"Reg, Reg, get up," said Whyte, entering Morris's room the next morning.

"Hallo, dad, what time is it?"

"One o'clock, lad."

Ten minutes later Reg was down to his breakfast. The reminiscences of the previous night had come back to him, and were very bitter.

"Is Amy up yet?" he asked.

"Yes, and gone out," said Whyte, looking anxiously at him.

"What!" cried Reg, in surprise.

"About an hour ago," continued Whyte. "She came out of her room fully dressed for walking out, and looking as miserable as possible. I asked her where she was going, but she seemed not to notice, and only came up to me and flung her arms round my neck, kissed me, and left the room."

"Did she not say where she was going to?"

"No, lad; she said nothing."

"What would you suggest doing, Whyte? Shall I go and hunt this fellow Wyckliffe up, and ask him what he means?"

"No, lad. That will do little good. We will speak to Amy herself when she returns. Dear, dear! I fancy her brain must be touched," and the sympathetic old fellow walked hurriedly away to conceal the tears that would fall.

Reg walked to the garden with a heavy heart. There were all the pets waiting for their mistress. The dogs ran to him with yelps of enquiry; the birds twittered plaintively, as if they felt something was wrong. Reg stooped and patted the dogs, and it seemed a relief to his bursting heart to tell them all his forebodings for the happiness of their home.

The weary hours passed, and Amy returned. Her usually bright manner had disappeared; her step had lost its lightness, and there was an air of languor about her, very foreign to her nature. As she caught sight of Reg she hung down her head, and passed rapidly into the house, taking no notice of the dogs who bounded towards her barking with delight. Reg slowly followed her, his face revealing the troubles of his heart.

"My darling girl," said Mrs. Whyte, as she met her in the passage and, fondly throwing her arms around her, drawing her into the room. "Won't you trust us and tell us what is the matter?"

"Don't ask me, mother," said Amy, bursting into tears.

"Look here, Amy," said Whyte, coming forward and vainly trying to put a trace of sternness in his voice. "You must give us some explanation of your conduct, dear. You are not acting fairly by Reg."

"Oh, Amy, darling, I'll forgive anything. Only do tell me what has come between us," said Reg, coming quickly forward, and taking her hand he led her to a sofa.

At length her sobs became less violent, and she tried to say with some air of decision:

"I want you to release me, Reg. I find I do not love you sufficiently to be your wife."

"Release you!" cried Reg, starting.

"Yes, Reg dear. I cannot marry you now. I thought I loved you, but I find now I love another."

"Is he the other?" asked Reg, sternly.

"Yes, I love Wyck."

"Wyck! is that Mr. Wyckliffe?"

"Yes. He told me to call him Wyck;" and here she began feverishly to pull off her engagement ring.

"Oh, don't take that off," cried Reg, in a pained voice.

"I must, Reg, I must. He told me to;" and she handed back the ring she had worn and caressed so long.

"Then all is over between us," said Reg, quietly.

"Yes, Reg. I am sorry, but it must be," and she slowly rose and went to her room, not noticing any of the others.

"Reg, my dear boy, bear up; be a man. God knows, it is a severe blow for us. So changed; so different! Had anyone told me that such a catastrophe could happen in such a short time, I would have given him the lie direct."

"Yes, Whyte, you are right. It is a blow, but there are times in every man's life when he is called on to bear the heaviest burdens, and it is his duty to submit. She has told me she prefers Wyck, as she calls him, to me; so I give way, and God grant he may make her happy."

"He is a stranger to us and, if he does marry her, he will take her away from us, and we may never meet again. With her all our happiness disappears," and tears again welled in the good old man's eyes.

"Whyte, I must see this man," said Reg, firmly, but threateningly.

"Reg, I beg you won't interfere. It will do no good. Promise me you will not interfere," said Whyte, imploringly, for he feared the consequences if Reg and his rival met.

"What shall I do then, dad?" he said, sadly.

"Go away for a few days. This sudden infatuation may go as quickly as it came, and when you return, perhaps we may see a change."

"Very well, dad. Your advice is always good. I will go away for a week, and wander about somewhere to kill time."

