ON THE EVE OF DEPARTURE.

Out in the cold starry night Beatrix was riding swiftly on to the little town of Burtonville—a small settlement which lay some three miles beyond the home of the Lynnes. It was isolated from the railroad, and was in fact only a handful of houses dropped down in the midst of the woods for no apparent purpose whatever.

The wind blew shrill and cold, but the girl had wrapped herself warmly and did not mind it as she galloped on in the face of the blast. She had only one thought to occupy her—the good old man whom she had loved as a father, was dead. Never more would she hear his kindly voice, never more would she listen to his gentle words. She thought of the parting that night, and her heart thrilled with thankfulness that she had come back to kiss him and bid him good-night.

"For the last time," she murmured, sadly; "the very last time—poor papa!"

On she went, until the three miles were covered, and she drew rein before a tiny brown cottage, where dwelt their kind friends, the Rogerses. Dismounting, she rapped loudly at the outer door. Her summons aroused the inmates, and in a few moments her sad story was told. Both Mr. and Mrs. Rogers hastily prepared themselves to return with Beatrix to the desolate home of the Lynnes; and so in the course of an hour they entered the weather-beaten old house upon whose portals death had left its dreadful sign.

Once inside, and satisfied that Mrs. Lynne would be relieved from further cares, Beatrix made her way slowly, falteringly, up to her own chamber, and once there, fainted quietly away for the first time in her life. The natural reaction to all the excitement of the day had come, and the girl's strength could endure no more. A little later, Serena, passing the open door, saw Beatrix lying upon the floor where she had fallen. She came swiftly to her side and gazed into the pale little face with eyes full of hatred.

"I wish she was dead!" hissed the woman, bleakly. "I wish to Heaven she would never recover from this swoon, never open her eyes to the world again. I hate her. I can not help it. She will steal him from me—the only man for whom I shall ever care. Keith might have learned to love me in time; but, of course, a face like hers is certain to win the prize. I am plain—I know it—and I can not deny that Beatrix is lovely. But I would have been a good wife to Keith; I would lay my life down for him; I would be willing to be his slave if only he would love me. Oh, Keith! Keith! Heart of my heart, soul of my soul!" She turned away, wringing her hands frantically. "If I can not win you, it would be better for me to die!"

She left the unconscious girl alone, and calling Mrs. Rogers, sent her to Beatrix's assistance. It was hours before the poor girl was fully restored. She looked like a snow-wreath as she moved silently about the house, in the plain black gown which had been provided for her. She was pale and wan, and her great dark eyes looked unnaturally bright, and shone like stars.

Two days later the funeral took place, and Frederick Lynne was buried away out of sight in the bare, bleak little grave-yard, over which the first snow lay soft and warm like a blanket. The day after the funeral, Mr. Rogers, driving over from the post-office (the bridge having been repaired), paused at the dreary home of the Lynnes with a registered letter addressed to its late master.

"I took the liberty of signing for it," he said, as he placed the letter in Mrs. Lynne's outstretched hand. And then, with a kindly inquiry for Keith Kenyon, and a cheerful good-morning, he took his departure. Without a moment's delay, Mrs. Lynne tore open the letter with eager haste. A crisp five-hundred dollar bill dropped from between the folded pages. She picked it up with a gasp of delight, and just at that moment Beatrix entered the room. There was no help for it. Mrs. Lynne knew that the letter and its inclosure must be at once turned over to the girl. She placed it in her hand.

"There! That is yours, I suppose," she said, ungraciously.

With dilated eyes Beatrix read the words addressed to Frederick Lynne:

"Doctor Lynne," so ran the letter,—"I send inclosed five hundred dollars per registered mail, the most convenient way of forwarding remittances, since you are residing in a place destitute of banks and other conveniences. Send Beatrix Dane to New Orleans immediately—to No. —— St. Charles Avenue, and oblige,

"Yours respectfully,

"Bernard Dane."

Beatrix lifted her eyes, and they met the cold gaze of Mrs. Lynne.

"How much will my ticket cost?" she asked, abruptly.

Mrs. Lynne made no reply.

