your mind! You thought all along that it was a very fine thing for Violet to marry a millionaire!”

“I was a doting old fool!” suddenly thundered the judge, in violent self-denunciation, and his wan, wrinkled old features writhed with keen remorse.

“Grandpapa!”

“I was an old fool!” repeated the judge, in a lower key, and in dreadful self-abasement; and he continued, sadly: “Amber, I believe I have been half-mad the last few months, and it seems to me as if you have boldly aided and abetted me in my meanness. In fact, you went further in devising deviltry! Girl, girl, why did you do it? Why did you put that wicked thing in my head? Why didn’t you take your cousin’s part?—sweet Violet, who was so pretty and gentle and tender that we ought to have worshiped her instead of driving her to her death!”

“Dead! Dead! Is Violet dead?” gasped Amber, her lips paling in genuine horror, though there was a throb of wicked joy at her heart.

With a deep groan, Judge Camden answered:

“I did not mean to distress you with the bad news yet, Amber, but my remorse is greater than I can bear alone. Yes, yes. I fear that pretty Violet is dead! We have hounded her to some dreadful fate—suicide, very likely!”

She gazed at him in consternation and wonder.

“Grandpapa, you must be raving! You look every day for a letter from Violet, and then forebode that she is dead. What can you mean? Is not Violet safe with her husband, the millionaire?”

“No, no, Amber; she ran away from Harold Castello the same night she was married, and her subsequent fate is wrapped in blackest mystery!”

CHAPTER XLII.
AMBER HEARS STARTLING NEWS.

A spasm of bitter rage tore Amber’s heart at the words of her remorseful grandfather.

Violet had escaped from the loathed husband she had been tricked into marrying.

At any moment she might return to Golden Willows, to denounce the traitors who had wronged her, and to convince Cecil of her love and fidelity!

Amber saw in fancy the whole fabric of her dearly bought happiness tumbling in ruins at her feet.

How Cecil would despise her when he learned all her wickedness, when he found that, under the guise of friendship, she had plotted to separate him from Violet and tried to steal into his darling’s place.

As the humiliating thought came over her, the warm hue of her cheeks faded to awful pallor, her eyes grew dim and glazed, and with a panting sigh, she let her head fall against the back of her chair.

Judge Camden thought she was fainting, and cried out, in alarm:

“Amber! Amber!”

The hazel eyes unclosed, and Amber feebly raised her head.

“Ah, my girl, it is dreadful, is it not?” cried the old man. “She ran away from Castello within an hour almost after they reached the house, and all search has proved utterly vain. For almost a week I have been searching for her, and I have put personals into the prominent newspapers, begging her to write to me or come home, but you see how fruitless all my efforts have proved. I fear that she is dead—that in her horror and despair at finding herself Castello’s bride, she has committed suicide!”

“I hope so,” thought Amber, vindictively; but, struggling for calmness, she said:

“Perhaps she fled to her father’s people, the Meads!”

“No; for I have been to them in Philadelphia. They knew nothing about her, and I asked her uncle to insert personals in the newspapers. He did so, but no answer came, and he shares my belief that poor Violet has surely been overtaken by some terrible fate.”

The belief certainly seemed plausible, but Amber dared not credit it. She trembled with horror at the threatening overthrow of all her hopes.

To lose her love Cecil now, when he was almost her very own—the thought was madness!

In a husky voice she cried:

“I do not believe that Violet is dead. She is probably in hiding, fearful to return lest she should be delivered up to Harold Castello. But how strange that he permitted her to escape! Have you seen him? Did he tell you how it happened?”

“I have seen him, and he told me his theory. The French maid he employed to guard Violet disappeared at the same time, and he believed that she proved false to her trust and helped her mistress to escape.”

In a feeble voice, broken by remorseful sighs, he told Amber of the fire in Violet’s room that night, and that Castello had been forced to leave the house to have his burns dressed by a physician. During his absence she had escaped.

“So it was Harold Castello who sent for you a week ago?” Amber cried, eagerly.

“Yes.”

“But, grandpapa, you said it was a sick friend.”

“Harold Castello was sick from his burns.”

Amber’s eyes began to dilate with an awful suspicion. She panted, wildly:

“But you told me, did you not, that your sick friend was dead?”

“Yes, I told you so!”

“Was it true?”

“Yes, yes,” Judge Camden answered, impatiently.

“Then—then—Harold Castello—Violet’s husband! Do you mean to tell me, grandpapa, that he is dead?” burst out Amber, in wildest dismay.

“Harold Castello is dead and buried,” was the startling reply.

CHAPTER XLIII.
SHE FANCIED THAT ONLY THE CONDEMNED IN TORMENT COULD FEEL SUCH PANGS.

Again Amber was speechless from surprise.

She could scarcely credit her own hearing, and stared dumbly at her grandfather for confirmation of his startling statement.

He watched her in silence a few moments, then said, peevishly:

“I did not intend to tell you all this until I got better, for I’m tired and sick from the awful strain on my nerves, and it fatigues me to talk much; but you have somehow wormed it out of me; so I will try and finish the story.”

“Please do, for I am very curious,” answered Amber, disregarding his confession of weakness, and he continued:

“Harold Castello, in the excitement of extinguishing the fire in the room, burned his hands and scorched his hair, but did not suppose he had seriously injured himself until he reached the physician’s office, where he became alarmingly ill. To be brief, he had, in his combat with the fiery element, swallowed fire, as the common saying is. His life was doomed.”

“Heavens!” muttered Amber, with glaring eyes of horror.

“Yes, it was terrible,” exclaimed Judge Camden. “He was carried home by the physician and his valet, and put to bed, never to rise again. Horrible suffering supervened, rendered more terrible by his agony of mind when he learned of Violet’s flight. But no search was made at first, for he believed that she had returned to Golden Willows. At length, realizing that he could not live, he sent for me, begging that I would bring Violet to his bedside, as he had one request to make of her before he died.”

The judge paused in his narration with a gasp of weakness, and motioned for a glass of the wine that stood on the little stand by the bed.

Amber obeyed his gesture, and after swallowing the wine he rested a few moments, and resumed:

“You know how hastily I left, Amber, without confiding in any one. I hurried to Harold Castello’s dying bed, and soon learned what I have told you of Violet’s flight. He was bitterly distressed because we could not find Violet, and gave me a parting message for her. I also witnessed his will, in which he left her his entire two millions, as an atonement for the persecutions she had suffered at his hands.”

“Two millions! To atone for his honorable love!” sneered Amber, almost wild with rage and envy of her hated cousin.

“Yes, and it was well earned by her sufferings when she found herself his wife,” protested the judge, stoutly, and he added: “Ah, you did not know that you were pushing Violet into a union with a fiend, or you never would have planned that awful marriage. But Violet knew him better—she had heard of him before; and if she killed herself rather than be his wife, I dare not sit in judgment on the hapless girl. He was a villain, and his punishment seemed a just one. He confessed to me that he had led a wicked life, and was not a fitting mate for my pure Violet. Why, look you, Amber, when the funeral cortege was moving to the cemetery, it was stopped by a young girl as lovely as a queen, and with the most tragically sad face I ever looked upon. The valet got out and spoke to her, and he told me afterward, that she was one among several beautiful girls that his dead master had lured to ruin and disgrace. Is it any wonder that poor Violet shrank in fear from the villain that we chose for her husband?”

Amber sat trembling, overwhelmed, crying out in her heart that fate had played her a cruel, a terrible trick.

Violet was free, a rich young widow, and at any moment she might come to Bonnycastle and tell Cecil how cruelly they both had been deceived. Their reconciliation and marriage would soon follow. They would be fortunate and happy; while for her—wicked, unscrupulous Amber—nothing would remain but disgrace and sorrow and endless despair.

Pale as she would ever be in her coffin, but with fiery, burning eyes, she sat and listened to the old judge’s story, hating him madly in her heart because at the last he had repented of his wickedness, because his soul stood aghast at the horrors to which he had doomed hapless Violet.

Very solemnly the old man continued:

“I have come to my senses, Amber, and I realize the enormity of my sin against my grandchild, although perhaps too late, for my heart forebodes that gentle Violet is dead. Alas! if Heaven had only spared her, all would come right now. She would be free, and I would no longer oppose her love for Cecil Grant!”

Amber’s voice rang sharply, despairingly, through the room:

“You would let them marry—Cecil and Violet?”

He answered, peevishly, reproachfully:

“Yes, Amber; it is the only atonement I could make them for all my cruelty. And he is a noble man, this Cecil Grant. I have wronged him by my enmity when I ought to have held out a helping hand to the manly young fellow. But I have thought of a plan,” eagerly. “I shall send for him and tell him all, and he shall search for Violet. Love is so keen and strong, you know, and——”

“My God!” shuddered Amber, the cry wrung from her by such agony as she fancied only the condemned in torment could know.

Then she forced her writhing lips to utter calmer words:

“Grandpapa, I am terribly unnerved by this story you have told me, but I am hopeful that Violet is not dead. And, yes, I think you are right to intrust the search for her to Cecil Grant. Love is keen and strong, as you say. You ought not to be kept in suspense over this matter; and if you will permit me, I will go myself for Cecil Grant.”