That evening he took the mail to Dover, and with a heavy heart crossed to France. The Whytes missed Reg sadly, and Whyte himself deeply regretted having advised him to go away, for Amy, instead of noticing his absence, seemed to become more and more absorbed every day in her new attraction, that she took no notice whatever of her surroundings. She made no enquiry for Reg, and scarcely addressed anyone in the house. The second day after his departure she went out in the same mysterious manner as before without explanation. Whyte thereupon determined to follow her.

He saw her take a 'bus going in the direction of the city, and managed to catch another running close behind it. At Westminster Bridge she quitted the 'bus, and looked round eagerly, till her gaze rested on a young man, who was laughing and talking with two others. After waiting in their vicinity, Whyte saw one of the trio lounge carelessly towards her and, without raising his hat or making any formal or respectful greeting, take her hand and kiss her on both cheeks. A roar of laughter greeted this proceeding from the two companions left on the pavement.

"Well, and how's little Amy to-day?" said Wyck, carelessly.

"Quite well and happy now, Wyck dear, thank you," replied Amy, in a bright tone, but in a dreamy, absent manner, walking away by his side along the Embankment.

Whyte remained watching these proceedings, but did not attempt to interfere. He had seen sufficient, and hailed a return omnibus going homewards with a heavier heart than ever. "Why did I send Reg away?" he murmured to himself. "No good will come from this, I see. I'll put a stop to it, for he can't mean square." The whole journey through he puzzled his brains to find an explanation for this peculiar conduct of Amy's so unusual with her. On his arrival home he told his wife all he had seen, and in their helplessness the two old people could only offer a silent prayer to Heaven to protect the child they loved so devotedly.

When Amy returned from her visit, Whyte went to her and said:

"Amy, I forbid you to see that man again."

"You cannot stop me, dad, for he said I was to go," she answered, looking at him in a curiously absent way.

"We shall see," he answered, vaguely, for her opposition startled him. Amy said nothing, but passed on to her room and locked herself in.The next day, and for several days afterwards, she eluded Whyte's vigilance with a cunning so abnormal, and so unlike herself, that the poor old man was nearly driven frantic with perplexity. Each day she returned in the same silent, oppressed mood, and avoided everyone in the house.

A letter in a man's hand-writing came for her one evening, which she opened in the Whytes' presence, and made no comment. Since the mysterious change in her behaviour she was in the habit of rising early and retiring to her room with the morning paper. The morning following the receipt of the letter she acted as usual, and shortly after, the Whytes were startled by hearing a loud cry coming from her room, followed by a heavy thud, as if something had fallen. A vague terror seized them, and in an instant both rushed to her room and, flinging open the door, they were horrified to find their darling child stretched on the floor with the paper clenched in her hand. They gently raised her and, while Mrs Whyte undressed her and put her to bed, Whyte himself ran for a doctor.

Reg meanwhile had found his resolve to keep away intolerable, and had, in a moment of impulse, returned to London in time to meet Whyte hurriedly entering the house, followed by a young doctor.

"What's the matter, Whyte?" said Reg, running forward.

"Thank God, my boy, you are back again. I feel the change is coming, one way or another," answered Whyte, solemnly, as he motioned the doctor upstairs. Then, in answer to Reg's breathless questions, he told him all that had happened during his absence.

At this juncture the doctor returned. His face was grave and troubled, and a nameless chill seized the two.

"Well, doctor," cried both together.

"I'm afraid it's for the worst," he answered, sadly. "I would advise you to send for a specialist's opinion at once. Sir Charles Edward I would recommend, for there is grave heart trouble."

In all haste the celebrated specialist was summoned, but his examination was sickening in its brevity, and his verdict held out no hope. "The nervous system has received some terribly sudden shock," he said; "and there is a serious rupture of the vessels of the heart. She may recover consciousness, but it will be only momentary. We see many appalling sights in my profession, but rarely one so sad as this. A young life so beautiful, and apparently so strong, to be suddenly cut off; it is terrible! What can have caused it?"

