LIKE A THIEF IN THE NIGHT.

"I wonder what keeps Beatrix so late? I am getting very uneasy about her. It is after dark, and snowing hard. I am very anxious, and besides I've been thinking of the bridge over the river. I don't believe from all accounts that it is half safe. Serena, go to the door and see if she is coming."

Doctor Lynne had grown quite old and feeble in the years that had elapsed since that night of mystery—that momentous tenth of November. He leaned heavily upon his cane, without which he could not walk at all, and turned from the window where he had been stationed for the last half hour.

Serena Lynne glanced up from the depths of the big arm-chair where she sat absorbed in a novel, and a frown disfigured her not very attractive face.

"Why do you bother so about Trix, papa?" she asked, sharply. "The girl is able to take care of herself. It is scarcely dark, and she will be home directly. And she would go, you know, although mamma tried her best to prevent her."

"Go to the door and see if she is coming," repeated Frederick Lynne sternly. "Serena you are utterly devoid of heart. Trix is ten years younger than you and but a child. Poor little thing! if anything has happened to her I shall never forgive myself for permitting her to go."

Serena Lynne laid her book aside with a gesture of impatience, rising to her feet slowly and unwillingly. A tall ungraceful young woman of some six or seven-and-twenty with flaxen hair and pale blue eyes—not a beauty by any means. And it was the sight of her adopted sister's fair young beauty that made her invariably ill-tempered and unkind to Beatrix. She moved slowly and ungraciously to the door, and opened it, making an unlovely picture as she walked, trailing the folds of her slatternly blue serge wrapper over the faded carpet, her feet thrust into a pair of ragged slippers, her hair in an untidy little knot at the back of her head. She wore no collar, none of the pretty little devices which a neat woman always affects, but a soiled white Shetland shawl was huddled about her shoulders, and her sharp, peevish face, with its sallow complexion and wide mouth, did not make a pretty or lovable picture. For a time she stood peering out into the darkness. At last:

"Papa!"—in a tone of suppressed excitement—"I hear the sound of wheels. I think—I believe—yes, it is a wagon, and it is stopping at the gate. There, I suppose your pet Beatrix is home at last, and no harm done."

Doctor Lynne hobbled slowly to the open door. His wife, the personal counterpart of her daughter, glanced up from the pile of mending with which she was occupying herself, and a disagreeable expression settled down upon her hard features.

"Thank Heaven if she has really come at last!" she ejaculated; "that girl is the curse of my life! I only wish that we could get rid of her! I don't see how we are going to support her, now that the money has ceased to come!"

"Silence!"

Doctor Lynne turned sharply upon his wife.

"I will hear no more of this!" he said, sternly. "Beatrix Dane shall stay here as long as she sees fit. Poor child! I imagine that she would not remain long if she had her own way in the matter. Serena,"—making his way to the door as swiftly as he was able—"what is the matter?"

There was a slight bustle upon the broad veranda outside, where a group of dark figures were outlined against the blackness of the sky. A moment later and Beatrix flashed into the room, pale and excited, her eyes shining like stars.

"Oh, papa! papa!"—kissing the old man's haggard face. "Such a strange thing has happened! The river bridge broke just as a gentleman was crossing on horseback. He fell into the water, and I—I helped him all I could, and he got out. And oh, papa, just think! He was on his way to this house—to you. He is outside."

Even as she spoke, the two men made their appearance in the doorway, leading between them the faltering, swaying figure of the young man. Beatrix hastily wheeled forward the easy-chair which Serena had vacated, and the helpless man sank into its capacious depths. Then the men who had brought Beatrix and the stranger hither took their departure.

"Mrs. Lynne,"—Beatrix turned pleadingly to that lady—"will you not do something for this gentleman? He is suffering greatly. His name is Kenyon—Mr. Keith Kenyon."

"Keith Kenyon!" Mrs. Lynne started to her feet, pale with surprise. "Why, so it is!" she cried, stooping to peer into the face of the half-unconscious man. "Keith! Keith! look up. Thank Heaven you are safe with us! Serena, go and light a fire in the spare chamber for your cousin Keith."

Beatrix started in surprise. During all the years passed under that roof she had never before heard of the existence of such a person.

"Your cousin?" she repeated, in a bewildered way, as Serena left the room, in obedience to her mother's directions.

Mrs. Lynne's pale eyes flashed.

"To be sure. At least, he is not exactly a cousin, only by adoption; which is all the better for Serena, as I do not approve of the marriage of cousins."

A strange pang shot through Beatrix Dane's girlish heart—a pang which was to her quite unaccountable. Why should she care whom Keith Kenyon married? Surely, it was nothing to her. Poor little Beatrix! Although she did not dream the truth, the spell of love was being woven about her young heart.

An hour later the young man was placed in bed in the warm "spare chamber." Doctor Lynne having examined his injuries, found them not as serious as had been feared; and once attended to, Keith slept the sleep of exhaustion.

Twelve o'clock had struck before Beatrix retired to her own bare little chamber, and seated herself before the fire which she had ventured to kindle. No one had thought of her, or given her the slightest attention; Doctor Lynne, because he had been absorbed in his patient to the exclusion of every other object; the two women—mother and daughter—simply because they did not care. Beatrix unfastened her beautiful hair, and seating herself before the fire, wrapped a worsted shawl about her shoulders. The door of her room was pushed slowly open, and Serena appeared.

"Up yet?" she queried in a shrill, sharp voice. "Well, I would like to ask you a few questions, Miss Beatrix Dane. By the way, I wonder if your name is—really Dane?"

A swift flush crimsoned the girl's pure cheek.