“Yes, bring him to me at once!” he exclaimed, feverishly.

CHAPTER XLIV.
A TERRIBLE DEED!

Amber flew to her room to get ready for her trip to Bonnycastle. Her brain was on fire, she was on the verge of insanity.

She put her hand to her brow and stood wondering what she should do next.

“My fate hangs trembling in the balance of the next hour,” she muttered, hoarsely. “Shall I remain quiescent, and let them all triumph over me? or shall I strike one fatal blow and achieve my own happiness? Bah! who could hesitate in such an hour? Self-preservation is the first law of nature.”

Thought came in rushing waves, and all in an instant her plans were formed.

She dressed herself very richly and carefully for a drive, and packed a small hand-satchel with all of her jewelry, and a change of clothing. Then she slipped into her glove a tiny package containing a white powder, muttering:

“How fortunate for me that I contemplated suicide when I first lost the hope of Cecil Grant’s love, and bought this arsenic in Washington. It will serve a better purpose now.”

She laughed a hollow, mirthless laugh, blood-curdling in its malice, and leaving the satchel just within the door, ran down stairs.

She gave an order for her phaeton to be brought immediately, and returned to her grandfather’s room.

The old man lay upon the bed in a slight doze, looking aged and pitiful in his gray hairs and wrinkles, but no pity stirred the heart of the girl who hated him now with a deadly hate.

Leaning over the table, with her back to the bed, she emptied into his wine-glass the white powder hidden in her dainty glove, her eyes flashing with a resolute glare.

Then she turned back to the bed and touched her victim gently. He started up in a dazed fashion, leaning on his elbow.

“Amber, is that you? How you startled me! I must have been asleep.”

“I am sorry that I startled you; but I came to tell you that I am ready to go for Cecil,” sweetly.

“Ah, yes; bring him quickly, Amber. Tell him it is important,” he sighed, wearily.

“Grandpapa, how faint your voice sounds, and how terribly ill you look! Let me give you some wine,” and the beautiful fiend poured the ruby liquid upon the white powder in the glass, furtively shook it up, and presented it with a faltering hand, although she was determined to playfully force it down his throat if he refused it.

But the unsuspecting judge took the glass in his hand, and drained a third of its contents before he paused, and said:

“Ugh! it is very strong! It burns my throat!”

“But it will make you strong. Drink it all, grandpapa,” pleaded Amber, solicitously.

“I will—presently,” and he leaned back on the pillow, still holding the wine in his hand.

She waited, lingered, but he dallied with the glass, almost driving her wild with impatience.

Eager to be gone, and believing that he had already taken a fatal dose, she said, presently:

“May I set down the glass for you and go, grandpapa?”

“Yes, go; but never mind the wine. I will sip it at my leisure,” he answered; and in her impatience she took him at his word, and flitted out with a ghastly smile, thinking:

“He will finish it, every drop, before he puts it down, and probably die before any one else comes into the room. There will be no suspicion of the cause of death, and they will call it heart failure.”

In the hall she encountered a maid-servant, and said carelessly:

“Hattie, go up stairs and bring down the little satchel inside my door. I am taking my dahlia silk to the village to be altered.”

Five minutes later she was driving along the road to the post-office, a dazzling vision that every one turned out to see in her elegant attire and natty equipage.

Half a score of obsequious young men darted out of the post-office to hand her from her carriage, and her dazzling smile thrilled them all day like wine.

She went past them into the office, but the Camden box was empty, the mail having already been taken.

“I see there is nothing for us, but I will take the Grant mail, if you please. I shall be driving past Mr. Grant’s office, and can save him the trouble of walking here,” she said to the postmaster, with her brilliant smile that almost turned his head.

“There is only one letter. It is for Mr. Grant,” he replied, taking it from Cecil’s box and handing it to the beauty with his most obsequious bow.

“I thank you,” she answered, as she grasped the treasure, and flitted out with a swish of silk and a waft of perfume that lingered all day in the minds of the admiring hangers-on at the village post-office.

CHAPTER XLV.
A FATEFUL LETTER.

While she was driving away, she looked eagerly, suspiciously, at the solitary letter for Cecil.

A cry of jealous anger parted her crimson lips.

“From Violet!”

It was indeed from Violet, whose anxiety had overridden her discretion and made her write at last to her lost lover to tell him the bitter truth about their parting.

“For it breaks my heart to have Cecil believe that I was false to him!” she sighed, to herself, and in a sudden fit of willfulness posted the letter to him without the knowledge of her friends.

“He at least will not betray me to my foes!” she thought.

Alas! she dreamed not that her cruel, jealous cousin would be on the watch for the letter, and that it was fated to fall into her hands.

“I feared, I dreaded this,” Amber muttered, bitterly; then she thrust the letter inside her bosom, to read it at another time.

“Cecil shall never see it, never! That doll-faced girl shall never rob me of my darling!” she vowed, vindictively, as she turned toward Bonnycastle, shivering through her rich sealskin wraps, for the day was bitterly cold and wintry, the chill of the hastening December days already in the air.

As she drove along, the beautiful face became white and set, and an intense light burned in the golden-hazel eyes. There was a struggle before her that was bitterly humiliating to contemplate, yet she did not flinch from it. She was determined that ere the sun set she would be Cecil’s wedded wife.

“Then I can laugh at fate!” she cried, grimly, as she sprang from her phaeton, threw the reins to a servant, and entered the doors of Bonnycastle.

Mrs. Grant, who was a semi-invalid, was always hovering over a bright open wood-fire, and rose hospitably to greet her guest.

“How cold and pale you look, my dear. Here, sit close to the fire,” she cried, kissing Amber, and drawing forward a large rocking-chair for her occupancy.

Amber dropped into the chair, put her face in her hands, and burst into a passion of genuine, fitful sobbing. It came quite naturally, for she was wrought up to the verge of hysteria.

“Oh, Amber, what has happened? My dear, dear girl, what troubles you?” implored Mrs. Grant, in surprise and distress, but for some time she received no satisfaction.

Amber apparently was too much agitated to speak, and at last sobbed out in the most incoherent fashion:

“Wait! Wait—till Cecil—comes! and I will—tell—you—my—miserable story!”

Then she subsided into her drenched handkerchief again until presently her betrothed came quickly into the room.

“Oh, Cecil, I’ve been waiting so long for you to come!” she sobbed, and he answered:

“But I’m not much behind time, Amber. I only ran down to the post-office before coming home to luncheon. And, by the way, Amber, I was told you had called for my mail and taken it away.”

He looked at her expectantly, and she faltered:

“I was on my way to Bonnycastle, and thought I would save you the trouble of calling for your mail. But, Cecil, there was only one letter, and as I held it in my hand—can you ever pardon my carelessness?—the breeze caught it from me, and whirled it into the river.”

She wished with a sudden uneasiness that she had indeed tossed Violet’s letter into the river, but she had kept it, with woman’s proverbial curiosity, to read at some future convenient time.

Cecil’s dark, handsome face was grave with disappointment, but he stifled his vexation, and said, courteously:

“It cannot be helped now, but I dare say it was of no importance—although I fancy I shall be curious all my days over the contents of that lost letter.”

“But you never shall know the truth about it,” thought Amber, vindictively, and she resolved to destroy the letter at the first opportunity.

Then, suddenly, she burst into tears again, and Mrs. Grant said, anxiously, to her son:

“Amber is in some deep trouble, and promised to explain all as soon as you arrived.”

He turned quickly to the weeping girl, saying, tenderly:

“What is it that has grieved you so bitterly, my dear girl?”

Unheeding Mrs. Grant’s presence, and with a torrent of tears, Amber threw herself into Cecil’s arms, clinging wildly to him, and sobbing, miserably:

“Grandpapa has turned me out of doors, driven me from home, and I have come to throw myself upon your protection.”

“Turned you out of doors! Good heavens! why has Judge Camden done this cruel thing?” demanded Cecil, wonderingly, and she moaned, despairingly:

“He found out that—that—it was I who loaned you the money to save Bonnycastle, and he—he—struck me, and drove me from home!”

CHAPTER XLVI.
TOO MUCH HASTE DEFEATS ITS OBJECT.

Dumb with amazement and indignation, Cecil stood passive in the clasp of her clinging arms, while she raved on:

“Oh, Cecil, he is so terrible in his wrath! He threatened such terrible things! He swore that I should never be your wife! Oh, I am so frightened, so wretched! Would that I were dead!”

“Poor Amber! All this comes of loving me! Oh, I was wrong to accept your generosity, I was wrong to make you my betrothed; I should have known that sorrow would come of it!” exclaimed Cecil, in deep agitation and sympathy, although no throb of love stirred his heart for the beautiful girl clinging to him in such passionate love.

“No, no,” cried Amber, wildly, still holding him, though he tried to place her gently back in the chair. “No, no, dear Cecil, never say that sorrow came of our betrothal, for it is the pride and glory of my life; and I would that we might be wedded this hour that I might dismiss the haunting fears of being torn away from you by that wicked old man, my grandfather. Ah, Cecil, darling, would that you loved me well enough to make me yours to-day!”