Whyte hurriedly told him all he knew. Meanwhile Reg, in his restlessness, had seized the paper left lying on the floor, and began aimlessly to scan the columns. Suddenly his eyes were arrested by a familiar name, and he read as follows:

"The —— scoundrel," said Reg, emphatically. Whyte and Sir Charles turned round upon him in surprise. "Here is the cause of it," said Reg, handing the paper to Whyte.

Barely time to express their surprise at the discovery was given them before they were all hurriedly summoned to Amy's bedside. Mrs. Whyte and a nurse, who had been at once sent for, were watching the still figure on the bed, with the doctor in attendance.

"Will she die, Sir Charles?" asked Reg, in a feverish whisper.

"My dear young sir, there is no hope. She may recover consciousness, but if she does it will only be for a few moments. Doctor Carr will remain till the end;" and giving the young man's hand a sympathetic squeeze, while he brushed away something dangerously like a tear, he hurried away to his carriage.

They remained in the darkened room in anxious silence. Suddenly, the nurse moved to the bedside, and held up her hand in warning. The nervous tension of each watcher was extreme, that the movement seemed to give relief.

"Wyck! Wyck!" came from the lips of Amy, in a mournful whisper. "Wyck gone; Reg gone. Poor Amy."

"No, my darling," burst from Reg's lips, but the doctor held up a warning finger and hushed his impetuous outburst.

It was a terrible scene. To watch helplessly while a few stifled words broke in interjections from the dying girl's lips, and note the manifest struggle to give them utterance.

"Reg, Reg, forgive—forgive daddy, mammy! God—bless—you;" and with a convulsive shudder, her spirit had passed away.

Doctor Carr had seen many death-beds in his career, but never one so affecting as this. Kneeling by the bedside were the two old people, and a hale and hearty youth, sobbing as if their hearts were broken. He was about to leave the sombre chamber, when he was startled by a voice saying in loud, firm tones:

"I call God to witness and hear me swear. By the hand of this corpse, than which I hold nothing more sacred in this world, I, Reginald Morris, solemnly swear vengeance upon her murderer. Henceforth I have but one hope; henceforth I dedicate my fortune and my future to avenging Amy Johnson's death. Amen!"

A deep echoing "Amen" broke from Oliver Whyte, and the two men joined hands over the fair dead form each loved so much.

Two days later all that remained of Amy Johnson was carried to its last resting-place.

The bright and sunshiny little domicile "The Mia-Mia," was now silent and desolate, as if under a spell. Whyte and his wife had aged visibly since their darling's death, while Reg had grown into a sad, silent man with a stern, relentless expression of face. Even the pets seemed subdued; the flowers seemed to droop; the sun to shine less brightly, for the hope and the light of the house was dead.

One solemn duty had yet to be performed, when Whyte took Reg by the arm and led him to the room of the dead girl. Here the gay pictures on the walls, and the pretty draperies so daintily arranged seemed to mock them. On the table lay her writing desk, one of his first presents to her, and Reg, with a feeling of sacrilege, slowly opened it. On the top lay a letter, which read as follows:

"Why this was written the evening before he sailed," cried Reg. "This is a worse villainy than I dreamed of. Stay, here is another in her own writing," and he read the following:

"At last," said Whyte. "Now we see what caused the shock."

"Yes, he had promised to marry her at the time he had arranged to leave England for his trip. Why the Angora Club presented him with his badge, set in diamonds, and, by Heaven, I will do the same. I'll brand the scoundrel on both ears with the same distinguishing mark."

"It was all my fault, Reg. If only I had not persuaded you—" began Whyte, blaming himself.

"Stay, Whyte; it is too late for praise or blame, however undeserved. I have only one sentiment left to guide me, and that is Revenge."

Villiers Wyckliffe had added the fiftieth notch to his stick, and with the air of a hero at the close of a brilliant campaign, had started on a tour of pleasure to Australia—for, as he expressed it, he liked that "Australian kid" so well that he must needs go to her native land to make acquaintance with others of her sort. Little did he think that on his track was one dominated with a relentless purpose that would never grow weak, whose motto was—REVENGE.