"We will not discuss that question tonight, Serena," she said, gently. "I am quite too tired and sleepy."

Serena came and stood before the fire, resting her sallow cheek against the ugly wooden mantel.

"Tell me all about this thrilling adventure of yours," she began, abruptly; "really, it is quite too romantic!"

In a few patient words Beatrix repeated all that had occurred.

"I did not dream that Mr. Kenyon was a friend of yours," she added, in conclusion.

Serena's pale eyes sparkled.

"Friend? He is more than a mere friend!" she said, eagerly; "he is my cousin by adoption, and—and, Beatrix, I have never told you before; but I expect to be his wife some day!"

"Impossible!"

The word fell from Beatrix Dane's lips unawares. In an instant she realized the mistake that she had made.

"I—I beg your pardon!" she faltered; "I did not mean to offend you, Serena!"

"Offend?" Serena's thin lips parted in a disagreeable smile. "You could not offend me if you tried; not you—a nameless nobody!" she sneered. "And whatever you may say or think in regard to the matter, the truth remains—I am engaged to marry Keith Kenyon. Are you satisfied? What else, do you imagine, has brought him to this out-of-the-way place? It seems that he telegraphed to papa that he was coming; but the stupid idiots at the station neglected to send the message out here. I shall be glad when I get away from this hateful, dead-and-alive hole, and live in a large city, in an elegant house, with everything that heart can wish. Keith's home is in New Orleans, and I have always felt a great desire to visit the South."

New Orleans! The name aroused Beatrix with a little start. For the first time since her arrival home she remembered the letter that had come from New Orleans for Doctor Lynne. She searched hastily in the pocket of her dress for the missive. Yes, it was there, all safe.

"I must see papa at once," she observed, rising to her feet.

"Papa, indeed!" mimicked Serena, contemptuously. "If I were you I would wait until I could prove my right to call any one by that name before I—"

"Hush! Not another word! I will hear no more of your insolence. Leave my room, Serena Lynne, and never enter it again until you can treat me with proper respect."

"Well, I declare! Good gracious! what next? How we do put on airs! For my part—I—"

"Very well. If you will not vacate, I shall leave the room myself," cried Beatrix, too indignant to endure any more. She was faint and exhausted from fatigue and the exposures of the night. No one had offered her even a cup of tea or the slightest refreshment after her adventure in the cold night air, chilled and half clothed as she had been; and she was not enough at home in the house, where she had lived for sixteen years, to venture to suggest her need of refreshment. She flashed swiftly past the discomfited Serena, and down the bare stairs to Doctor Lynne's large cheerful sleeping apartment. Mrs. Lynne was still with the patient, and peeping in at the open door of Doctor Lynne's room, Beatrix was so fortunate as to find him there alone.

"Papa!"—hesitatingly—"may I speak with you?"

Frederick Lynne glanced up, and a glad light flashed over his worn countenance.

"Certainly, my dear!" he returned. "Come in. Why, Beatrix, child!"—with a startled glance into her white face—"you are ill, exhausted. How thoughtless and selfish in me not to think of you before. Here, drink a glass of wine!"

He filled a glass from the decanter of home-made wine upon the table, and held it to her lips. Beatrix drained the contents of the glass; then she sank wearily into the empty chair at his side.

"Papa, do you know anything concerning my parents—my real parents?" she asked, abruptly.

His face grew pale.

"No, dear; you have heard all that I know in regard to your history. Do not trouble yourself, Beatrix; it will all come right some time, I am sure. Try to have faith that all is for the best."

"I wish I could. I am tired of this life—tired of living here with Mrs. Lynne and Serena. I shall be glad to go out into the world and earn my own living. Don't look so horrified, daddy, darling. And by the way, I nearly forgot my errand here to you. I have a letter for you."

She drew the letter from her pocket and laid it in his hand.

At sight of the superscription his face grew pale as death. Breaking the seal with a trembling hand, he drew forth two inclosures—two separate letters.

"Go, my dear," he said, gently; "it is late, and you must retire now. Besides, I would rather be alone. Kiss me good-night, Beatrix, my little comfort."

She stooped, and putting her white arms about his neck, laid her warm, red lips upon his.

"Good-night, papa, darling," she whispered.

At the door of the room she paused and looked back. He was sitting in a dejected attitude, his white head resting upon one hand; the other held the letters.

She went slowly and thoughtfully upstairs back to her own room, and, retiring, was soon sound asleep.

She was aroused from slumber by a shrill shriek which resounded through the silent house. Starting to her feet, Beatrix threw on a loose wrapper, and thrusting her bare feet into a pair of slippers, left the room and flew swiftly down-stairs. She made her way instinctively to Doctor Lynne's room. He was seated in his arm-chair before the fire, just as she had left him, while his wife, whose cry of horror had aroused the house, stood near, pale and terrified. One of the letters which he had received had been destroyed by fire—only a heap of smoke-blackened fragments upon the hearth remained to tell the tale; but one hand clutched the other letter in a convulsive grasp, as he sat there, white, and still, and dead. Death had stolen in like a thief in the night, and he was gone forever.

The letter which that cold, stiff hand clutched tenaciously, was found to contain these words:

"Doctor Lynne,—The time has come for you to know the truth concerning the child of your adoption, Beatrix Dane. The accompanying letter contains a full explanation. When you have read it, you will see that it is best for you to send her to me now. Let her come to New Orleans, to the inclosed address, as soon as possible. You will receive a remittance for all her necessary expenses, by registered mail, in a few days. When that arrives, send Beatrix Dane to me. The time has come when she must learn the hideous secret connected with her birth—when she must face her own future, and enter upon her heritage of woe.

"Bernard Dane."