The wild words were uttered, and she waited in sickening suspense and shame for his answer. She knew, though she dared not look up at his deathly pale face, how surprised and perhaps disgusted he must feel at her bold hints, almost entreaties, for an immediate marriage.

He was indeed silent a few minutes from surprise and trouble, then he said, gently:

“Calm yourself, dear Amber, for there is no cause for these tears. You need not fear Judge Camden, for you shall remain with us at Bonnycastle, in my mother’s charge until—until I can make arrangements for our early marriage.”

Ah, how cruelly it pained his heart, still sore and aching from Violet’s loss, to promise Amber an early marriage; but her distress wounded him, and the debt of gratitude he owed her must be paid, at any cost.

But her agitation only increased, and she cried, in anguish:

“Alas, alas, he may come at any moment to tear me from you! Oh, Cecil, dear Cecil, forgive me if I seem unmaidenly—if I speak where I ought to be silent; but I swear to you that my whole life’s happiness rests on your instant decision, and on the keeping of your faith with me!”

“What would you have me do, Amber?” he asked, in a perplexed tone, thinking to himself that although her terrors were exaggerated, it was best to humor her hysterical mood.

With a great throb of hope at her heart, she answered:

“I can never be safe from that vindictive old man until I am your wife, dear Cecil; and if you care for me, if you value my happiness at all, surely you will consent to my wish. Listen: my phaeton is at the gate waiting. Let us fly this hour to Washington and be married. Then we can return and defy my tyrannical guardian!”

There was a long pause. Amber hid her face against his shoulder, and the mother and son looked at each other, his eyes questioning, hers grave, but—affirmative.

“You cannot refuse,” her grave eyes said, sadly enough, for she was shocked and pained at the girl’s boldness.

Amber lifted her head proudly.

“I am refused. Very well, I will go,” she began, drawing back from him, but he answered, quietly:

“You are hasty, Amber; I was about to say that it should be as you wish. You will excuse me one moment while I get ready,” and he went out, soon returning wrapped in his thick fur-lined overcoat, for a long, cold drive lay before them, and the air was thick with snowflakes.

Surely never was elopement so quickly planned before, for in ten minutes they were seated in the phaeton warmly wrapped about in heavy robes, and the gray pony was skimming over the road to Washington, bearing the handsome pair—Amber thrilling with joy, Cecil heavy-hearted and miserable.

The air was keenly cold, and the snow began to fall so fast that the air was thick with whirling flakes. Amber held the reins herself, and urged the pony to his highest speed as they flew over mile after mile of the lonely road in the gloom of the wintry afternoon.

Every moment was an hour to her impatient heart until they should reach the minister’s and be made one ere Cecil learned that his fair young love, so cruelly torn away from him, was already widowed and had always been true to him at heart. Let but this knowledge reach him ere the marriage, and Amber knew that all her hopes would be overthrown.

It frightened her to think of the letter to Cecil lying hidden on her breast inside the folds of her warm sealskin jacket, and she determined to destroy it at the very first opportunity.

They were five miles on their way now, and they had come so fast that the gray pony was reeking with sweat in spite of the wintry cold. Cecil ventured to expostulate, but she turned on him with a white, reproachful face.

“One would think you were reluctant to reach Washington!” she exclaimed.

“You mistake me, dear Amber; but you will kill the poor animal if you keep up this rate of speed!”

For answer she touched the pony’s back with the whip, and the brave little animal flew forward like the wind, maintaining its high rate of speed for half a mile.

Then—perhaps from exhaustion, perhaps from some obstruction in the road—Cecil never knew which—an accident happened.

The brave pony stumbled and fell, and Cecil and Amber were both thrown violently out of the phaeton, on either side of the road into the soft white bed of snow with which Mother Nature was spreading the earth.

CHAPTER XLVII.
WAS SHE DEAD WITH ALL HER SINS UNREPENTED?

Cecil was very fortunate, for he rose uninjured from the ground, with the exception of a few bruises.

But he trembled with dread when he saw Amber lying as still as death on the pile of rocks where she had fallen.

Oh, horrors! was she dead? It was more than likely, for her face was death-like, her eyes closed, and there was a bleeding wound near her temple, where it had struck in falling upon a sharp rock.

The poor pony lay among the shafts of the overturned phaeton, as he had fallen, and Cecil surmised that he had broken a limb; but he had no time to investigate, for Amber needed instant attention.

It seemed like a merciful provision of Providence that the accident had happened just in front of a neat, pretty cottage, and the inhabitants had witnessed it from their windows. A woman and a little girl hurried out, and helped Cecil to carry Amber into the house.

“Oh, the pretty lady; she is dead!” whimpered the child, as the death-white face of Amber rested among the pillows of the sofa.

Cecil feared that she was right, and he hastily unfastened her heavy fur jacket, and threw it back to place his hand on her heart. As he did so, the hidden letter slipped from its concealment and fell to the floor. He noticed it, but went on with his investigation, feeling anxiously for the pulsations of Amber’s heart.

“Does it beat?” asked the woman of the house, anxiously.

“Very faintly, I think. This may be only a deep swoon. Will you bring some water and bathe her head, please?”

The frightened woman obeyed, and then Cecil said, courteously:

“I will go for a doctor if you will direct me to the nearest one.”

“There is one two miles away, sir——” and while she was giving explicit directions, the little fair-haired girl crept up timidly with the letter she had picked up from the floor.

“The letter, sir, that dropped from the lady’s jacket.”

“Don’t pester the gentleman, Millie,” said her mother, reprovingly, but Cecil patted the little sunny head kindly, and took the letter from her hand with a careless glance at the superscription.

He gave a start of surprise, and his heart leaped stranglingly into his throat.

The letter was addressed to himself in the beautiful, beloved, familiar writing of his lost Violet!

He comprehended that Amber had lied to him and kept back this letter, the mere touch of which made his blood whirl in dizzy waves through his throbbing heart.

But there was no time to read it now. Thrusting it against his heart, he dashed out of the door, and hurried in quest of the doctor.

Within half a mile he encountered the person he was seeking, riding rapidly toward him on horseback, followed by the gardener from Golden Willows.

“Doctor Perry, I was just going in quest of you. Miss Laurens has been thrown from her phaeton half a mile back from here, and seriously injured, I fear,” cried Cecil.

But the old physician answered, brusquely:

“My God, man, I can’t stop! I have been summoned post-haste to Judge Camden, who has been very strangely seized, and is thought to be dying. Let Tom Smith here ride back for my neighbor, Doctor Jenner,” and the old physician galloped past like the wind toward Golden Willows.

“Will you bring the doctor for Miss Laurens, Smith, as I am on foot, and should make poor progress?” asked Cecil, anxiously.

“Certainly, Mr. Grant, and glad to oblige you,” answered the gardener, turning his horse’s head and galloping back in the direction he had come.

Cecil walked quickly back through the high wind and flying snowflakes to the cottage, where he found Amber still wrapped in deep unconsciousness, despite all the efforts the mistress of the cottage had put forth for her recovery.

CHAPTER XLVIII.
IN HIS GRIEF AND PITY, CECIL CAME VERY NEAR TO LOVING AMBER.

During Cecil’s absence, Jasper Melrose, the husband of the kind woman at the cottage, returned on horseback from the village, and his wife begged him to see to the poor pony, lying so still in the road, under the overturned phaeton.

A moment’s examination told the truth. The gray beauty was dead, driven to exhaustion by the merciless haste of his despotic mistress.

Cecil had scarcely returned, before Tom Smith arrived with Doctor Jenner, who looked grave, as he examined the unconscious Amber, and declared that she was suffering from concussion of the brain.

“It is impossible to say just now whether she will ever rally from her swoon or not. She must be put to bed, and we will do what we can, and hope for the best,” he said.

He deftly sewed up the gaping wound on her temple, remarking that it was a great misfortune she had received it, since if she lived, it must disfigure her beauty for life with a deep scar.

Mrs. Melrose put Amber to bed in her best room, and the physician declared his intention of remaining all night. He supposed that there would be a handsome fee from Judge Camden for attendance on his granddaughter, and determined to spare no attention.

The cottage people supposed that the accident had been the result of a runaway, and Cecil did not undeceive them. He did not wish any one to know of the elopement that had ended so tragically.

He did not love Amber, but his heart was full of grief and pain over her fate; and if she had died, and the truth of her treachery had never come to light, he would have cherished her memory always as something sweet and sacred.

Even now, he had no conception of the great importance of the letter she had intercepted from Violet. For why should she write to him, the heartless girl, who had deserted him so cruelly, and was now the bride of another? It was only to taunt him with her happiness, of course.

So he felt no real resentment against Amber for her deceitfulness. He judged her mercifully, thinking that she had withheld the letter to spare him pain.

And, in his anxiety over her perilous condition, he scarcely remembered Violet’s letter, although it lay, unread, upon his breast. Why should he think of fickle, selfish Violet, when her noble cousin lay stricken down in all her youth and beauty, never, perhaps, to rise again.

In those moments of his sorrow and gratitude, he was very near to loving Amber, at last, for pity is akin to love.