"Will you please get the money changed?" persisted Beatrix, gently, laying the bill in the woman's hand. "I will take one hundred dollars; the rest is yours."

A swift gleam passed over the hard countenance.

"Do you mean it?" she cried.

Beatrix's red lip curled scornfully.

"Certainly. I have been an expense to you ever since the remittances failed to come. And now, Mrs. Lynne, I suppose I had better prepare at once for my journey."

Mrs. Lynne did not attempt to dissuade her. The simple preparations were soon completed, and it was arranged that Beatrix should start on the early train the next morning.

Late in the day, as Beatrix was passing the open door of the sick-room, she heard her name called in a low, eager tone. She paused hesitatingly.

"Come in, will you not?" Keith Kenyon asked, softly. She came swiftly to the bedside.

"I hope you are feeling better," she ventured, timidly; for this was the first time she had seen him since the accident. His beautiful eyes lighted up with a tender light. He took her hand in his.

"Why have you not come to see me?" he asked in a low tone. "I have begged Serena and Aunt Lynne to ask you to come for a moment. I have something to say to you—such a strange thing to tell you, Miss Dane; it seems like a romance, this that I have to say. But first let me thank you for saving my life."

Her face flushed, and then grew pale.

"I have done nothing," she faltered. "I only wish—"

She paused, and for a brief moment their eyes met. A sweet, nameless thrill passed from heart to heart. He laid her little hand against his lips.

"My darling!" he was beginning, passionately. But the words died upon his lips, checked abruptly; for there in the open door stood Mrs. Lynne, pale with wrath, her eyes blazing.

"Beatrix!" she panted, wrathfully. "Good gracious girl, what are you doing here? This is no place for you. How improper! how very improper and unmaidenly!"

Blushing like a rose with mortification, poor Beatrix fled swiftly from the room. And little did she dream of the strange announcement which had been upon the lips of Keith Kenyon.

Mrs. Lynne followed the girl to her own room, and once there, closed its door behind her.

"You bold-faced creature!" she panted, angrily, "How dared you enter Keith Kenyon's room alone? You are utterly shameless!"

The beautiful eyes met the fiery orbs before her with brave frankness.

"Mr. Kenyon called me; he had something to tell me, he said," she returned, quietly, "and I could not refuse to see him. I have not seen him before since the accident."

"And I will take care that you shall not see him again!" hissed the woman, fiercely. "Such conduct is terrible! It is positively shocking for an unmarried woman—a mere girl—to enter a man's sick-room!"

The girl's eyes flashed ominously.

"If it is improper for me, Mrs. Lynne," she returned coldly, "it must be the same for Serena. She is not married, although she is rather an old girl," she added, naÏvely.

"You wretch!"

Mrs. Lynne was almost speechless with wrath.

"How dare you?" she hissed, bringing her hand down upon the girl's shrinking shoulder with savage emphasis—"how dare you call Serena old?"

"She is nearly twenty-seven," returned Beatrix, coolly. "Not old, to be sure, but certainly old enough to know how to behave herself. I think that—"

"Hush! Not another word, or I will strike you!"

"You shall not!"

Beatrix faced the termagant before her with a white, resolute face, and a look in the depths of her dark eyes which made Mrs. Lynne quail.

"As I intend going over to the village tonight," said Beatrix, quietly, "that I may be in time for the train in the morning, I may as well bid you good-bye. I think that you will be sorry some day for the way that you have treated me, Mrs. Lynne."

She closed the door behind the retreating figure of her tormentor, and made ready for the journey. A little later she came down the stairs, attired in a traveling-dress, her only baggage a small hand-bag. Everything was as still as death. She stole softly to the door of the room where Keith Kenyon lay upon his sick-bed. The door was closed; she paused and laid her hot cheek against the cold, hard panel of the door, her sore heart swelling with bitter resentment.

"Good-bye!" she whispered, softly. "I shall never see you again—my friend that might have been. Good-bye!"

Never see him again? Yet how can Beatrix Dane know that? In the long, dark days before her, how can she tell what the strange chances in life's lottery may bring her? It is well that she does not know. How many of us, knowing the future, would shrink from the ordeal before us, and pray for the boon of death!