AN UNPLEASANT SURPRISE.

Keith Kenyon was able to leave his room once more and rejoin the small household.

During his illness Beatrix had kept to her own room as much as possible, never voluntarily entering the presence of the old man, whom she feared as a madman. His wild dark eyes would follow her with furtive glances. He seemed secretly watching her, and more than once she surprised a gleam of wild intensity, as he seemed to devour her with his eyes.

She grew pale and thin and nervous, and all the time her heart longed for Keith—Keith with his tender dark eyes, and sweet, low voice, and caressing ways—Keith who would stand between her and all ill.

She kept herself as much as possible in the vicinity of the sick-room, and waylaid Mrs. Graves upon any and every available occasion with eager, anxious inquiries as to his condition, to all of which Mrs. Graves made reluctant replies.

It was evident that she did not at all approve of any ties of interest between her handsome young master and this girl with the sad, unfortunate history—her unguessed secret—the dark inheritance which hung over her like a deadly curse.

But the day came at last when Keith was able to make his way slowly and wearily down-stairs and into the drawing-room, where he sank upon a comfortable sofa before the fire and uttered a sigh of relief. Then his eyes wandered swiftly around the room, as though seeking some one.

"Where is Miss Dane?" he asked.

Mrs. Graves frowned.

"Up in her own room, to be sure!" she made answer; "and if you please, Mr. Keith, I rather think that Mr. Dane prefers that she should remain there."

"Remain there, indeed!" indignantly. "And pray what right has Mr. Dane or anybody else to attempt to imprison Miss Beatrix Dane, I should like to know?"

"Imprison? Oh, no, Mr. Keith!" The housekeeper's voice was full of eager protest. "But then, you see, there is something unusual about Miss Beatrix; there is something in her history—something, I do not really know what, but I can guess—and Mr. Dane thinks that she ought to be kept to herself somewhat, you see—not to make too free with the rest of the family."

"Bah! Nonsense! You are talking like an idiot, Graves. I—I beg your pardon, but I can't help it. A woman of your good, sound common sense ought to know better than to repeat such rubbish as that. Go tell Miss Dane that I am here, in the drawing-room, and ask her to please come to me, since I am not able to call upon her. I wish to speak with her as soon as possible. Do, that's a good soul. I know that you will not find it in your heart to refuse my request, Graves. You were young yourself once—not so very long ago."

Mrs. Graves turned away, shaking her gray head dubiously.

"Very well. The consequences be upon your own head, Mr. Keith," she said, solemnly.

Then she left the room, and he was alone with his own thoughts—half angry, half amused.

"The idea!" he exclaimed, his anger getting the upper hand. "To attempt to keep Beatrix and me apart! What does old Graves mean, anyway? I shall ask Uncle Bernard. But then, he, too, certainly appears to be off his base, as well as the housekeeper. What a curious old house this is, to be sure! But, come what may, I mean to know the truth; I mean to know what Mrs. Lynne and Serena meant when they said that Beatrix left them to be married. Ah! she's coming—my own, my sweet! I hear her light footsteps. Heaven bless her!"

A pause at the door, then a faint, timid rap upon it.

"Come in!" cried Keith, eagerly.

The door opened slowly, and Beatrix Dane stood before him. She looked very fair and sweet in her plain black gown with white crape at throat and wrists, her golden hair in a loose coil fastened with a jet arrow.

"You sent for me, Mr. Kenyon?" she began slowly, hesitatingly.

"I did. I wish to speak with you on a matter of the greatest importance. Come here, Beatrix. You will pardon me, for I am still something of an invalid."

She came swiftly to his side and extended her hand.

"Oh, I am so glad to see you again and to know that you are better!" she cried, gladly.

"Beatrix, sit down here by me; I want to ask you a question. Mrs. Lynne and her daughter both declared that you had left them to be married."

"Married! I?" Beatrix opened her dark eyes. "Why, it is simply ridiculous! Mr. Kenyon, you are the only single gentleman of my acquaintance. The story is absurd and utterly false."

Keith breathed freely.

"So I thought. Beatrix, listen to me. I want you for my wife—my very own—and"—he thinks of Serena Lynne, and a desperate impulse prompts him to add—"the sooner the better."

Keith Kenyon is not a dishonorable man; but he does not love the woman who has forced him into a distasteful engagement, and he firmly believes that, when once she learns the truth, she will free him from the irksome bonds.

Clang! clang! goes the gate-bell. Beatrix starts to her feet.

"Who in the world can that be?" cried Keith, impatiently. "Don't go, darling—do not leave me alone. It is no one coming in here. Come back, Beatrix, and tell me when you are going to make me the happiest of men?"

Tramp! tramp!—the sound of footsteps coming down the hall to the drawing-room door.

Beatrix makes a hasty exit from the room by means of another door just as the voice of Simons, loud and pompous, announces:

"A lady to see Mr. Keith. She would come in here, Mr. Keith." The last in a low tone.

And before the astonished Keith can collect his scattered senses—before he has time to recover from the effects of this crushing blow—there is the rustle of a black silk skirt, and a tall, angular, ungraceful figure bounds over the threshold and flings herself into his arms. He catches his breath with a cry of astonishment not unmingled with horror.

It is Serena Lynne!