Suddenly, Doctor Jenner approached him, and said:

“It is very probable that she will lie in this comatose condition all night, and as you can do no good by remaining, might it not be a good plan for you to go and break the news to the family at Golden Willows, and bring Mrs. Shirley here to see after the young lady?”

“I am not sure that Mrs. Shirley could come, as I am told that Judge Camden lies at the point of death; but I will go and see,” replied Cecil, who was very anxious to carry the news to his mother.

Jasper Melrose insisted that he should take his horse, and Cecil accepted it very thankfully.

But before he left, he went to take a sorrowful look at the death-like face of Amber.

Oh, how changed, how pallid, how corpse-like it looked in the dim light. The dark lashes lay prone on the marble cheeks. There was no color on the lips that had uttered so many cruel falsehoods of sweet Violet. Cecil shuddered with grief, and pain, and pity, and heaved a deep sigh as he turned away.

CHAPTER XLIX.
WHAT GLORIOUS NEWS FOR A LOVER!

He threw himself into the saddle, and set out for Golden Willows and Bonnycastle.

The short winter afternoon was far spent, but the snow had ceased to fall, and was melting upon the ground. In the sky, the twilight was darkening over the blue, as he drew rein at Golden Willows.

They told him at the gate that Judge Camden was alive, but going fast, although the physician was doing all he could to save him. No one knew, as yet, the cause of his strange seizure.

Mrs. Shirley was in the sick-room when the message came to her that Cecil Grant was waiting to see her for a moment, on very important business.

The invalid, whose severe cramps had been subdued, lay still and death-like on the bed, but he caught the words and made a gesture to Mrs. Shirley:

“Tell Cecil Grant to come up here,” he said, weakly.

Startled, but not daring to disobey, she went down to Cecil, who hurriedly imparted his bad news.

“Doctor Perry has already told us, and I am very sorry for Amber, but I cannot leave Judge Camden,” she replied.

“Is he so very ill, then?” asked Cecil, and she answered:

“We fear that he will die. I will tell you a terrible secret, known only to the doctor and myself. Judge Camden is suffering from arsenical poisoning. He drank half a glass of wine given him by Amber, and was soon seized with terrible cramps, and rang his bell. I answered it, and finding him suffering so much with his stomach, administered a mustard emetic, then sent for the doctor. When he came he suspected arsenic from the symptoms, and found in the half-glass of wine that remained a quantity of the terrible drug. We cannot imagine how it happened. Amber must have made a terrible mistake. Fortunately, the judge did not get the full dose, or he would be dead ere now. Doctor Perry declares that the mustard emetic saved him, but he is very weak, and may die of exhaustion. In fact, he believes himself dying, and has asked to have you sent up to him—I suppose to ask your forgiveness for all his enmity toward you.”

Cecil could not refuse the plea of a dying man. He followed Mrs. Shirley to the judge’s room.

The weak eyes rested, with a gratified look, on Cecil, and the old man said, feebly:

“Doctor Perry, you may leave us alone for a few minutes, please.”

The physician retired, thinking that the young lawyer had been summoned to draw up the judge’s will, and Mrs. Shirley and Cecil stood waiting by the bedside.

“I sent Amber to bring you here, Mr. Grant,” quavered the old man’s feeble voice. “I suppose she told you all about Violet, and the mission I wanted you to undertake?”

“You surprise me, Judge Camden! I have received no message from you on the subject.”

“Then Amber played me false, the deceitful girl! and perhaps she made no mistake when she put the poison in my glass and urged me to drink it. And—I am dying, I fear, and have little strength to tell you what is in my mind. But listen: I repent of all my wickedness to you. Can you forgive me?”

“Freely, sir,” and Cecil pressed the cold, damp hand kindly.

“I thank you,” breathed the judge, in deep emotion, and added: “I have great news for you. Violet ran away from her husband within an hour after she married him, and has been missing ever since. I have sought her everywhere, but in vain, and I believe that you may be more successful in the quest. Will you find her for me?”

“Surely, sir, that should be her husband’s duty,” Cecil answered, with irrepressible bitterness.

“But did I not tell you? No, I was forgetting. Harold Castello is dead. Besides, Violet hated him, and was cruelly tricked into marrying him, believing it was you, whom she loved, with her whole heart. Ah, Cecil Grant, you have been cruelly wronged by the plot Amber helped me to carry out against you; but all will come right now, if you only find Violet, whose fate is wrapped in impenetrable mystery. Alas! I fear she has committed suicide!”

What a flood of joy rolled over Cecil’s heart at the judge’s words!

Violet was true! Violet had loved him always! She had been cruelly tricked into marrying Harold Castello, and had fled from him in horror and disgust. And now her wicked husband was dead! Oh, what glorious news for a despairing lover, whose heart had been almost broken by the news of his adored one’s falsity!

He thought, with a shudder, of how Amber had deceived him, and how nearly she had come to being his wife—an eternal barrier between him and his heart’s darling! It dawned on him that retribution overtook her in the very moment of approaching victory.

“Yes, I will find Violet for you!” he exclaimed, eagerly, his face glowing with joy.

“She is not dead,” he added, thrusting his hand into his breast, and bringing out the letter he had at that moment remembered.

“It is Violet’s handwriting!” almost shrieked Mrs. Shirley, and he answered:

“Amber took it from the post-office this morning, and I found it in her jacket when she was carried, unconscious, into the Melrose cottage. I have not read it yet, but I will do so now, and we will soon know where to find our sweet Violet!”

His happy eyes ran eagerly over the closely written pages, and very soon their hearts were gladdened by the news that Violet was with friends, no farther away than Washington. Cecil declared he would go on the first train and bring her home to Golden Willows.

CHAPTER L.
IN THE ARMS OF LOVE.

Sweet Violet was very nervous and restless during the twenty-four hours that ensued upon the mailing of her letter to Cecil.

She had poured out to her lost lover all the story of Amber’s treachery, and prayed him to forgive her for the sorrow she had unwittingly brought on his devoted heart, in that she was an equal sufferer with himself in the agony of sorrow and separation.

She thought of him constantly now, wondering how he would receive her letter, if he would write to her, if he would come to her—above all, if he would see any way to free her from the detested fetters in which Harold Castello had bound her life.

She felt a little guilty, too, in having written to Cecil against the wishes of her friends, and determined at last to confess the truth to Lena.

On the evening when the tragic events were happening at her old home, Violet sat with Lena in the pretty little parlor of the Lavarre home. It was still early, not yet nine o’clock, but the widow, pleading a headache, had retired to her room, and the two girls were quite alone.

Lena was sitting near a table, crocheting a white wool shawl, and Violet, in an easy-chair, amused herself with the antics of a little Maltese kitten in her lap; but the gleam of the gas-light on her lovely face showed the smile on her lips belied by the haunting sadness of her great blue eyes.

She said, presently, with a long, quivering sigh:

“Dear Lena, you must not scold me very much when I tell you the truth. I have been very naughty, and disregarded your good advice. I have written to Cecil!”

Lena’s work dropped nervously from her hands, but ere she could speak, Violet, continued, tearfully:

“You cannot blame me, Lena, if you knew how wildly I love my precious Cecil, and how hard it is to know that he believed me fickle and false, while all the time I adored him! I have written and told him of all the treachery that drove me into that hated marriage, and somehow my heart feels lighter, for surely Cecil will know of some way to free me from the power of that wicked man. To-morrow, I shall expect to get a letter from my darling, and I know I shall not sleep an hour to-night, thinking about it!”

“Oh, my poor Violet”—began Lena, but she was interrupted by a sudden rat-tat upon the door knocker.

Visitors at that hour were so unusual that both girls uttered a startled:

“Oh!”

And the blue and brown eyes looked into each other in dismay.

“If it should be—Harold Castello!” cried Lena.

“If it should be—Cecil!” breathed Violet, rapturously and moved toward the door.

But Lena motioned her back, saying, fearfully:

“Let me go; for what if your enemies have traced you here?”

She left the room, and went out into the hall to open the front door, while Violet listened eagerly, at the parlor door, which was a little ajar.

She heard Lena open the door; she heard the murmur of a man’s voice—the voice that could almost have called her back from death itself!

She pushed wide the door, and called out in a voice that thrilled with joy, and love, and longing:

“Cecil! Darling Cecil!”

“Oh, dear!” exclaimed Lena Lavarre, for the intruder brushed wildly past her, and rushed into the parlor, where Violet, his love Violet, was waiting.

“My angel!” he cried, and caught her to his heart, clasping her close, and raining kisses on her beautiful, happy, upturned face.

In the bliss of that fond meeting, the reunited lovers quite forgot the barrier between their hearts. Violet was transported with joy and gratitude that he had come so soon in answer to her piteous appeal, and, nestling in the haven of his dear arms, she held up her red lips for his kisses like sweet flowers thirsting for rain.

“You kissed me! My head drooped low on your breast,

With a feeling of shelter and infinite rest;

And a holy emotion my tongue dared not speak

Flashed up in a flame from my heart to my cheek.

Your arms held me fast. Oh, your arms were so bold!

Heart beat against heart in that passionate fold.

Your glances seemed drawing my soul through my eyes,

As the sun draws the mist from the seas to the skies.

And your lips clung to mine till I prayed in my bliss

They might never unclasp from that rapturous kiss!”

Lena Lavarre stood in the door-way, gazing with wet eyes, at the lovers locked in each other’s arms, while her warm heart ached with pain as she thought how cruelly they had been sundered, and how brief must be the bliss of this meeting when both presently awoke to the realization of the awful barrier between them and happiness.

She did not wonder at Violet’s devotion when she saw the princely beauty of her tall, dark, stately lover, noble Cecil Grant. She remembered how madly she had loved once, when she believed the man she worshiped was noble and true.

She almost felt it wrong to be a witness of this touching scene of reunited love, and was softly closing the door to go away, when Violet caught the sound, and turned her head.

“Lena,” she called, quickly. “Dear Lena, do not leave us!”

Blushing deeply, she withdrew herself from Cecil’s arms, faltering miserably:

“Alas! I have no right to your love now, Cecil; but—but—I was so glad to hear your voice again, so thrilled by the sight of your face, that I forgot—everything!”

What a happy, reassuring laugh came from Cecil’s lips, as he cried:

“Come back to my heart, my own true love, for there is no barrier between us now. Harold Castello is dead!”

They heard a low, wild cry as Lena Lavarre quickly closed the door and darted away, but they did not know whether it was of joy or sorrow, they were so absorbed in each other.

Cecil threw himself upon a sofa, and, with his arms around Violet, told her briefly all that had happened. There was no time to dwell on it at length, for he had promised that he would take her home that night, to Judge Camden’s dying bed, if she would go.

When Violet heard of his sickness, and his bitter repentance, all her resentment melted away in a rush of tears. All his cruelty was forgotten, his kindness and love alone remembered.

“I will go back to him at once!” she exclaimed, and hurried up stairs to seek Lena and tell her all.

She found the poor girl weeping hysterically by her mother’s bedside, and told them everything as quickly as she could, ending by begging Lena to go with her to Golden Willows.

She hardly dared to hope that Lena would consent, but after a moment of thought, she accepted the invitation, saying, frankly, that she wished to hear from the judge’s own lips the story of Harold Castello’s death, for she hoped that he had repented of all his wickedness, and made his peace with Heaven.

It was strange that she should be anxious on the subject, but perhaps her wronged and outraged heart still held some lingering tenderness for the villain who had made shipwreck of her beautiful youth, for it is hard for a woman to unlearn the lesson of loving, and, knowing him dead, she hoped he would not be punished beyond the grave for his sins.

But Mrs. Lavarre, who could remember nothing but the murder of her good old husband, and the betrayal of her innocent daughter, rejoiced in the knowledge that Harold Castello had passed to his dread account with offended Heaven.

“Ah, how strange is life!” cried poor Lena. “Do you remember, mother and Violet, how I told you about seeing Jacques Brown in a funeral procession, on its way to the cemetery? How strange that my own heart did not tell me that Harold Castello lay in that coffin under the nodding hearse plumes, on his way to the grave! Yet, so it was, and he is swept from the earth, never more to bring sorrow to a woman’s heart.”

“It is Heaven’s judgment upon the wicked,” her mother answered, solemnly.

The two girls were soon ready for the trip, and after bidding an affectionate adieu to Mrs. Lavarre, they went down to the carriage that Cecil had waiting, and were soon driven to the train that was to take Violet back to the scenes from which she had been so cruelly torn. The journey was brief, and they talked but little, for the shadow of the tragedy at Golden Willows lay darkly on their hearts, and they wondered if Amber had indeed tried to murder her old grandfather, or if it was only an awful mistake. Perhaps she was already dead, and the mystery of the poison in her grandfather’s glass might never be revealed.

The carriage was waiting for them at the station, and it was just midnight when they arrived at Golden Willows.

Mrs. Shirley met Violet at the door, and sobbed for joy, as she kissed and caressed her bonny favorite, whom she had so sorely missed. She gave Lena Lavarre a cordial welcome, and then told them that Judge Camden was still alive, and seemingly better, although very weak. She added that he was counting the minutes until Violet’s arrival; so as soon as she had removed her heavy fur wraps, the girl hastened to his bedside.

Oh, what a cry of grief came from her sweet lips as she saw the proud, strong old man so altered, looking years older in the weeks since she had seen him—so old, so wan, so ill! She fell on her knees by his bed, and kissed his pale cheek, sobbing out all her love and her noble forgiveness.

CHAPTER LI.
“UNTIL DEATH DO US PART.”

It almost seemed as if the news that Violet was still alive, and her return to Golden Willows, put new life into the stern old judge.

He began to rally from his extreme depression, and when Violet had staid with him a little while, he fell into a peaceful sleep, that lasted until morning.

Meanwhile, Cecil had hurried home to tell his mother of the startling events that had happened since he had left her at noon with Amber. Mrs. Shirley had sent a maid from Golden Willows to nurse Amber at the Melrose cottage, so he did not think it necessary to go back there.

But when he had told Mrs. Grant all the story of Amber’s treachery, she sighed deeply, and said:

“Poor girl! she has been very wicked, and I am glad you escaped the marriage she planned for you. But, Cecil, we must not forget her great kindness, nor the gratitude we owe her for the loan that saved Bonnycastle.”

“But, mother, it seems as if she deliberately planned the foreclosure of the mortgage, in order to work out her plan of the elopement, and to snare me in her toils,” he replied, indignantly.

“Poor Amber! was she indeed so wicked? But yet, I pity her, now that her sins have found her out, and she is so desolate and forsaken. And since Mrs. Shirley cannot go to her, Cecil, why it almost seems my duty to care for her now; so, early in the morning, you must take me to the Melrose cottage.”

He did not gainsay her wish, and took her in a carriage the next morning.

But there was no change in Amber. She lay unconscious, as on the night before; and Cecil left his mother at the cottage, and rode to Golden Willows to see Violet.

She came to meet him, so bright, so beautiful, in her soft, white cashmere morning-dress, bound at the waist with a white silken cord, and all her golden curls loose about her shoulders, like ripples of spun gold. The sweet rosebud lips were lifted frankly for his fond kiss.

“Grandpapa is so much better this morning. He has been talking to us—telling us”—she said, and paused.

“Of Harold Castello’s death?” asked Cecil.

“Yes,” she answered, “and Lena was very glad that he repented his sins before he died. He had a priest sent for, and confessed his sins and received absolution. He left a message for me, praying my pardon for his sins against me, and that I would never reveal all the evil I knew of him, since he had passed beyond earthly punishment to the bar of Heaven. Cecil,” and she lifted her wistful blue eyes to his adoring face.

“What is it, my darling?”

She answered, with a catch in her breath, like a repressed sob:

“I knew much evil of this man that I have never spoken. Is it right for me to keep silence now?”

“Yes, Violet, it is right. The dead are sacred. If we cannot speak in praise of them, and if silence can wrong no one, it is best.”

“I am glad you think so, for his terrible suffering in death has touched my heart. And Lena forgives him now, and his wrongs against her were greater than mine.”

“It is noble in you both,” he said, admiringly.

“But, Cecil, there is something else that distresses me very much, but grandpapa says I must accept it.”

“What is it, my Violet?”

“I—I—am his widow, you know. Is it not horrible to think of, dear? But it cannot be helped, you know, for the marriage was legal. But he had no relatives, and—and—he left me all his wealth—several millions, grandpapa says. I—I—wish to refuse it, but he says there is no way to do it. And the dying man begged I would accept it in atonement for all I had suffered through his sins.”

“And you wish to refuse it, my darling? But I do not blame you. There is Lena, whom he wronged so deeply. You can give it to her, Violet.”

“I have offered it to her, but she refused, for there are reasons that would make it dreadful for her to accept. And grandpapa has been saying that I am very foolish to refuse this fortune. He said I might do so much good with it—help the poor, you know—and—and”—shyly, “restore Bonnycastle when we are married. It tempted me a little, dear, for I should like to see Bonnycastle rebuilt—it will be my future home! So what shall I do, my darling?”

“You might think me mercenary if I counseled you to accept it, dear one, since you will be my wife. You must decide for yourself.”

“Then I will do as Mr. Castello wished, and as grandpapa counsels, for I shall then be very rich, and can do much good with the money.”

Cecil did not dissuade her, for he thought that she had suffered enough at Castello’s hands to merit this compensation. He did not covet the money for himself, but he knew that it would add to the happiness of his wife.

So she told Judge Camden she would accept the royal dower, and he was well pleased.

“But, Lena, it should have been yours instead,” she said, sadly; but Lena shook her head.

“You forget poor father,” she said. “No, no! I could not touch a cent of it. I care nothing now for worldly pleasures, and at the death of my poor mother, who is fast failing in health, I shall retire into a convent to end my days.”

Violet saw that there was no use urging her about the money. The wound in her heart was mortal.

She remained a few days at Golden Willows, until Judge Camden was out of danger, then returned to her home in Washington. A few weeks later her mother died, and she carried out her vow of entering a convent. The wonderful beauty that had proved her ruin was hidden beneath the black vail of the nun. When Violet donned the misty vail to become the adored bride of the man she worshiped, Lena Lavarre had already spoken the solemn vows that made her the pious bride of Heaven.

After Violet had held that conversation with Cecil, she said to him:

“I wish you to take me to see Amber. Although she has sinned against me, I forgive her, because I am so very happy; and I pity her for the jealous love that made her cruel and wicked.”

“I will take you to the cottage. My mother is already there,” replied Cecil.

Violet went to her grandfather.

“I am going to see Amber. You must send her your forgiveness,” she pleaded.

He demurred at first, but he could not refuse anything to Violet, who had forgiven so much to him; so he agreed that he would forgive Amber’s sins, and let her come home if she recovered.

But the next day Amber came home to Golden Willows in her coffin.

When Cecil and Violet reached the cottage, the beautiful sinner who had risked and lost all for the sake of a mad love, had just expired, without ever fully regaining consciousness.

Violet kissed the poor, dead face, whose beauty was all marred by that ghastly scar, and wept bitterly on Mrs. Grant’s motherly breast. She had hoped so much that Amber would get well and repent, but it was not to be. The fiery heart and burning brain were stilled forever.

So they robed her in snowy white, with flowers on her pulseless breast, and bore her back to her old home, and the secret of her sins was hidden in sacred silence in the breasts of the few that knew them. A few days later she had a stately funeral, and was laid to rest in the family grave-yard, under the whirling winter snow. The whole county mourned for beautiful Amber, who had come to so untimely an end, and the broken marble shaft that rose above her dreamless head, told no secrets of the wayward heart and mind that had driven her into sin and brought her to death.

Judge Camden was deeply moved when he heard the story of Mrs. Grant’s attendance at Amber’s death-bed. He realized that she was not the proud, heartless woman he had imagined, and thanked her, in a brief, grateful note, for her friendship for his dead granddaughter. She replied by telling how Amber had saved Bonnycastle, and then he understood everything—how terribly the girl had fought for victory in all her aims. He always tried to believe that Amber had made some terrible mistake when she placed the arsenic in his glass.

“She thought it was a sleeping potion, I am sure,” he said to gentle Mrs. Shirley, who sighed, without replying.

“But,” continued the judge, “I should have died, the doctor says, but for the timely emetic you gave me, madame.”

“I am very glad I could pay some of the debt of gratitude I owe you, by saving your life,” she answered, in her simple, gentle way, and the old man, who was getting well again, and seemed to have years of life before him, looked at her quite tenderly.

“You owe me no gratitude, for I have always been a bear to you,” he protested.

“Oh, no, judge; you have always been very kind to me!”

“Then, since you have such a good opinion of me, madame, suppose we get married, and make each other happy for the rest of our lives? When I die, I’ll give you a life interest in my property, and at your death, it will revert to our dear Violet.”

Mrs. Shirley agreed to this offer as amiably as she always accepted the judge’s propositions; and she found, on marrying him, that her lot was very much bettered. He made quite an affectionate old husband, and dropped many of his bearish ways in honor of the timid, gentle lady who bore his name.

In the golden spring-time, when the violets were blooming in the shady dells, Cecil Grant gathered to his tender heart the fair Violet of Golden Willows, to have and hold in perfect bliss forever, “until death do us part.”

(THE END.)

BERTHA CLAY LIBRARY

ISSUED SEMI-MONTHLY

The only complete line of Bertha M. Clay’s stories. Many of these titles are copyrighted and cannot be found in any other edition.

ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT

TO THE PUBLIC:—These books are sold by news dealers everywhere. If your dealer does not keep them, and will not get them for you, send direct to the publishers, in which case four cents must be added to the price per copy to cover postage.

1— | A Bitter Atonement.
2— | Dora Thorne.
3— | A Golden Heart.
4— | Lord Lisle’s Daughter.
5— | The Mystery of Colde Fell; or, “Not Proven.”
6— | Diana’s Discipline; or, Sunshine and Roses.
7— | A Dark Marriage Morn.
8— | Hilda’s Lover; or, The False Vow; or, Lady Hutton’s Ward.
9— | Her Mother’s Sin; or, A Bright Wedding Day.
10— | One Against Many.
11— | For Another’s Sin; or, A Struggle for Love.
12— | At War With Herself.
13— | Evelyn’s Folly.
14— | A Haunted Life.
15— | Lady Damer’s Secret.
16— | His Wife’s Judgment.
17— | Lady Castlemaine’s Divorce; or, Put Asunder.
19— | Two Fair Women; or, Which Loved Him Best?
21— | Wife in Name Only.
22— | The Sin of a Lifetime.
23— | The World Between Them.
24— | Prince Charlie’s Daughter.
25— | A Thorn in Her Heart.
26— | A Struggle for a Ring.
27— | The Shadow of a Sin.
28— | A Rose in Thorns.
29— | A Woman’s Love Story.
30— | The Romance of a Black Veil.
31— | Redeemed by Love; or, Love’s Conflict; or, Love Works Wonders.
32— | Lord Lynne’s Choice.
33— | Set in Diamonds.
34— | The Romance of a Young Girl; or, The Heiress of Hill-drop.
35— | A Woman’s War.
36— | On Her Wedding Morn, and Her Only Sin.
37— | Weaker Than a Woman.
38— | Love’s Warfare.
40— | A Nameless Sin.
41— | A Mad Love.
42— | Hilary’s Folly; or, Her Marriage Vow.
43— | Madolin’s Lover.
44— | The Belle of Lynn; or, The Miller’s Daughter.
45— | Lover and Husband.
46— | Beauty’s Marriage, and Between Two Sins.
47— | The Duke’s Secret.
48— | Her Second Love.
49— | Addie’s Husband, and Arnold’s Promise.
50— | A True Magdalen; or, One False Step.
51— | For a Woman’s Honor.
52— | Claribel’s Love Story; or, Love’s Hidden Depths.
53— | A Fiery Ordeal.
54— | The Gipsy’s Daughter.
55— | Golden Gates.
56— | The Squire’s Darling, and Walter’s Wooing.
57— | Violet Lisle.
58— | Griselda.
59— | One False Step.
60— | A Heart’s Idol.
61— | The Earl’s Error, and Letty Leigh.
63— | Another Woman’s Husband.
64— | Wedded and Parted, and Fair But False.
65— | His Perfect Trust.
66— | Gladys Greye.
67— | In Love’s Crucible.
68— | ’Twixt Love and Hate.
69— | Fair But Faithless.
70— | A Heart’s Bitterness.
71— | Marjorie Dean.
72— | Between Two Hearts.
73— | Her Martyrdom.
74— | Thorns and Orange Blossoms.
75— | A Bitter Bondage.
76— | A Guiding Star.
77— | A Fair Mystery.
78— | Another Man’s Wife.
79— | An Ideal Love.
80— | The Earl’s Atonement.
81— | Between Two Loves.
82— | A Dead Heart, and Love for a Day.
83— | A Fatal Dower.
84— | Lady Latimer’s Escape, and Other Stories.
85— | A Woman’s Error.
86— | Guelda.
87— | Beyond Pardon.
88— | If Love Be Love.
89— | A Coquette’s Conquest.
90— | In Cupid’s Net, and So Near and Yet So Far.
91— | Under a Shadow.
92— | At Any Cost, and A Modern Cinderella.
94— | Margery Daw.
95— | A Woman’s Temptation.
96— | The Actor’s Ward.
97— | Repented at Leisure.
98— | James Gordon’s Wife.
99— | For Life and Love, and More Bitter Than Death.
100— | In Shallow Waters.
101— | A Broken Wedding Ring.
102— | Dream Faces.
103— | Two Kisses, and The Fatal Lilies.
105— | A Hidden Terror.
106— | Wedded Hands.
107— | From Out the Gloom.
108— | Her First Love.
109— | A Bitter Reckoning.
110— | Thrown on the World.
111— | Irene’s Vow.
112— | His Wedded Wife.
113— | Lord Elesmere’s Wife.
114— | A Woman’s Vengeance.
115— | A Queen Amongst Women and An Unnatural Bondage.
116— | The Queen of the County.
117— | A Struggle for the Right.
118— | The Paths of Love.
119— | Blossom and Fruit.
120— | The Story of an Error.
121— | The White Witch.
123— | Lady Muriel’s Secret.
124— | The Hidden Sin.
125— | For a Dream’s Sake.
126— | The Gambler’s Wife.
127— | A Great Mistake.
128— | Society’s Verdict.
129— | Lady Gwendoline’s Dream.
130— | The Rival Heiresses.
131— | A Bride from the Sea, and Other Stories.
132— | A Woman’s Trust.
133— | A Dream of Love.
134— | The Sins of the Father.
135— | For Love of Her.
136— | A Loving Maid.
137— | A Heart of Gold.
138— | The Price of a Bride.
139— | Love in a Mask.
140— | A Woman’s Witchery.
141— | The Burden of a Secret.
142— | One Woman’s Sin.
143— | How Will It End?
144— | The Hand Without a Wedding Ring.
145— | A Sinful Secret.
146— | Lady Marchmont’s Widowhood.
147— | The Broken Trust.
148— | Lady Ethel’s Whim.
149— | A Wife’s Peril.
150— | The Tragedy of Lime Hall.
151— | Lady Ona’s Sin.
152— | A Bitter Courtship.
153— | A Tragedy of Love and Hate.
154— | A Stolen Heart.
155— | Every Inch a Queen.
156— | A Maid’s Misery.
157— | Love’s Redemption.
158— | The Sunshine of His Life.
159— | The Lost Lady of Haddon.
160— | The Love of Lady Aurelia.
161— | His Great Temptation.
162— | An Evil Heart.
163— | Gladys’ Wedding Day.
164— | Lost for Love.
165— | On With the New Love.
168— | A Fateful Passion.
169— | A Captive Heart.
170— | A Deceptive Lover.
171— | An Untold Passion.
172— | A Purchased Love.
173— | The Queen of His Soul.
174— | A Pilgrim of Love.
175— | The Girl of His Heart.
176— | A Wife’s Devotion.
177— | The Price of Love.
178— | When Love and Hate Conflict.
180— | A Misguided Love.
181— | The Chains of Jealousy.
182— | A Loveless Engagement.
183— | A Heart’s Worship.
184— | A Queen Triumphant.
185— | Between Love and Ambition.
186— | True Love’s Reward.
187— | A Poisoned Heart.
188— | What It Cost Her.
189— | Paying the Penalty.
190— | The Old Love or the New?
191— | Her Honored Name.
192— | A Coquette’s Victim.
193— | An Ocean of Love.
194— | Sweeter Than Life.
195— | For Her Heart’s Sake.
196— | Her Beautiful Foe.
197— | A Soul Ensnared.
198— | A Heart Forlorn.
199— | Strong in Her Love.
200— | Fair as a Lily.
205— | Her Bitter Sorrow.
210— | Hester’s Husband.
215— | An Artful Plotter.
228— | A Vixen’s Love.
232— | The Dawn of Love.
236— | Love’s Coronet.
237— | The Unbroken Vow.
238— | Her Heart’s Hero.
239— | An Exacting Love.
240— | A Wild Rose.
241— | In Defiance of Fate.
242— | For Lack of Gold.
244— | Two True Hearts.
245— | Baffled by Fate.
246— | Two Men and a Maid.
247— | A Cruel Revenge.
248— | The Flower of Love.
249— | Mistress of Her Fate.
250— | The Wooing of a Maid.
251— | A Blighted Blossom.
252— | Loved Forevermore.
253— | For Old Love’s Sake.
254— | Love’s Debt.
255— | A Happy Conquest.
256— | Tender and True.
257— | The Love He Spurned.
258— | Withered Flowers.
259— | When Woman Wills.
260— | Love’s Twilight.
261— | True to His First Love.
262— | Suffered in Silence.
263— | A Modest Passion.
264— | Beyond All Dreams.
265— | Loved and Lost.
266— | The Bride of the Manor.
267— | Love, the Avenger.
268— | Wedded at Dawn.
269— | A Shattered Romance.
270— | With Love at the Helm.
271— | Humbled Pride.
272— | Love Finds a Way.
273— | An Ardent Wooing.
274— | Love Grown Cold.
275— | Love Hath Wings.
276— | When Hot Tears Flow.
277— | The Wages of Deceit.
278— | Love and the World.
279— | Love’s Sweet Hour.
280— | Faithful and True.
281— | Sunshine and Shadow.
282— | For Love or Wealth?
283— | A Crown of Faith.
284— | The Harvest of Sin.
285— | A Secret Sorrow.
286— | In Quest of Love.
287— | Beyond Atonement.
288— | A Girl’s Awakening.
289— | The Hero of Her Dreams.
290— | Love’s Burden.
291— | Only a Flirt.
292— | When Love is Kind.
293— | An Elusive Lover.
294— | The Hour of Temptation.
295— | Where Love Leads.
296— | Her Struggle With Love.
297— | In Spite of Fate.
298— | Can This Be Love?
299— | The Love of His Youth.
300— | Enchained by Passion.
301— | The New Love or the Old?
302— | At Her Heart’s Command.
303— | Cast Upon His Care.
304— | All Else Forgot.
305— | Sinner or Victim?
307— | Answered in Jest.
308— | Her Heart’s Problem.
309— | Rich in His Love.
310— | For Better, For Worse.
311— | Love’s Caprice.
312— | When Hearts Are Young.
314— | In the Golden City.
315— | A Love Victorious.
316— | Her Heart’s Delight.
317— | The Heart of His Heart.
318— | Even This Sacrifice.
319— | Love’s Crown Jewel.
320— | Suffered in Vain.
321— | In Love’s Bondage.
322— | Lady Viola’s Secret.
323— | Adrift on Love’s Tide.
324— | The Quest of His Heart.
325— | Under Cupid’s Seal.
326— | Earlescourt’s Love.
327— | Dearer Than Life.
328— | Toward Love’s Goal.
329— | Her Heart’s Surrender.
330— | Tempted to Forget.
331— | The Love That Blinds.
332— | A Daughter of Misfortune.
333— | When False Tongues Speak.
334— | A Tempting Offer.
335— | With Love’s Strong Bonds.
336— | That Plain Little Girl.
337— | And This is Love!
338— | The Secret of Estcourt.
339— | For His Love’s Sake.
340— | Outside Love’s Door.
341— | At Love’s Fountain.
342— | A Lucky Girl.
343— | A Dream Come True.
344— | By Love’s Order.
345— | Fettered for Life.
346— | Beyond the Shadow.
347— | The Love That Won.
348— | Fair to Look Upon.
349— | A Daughter of Eve.
350— | When Cupid Frowns.
351— | The Wiles of Love.
352— | What the World Said.
353— | Mabel and May.
354— | Her Love and His.
355— | A Captive Fairy.
356— | Her Sacred Trust.
357— | A Child of Caprice.
358— | He Dared to Love.
359— | While the World Scoffed.
360— | On Love’s Highway.
361— | One of Love’s Slaves.
362— | The Lure of the Flame.
363— | A Love in the Balance.
364— | A Woman of Whims.
365— | In a Siren’s Web.
366— | The Tie That Binds.
367— | Love’s Harsh Mandate.
368— | Love’s Carnival.
369— | With Heart and Voice.
370— | In Love’s Hands.
371— | Hearts of Oak.
372— | A Garland of Love.
373— | Among Love’s Briers.
374— | Love Never Fails.
375— | The Other Man’s Choice.
376— | A Lady of Quality.
377— | On Love’s Demand.
378— | A Fugitive from Love.
379— | His Sweetheart’s Promise.
380— | The Schoolgirl Bride.
381— | Her One Ambition.
382— | Love for Love.
383— | His Fault or Hers?
384— | New Loves for Old.
385— | Her Proudest Possession.
386— | Cupid Always Wins.
387— | Love is Life Indeed.
388— | When Scorn Greets Love.
389— | Love’s Potent Charm.
390— | By Love Alone.
391— | When Love Conspires.
392— | No Thought of Harm.
393— | Cupid’s Prank.
394— | A Sad Awakening.
395— | What Could She Do?
396— | Sharing His Burden.
397— | Steadfast in Her Love.
398— | A Love Despised.
399— | One Life, One Love.
400— | When Hope is Lost.
401— | A Heart Unclaimed.
402— | His Dearest Wish.
403— | Her Cup of Sorrow.
404— | When Love is Curbed.
405— | A Pitiful Mistake.
406— | A Love Profound.
407— | A Bitter Sacrifice.
408— | What Love is Worth.
409— | When Life’s Roses Bloom.
410— | Her Only Choice.
411— | Forged on Love’s Anvil.
412— | She Hated Him!
413— | When Love’s Charm is Broken.
414— | Led by Destiny.
415— | When Others Sneered.
416— | Golden Fetters.
417— | The Love That Prospered.
418— | The Song of the Siren.
419— | Love’s Gentle Whisper.
420— | The Girl Who Won.
421— | The Love That Was Stifled.
422— | The Love of a Lifetime.
423— | Her One Mistake.
424— | At War With Fate.
425— | When Love Lures.
426— | ’Twixt Wealth and Want.
427— | Love’s Pleasant Dreams.
428— | Sir John’s Heiress.

Published during August, 1913

429— | A Terrible Mistake.
430— | The Eyes of Jealousy.

Published during September, 1913

431— | The Romance of a Business Girl.
432— | Was He the Man?

Published during October, 1913

433— | The Master of Tredcroft.
434— | The Deverell Heritage.

Published during November, 1913

435— | The Swoop of the Vulture.
436— | A Phantom of the Past.

Published during December, 1913

437— | A Fleet of Dreams.
438— | Love and Reason.

In order that there may be no confusion, we desire to say that the books listed above will be issued, during the respective months, in New York City and vicinity. They may not reach the readers, at a distance, promptly, on account of delays in transportation.

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1— | Retribution. | By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
2— | Ishmael. | By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

3—

Self-raised.
Sequel to “Ishmael”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

4— | India; or, The Pearl of Pearl River. | By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
5— | The Missing Bride. | By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
6— | The Curse of Clifton. | By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
7— | Vivia; or, The Secret of Power. | By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
8— | The Lost Heiress. | By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
9— | The Discarded Daughter; or, The Children of the Isle. | By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
10— | The Mother-in-Law; or, Married in Haste. | By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
11— | The Deserted Wife. | By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
12— | The Wife’s Victory. | By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
13— | The Three Sisters. | By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
14— | The Christmas Guest. | By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
15— | The Haunted Homestead. | By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
16— | The Fortune Seeker. | By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
17— | The Family Doom. | By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

18—

The Maiden Widow.
Sequel to “The Family Doom”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

19— | The Gipsy’s Prophecy. | By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
20— | The Bride’s Dowry. | By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

21—

The Widow’s Son.
(Vol. I. Left Alone)

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

22—

The Bride of Llewellyn.
(Vol. II. Left Alone)
Sequel to “The Widow’s Son”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

23— | The Bridal Eve. | By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
24— | The Two Sisters | By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
25— | Eudora; or, The False Princess | By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
26— | Love’s Labor Won | By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

27—

Fair Play
(Vol. I. Britomarte)

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

28—

How He Won Her
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Sequel to “Fair Play”

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29— | The Three Beauties; or, Shannondale | By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
30— | The Broken Engagement | By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
31— | The Doom of Deville | By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

32—

The Changed Brides
(Vol. I. Winning Her Way)

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

33—

The Bride’s Fate
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Sequel to “The Changed Brides”

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34— | The Lady of the Isle | By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
35— | The Lost Heir of Linlithgow | By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

36—

A Noble Lord
Sequel to “The Lost Heir of Linlithgow”

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37— | A Beautiful Fiend | By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

38—

Victor’s Triumph
Sequel to “A Beautiful Fiend”

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39—

Cruel as the Grave
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By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

40—

Tried for Her Life
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Sequel to “Cruel as the Grave”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

41— | Unknown | By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

42—

The Mystery of Raven Rocks
Sequel to “Unknown”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

52— | The Hidden Hand | By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

53—

Capitola’s Peril
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By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

81— | The Artist’s Love | By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
133— | Nearest and Dearest | By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

134—

Little Nea’s Engagement
Sequel to “Nearest and Dearest”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

136— | Only a Girl’s Heart | By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

137—

Gertrude’s Sacrifice
Sequel to “Only a Girl’s Heart”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

138—

The Rejected Bride
Sequel to “Gertrude’s Sacrifice”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

139—

A Husband’s Devotion
Sequel to “The Rejected Bride”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

140—

Gertrude Haddon
Sequel to “A Husband’s Devotion”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

141—

Reunited
Sequel to “Gertrude Haddon”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

142— | Em | By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

143—

Em’s Husband
Sequel to “Em”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

144— | The Unloved Wife | By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

145—

Lilith
Sequel to “The Unloved Wife”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

146— | The Bride’s Ordeal | By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

147—

Her Love or Her Life?
Sequel to “The Bride’s Ordeal”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

148— | The Lost Lady of Lone | By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

149—

The Struggle of a Soul
Sequel to “The Lost Lady of Lone”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

150— | The Trail of the Serpent | By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

151—

A Tortured Heart
Sequel to “The Trail of the Serpent”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

152—

The Test of Love
Sequel to “A Tortured Heart”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

153— | Gloria | By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

154—

David Lindsay
Sequel to “Gloria”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

155— | Why Did He Wed Her? | By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

156—

For Whose Sake?
Sequel to “Why Did He Wed Her?”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

157— | A Skeleton in the Closet | By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

158—

Brandon Coyle’s Wife
Sequel to “A Skeleton in the Closet”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

159— | A Deed Without a Name | By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

160—

Dorothy Harcourt’s Secret
Sequel to “A Deed Without a Name”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

161—

To His Fate
Sequel to “Dorothy Harcourt’s Secret”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

162— | For Woman’s Love | By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

163—

Unrequited Love
Sequel to “For Woman’s Love”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

164— | The Widows of Widowville | By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

165—

When Love Commands
Sequel to “The Widows of Widowville”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

166—

Fulfilling Her Destiny
Sequel to “When Love Commands”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

167— | A Leap in the Dark | By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

168—

The Mysterious Marriage
Sequel to “A Leap in the Dark”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

169— | Her Mother’s Secret | By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

170—

Love’s Bitterest Cup
Sequel to “Her Mother’s Secret”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

171—

When Shadows Die
Sequel to “Love’s Bitterest Cup”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

172— | Sweet Love’s Atonement | By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

173—

Zenobia’s Suitors
Sequel to “Sweet Love’s Atonement”

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth

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Table of Contents

- SWEET VIOLET

- CONTENTS

- SWEET VIOLET.

- CHAPTER I. FAIREST OF THE FAIR.

- CHAPTER II. LOVE’S YOUNG DREAM.

- CHAPTER III. THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH.

- CHAPTER IV. AMBER’S TRIUMPH.

- CHAPTER V. THE BRIDE OF DEATH.

- CHAPTER VI. “I HAVE NEVER BEEN FALSE TO YOU, EVEN IN THE MOST SECRET THOUGHT.”

- CHAPTER VII. “HOW CAN I BEAR TO BE PARTED SO CRUELLY FROM MY DARLING?”

- CHAPTER VIII. “HEAVEN’S BLESSING COULD NOT FALL ON SUCH A MARRIAGE.”

- CHAPTER IX. THAT FATAL SECRET.

- CHAPTER X. “LOVE’S SEAL IS SET UPON ME.”

- CHAPTER XI. AMBER’S FRIENDSHIP.

- CHAPTER XII. CUPID’S POSTMAN.

- CHAPTER XIII. THE PRICE OF A TERRIBLE DEED.

- CHAPTER XIV. “LOVE IS THE SWEETEST THING IN LIFE.”

- CHAPTER XV. A CHARMING SURPRISE.

- CHAPTER XVI. “I WILL LOVE YOU MORE THAN LIFE!”

- CHAPTER XVII. PLANNING THE ELOPEMENT.

- CHAPTER XVIII. “NOT LOVE, BUT FEAR!”

- CHAPTER XIX. “I LOVE YOU AS MADLY AS YOU HATE ME!”

- CHAPTER XX. THE STORY OF THE OPAL RING.

- CHAPTER XXI. AMBER’S REVENGE.

- CHAPTER XXII. BETTER DEAD THAN FALSE.

- CHAPTER XXIII. OH! THE TORTURING AGONY OF LOVE BETRAYED!

- CHAPTER XXIV. “WHY AM I SO WRETCHEDLY UNHAPPY?”

- CHAPTER XXV. A GILDED CAGE.

- CHAPTER XXVI. AT BAY.

- CHAPTER XXVII. “THAT BEAUTIFUL FORM WAS MADE TO BE DRAPED IN RICH ATTIRE!”

- CHAPTER XXVIII. SAVED BY FIRE.

- CHAPTER XXIX. “MY OWN HONOR MADE ME KEEP THE AWFUL SECRET.”

- CHAPTER XXX. “I WAS MAD WITH SHAME AND DESPAIR.”

- CHAPTER XXXI. “IT WILL BREAK MY HEART TO GO!”

- CHAPTER XXXII. LENA LAVARRE’S STORY.

- CHAPTER XXXIII. AN ADMIRING STRANGER.

- CHAPTER XXXIV. “I WISH I COULD WARN EVERY YOUNG GIRL IN THE LAND TO BEWARE OF FASCINATING STRANGERS AND SILLY FLIRTATIONS!”

- CHAPTER XXXV. “A YOUNG GIRL’S HONOR IS DEARER THAN HER LIFE.”

- CHAPTER XXXVI. MRS. SHIRLEY’S TROUBLE.

- CHAPTER XXXVII. JUDGE CAMDEN TAKES A STRANGE JOURNEY.

- CHAPTER XXXVIII. BETROTHED.

- CHAPTER XXXIX. “I HAD HOPED—BUT ALL IS OVER NOW!”

- CHAPTER XL. “VIOLET, PLEASE COME HOME!”

- CHAPTER XLI. JUDGE CAMDEN’S RETURN.

- CHAPTER XLII. AMBER HEARS STARTLING NEWS.

- CHAPTER XLIII. SHE FANCIED THAT ONLY THE CONDEMNED IN TORMENT COULD FEEL SUCH PANGS.

- CHAPTER XLIV. A TERRIBLE DEED!

- CHAPTER XLV. A FATEFUL LETTER.

- CHAPTER XLVI. TOO MUCH HASTE DEFEATS ITS OBJECT.

- CHAPTER XLVII. WAS SHE DEAD WITH ALL HER SINS UNREPENTED?

- CHAPTER XLVIII. IN HIS GRIEF AND PITY, CECIL CAME VERY NEAR TO LOVING AMBER.

- CHAPTER XLIX. WHAT GLORIOUS NEWS FOR A LOVER!

- CHAPTER L. IN THE ARMS OF LOVE.

- CHAPTER LI. “UNTIL DEATH DO US PART.”

- Transcriber’s Notes

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE