SERENA SUCCEEDS.

That night Beatrix dreamed a strange dream. She thought that she was alone in the mysterious round room in the western tower, gazing upon a portrait which hung upon the wall—the portrait of a woman—a beautiful, dark-eyed, sad-faced woman, the sweet lips parted with a smile—surely the saddest smile that ever touched human lips. And as Beatrix gazed, spell-bound, upon the portrait, the painted lips seemed to open and breathe softly the one word:

"Beware!"

Under the spell of a weird fascination, Beatrix stood before the portrait in her dream, her heart beating fast with a strange terror, her limbs trembling, a cold chill creeping slowly over her. She seemed on the verge of suffocation; her breath came in fitful gasps.

She awoke. Good heavens! where was she? She found herself alone in the round room in the western tower, in her long white night-robe, with a lighted lamp in one hand, gazing about her with wild, dilated eyes. How had she reached that room, traversed the long corridors, ascended the spiral staircase in her sleep?

With a shivering terror creeping slowly over her, the girl was about to turn away and retrace her steps to her own room; but at that moment her eyes fell upon a small knob, like an electric button, in one of the panels of the wall. She had never seen it before, notwithstanding her frequent visits to the room. It was at the very spot where in her dream she had seen the portrait. Impelled by a strange impulse, Beatrix pressed her finger lightly upon the knob. It moved, and the wooden panel slowly revolved, turned outward, and revealed the portrait of a woman's face—the very face of her dream. She stood before it pale and trembling, full of a strange terror for which she could not find a name. Would the painted lips open and speak even as in her dream?

Who was the woman before her? She drew nearer and peered curiously into the painted face. There was a look of piteous sadness in the large, dark eyes, as though an awful doom was resting upon her. As she gazed spell-bound, her sharp eyes caught a glimpse of a name affixed to the portrait. She bent her head to read it, and her heart gave a great bound and then stood still, for the name was Mildred Dane. So this was her mother, her own dear mother, whom she had never seen, whom she could not remember. Why was the picture hidden away in this room—this mysterious room—in the deserted and unfrequented tower? What strange mystery enshrouded the fate of Mildred Dane? How had she suffered? For that some tragedy was connected with her life Beatrix had long been convinced, and it needed only a look into that beautiful, heart-broken, hopeless face to confirm her suspicions. Why was the portrait hidden here, and what was the secret of Mildred Dane's life? In vain did Mildred Dane's daughter turn the question over in her mind; there was no answer. But as she stood staring blankly into the pictured face before her she caught a glimpse of a folded paper lying in the embrasure where the picture stood. When it swung around and disclosed itself there was a narrow space left behind, and there the paper lay. Beatrix snatched it up.

"I will see what it is!" she exclaimed. "This is my mother's portrait, and I have a right. Tomorrow I will demand of Bernard Dane why her portrait is hidden here, its face to the wall, alone in this dreary room which was used in times past for God only knows what dreadful purposes. I must know the meaning of this mystery!"

Grasping the folded paper in one cold hand, Beatrix made her way back to her own chamber, locked herself in, and sat down to examine the paper so strangely come into her possession.

It was a letter addressed to Bernard Dane in a delicate hand, the ink faded, but still legible.

"You have loved me, Bernard Dane"—so ran the written lines—"and I am grateful for your love, though I can not return it. But since you have told me all—all the bad, black secret of my doomed life, which has been concealed from me until now—I feel that with love or ties of friendship I have nothing to do. For me there can be no earthly affection, no love-lit future, no tender care. The ties of home, the love of little, innocent children are not for me. Oh, Bernard, surely, in this bitter knowledge that has come upon me at last, you are amply avenged! for I am accursed—accursed! The heritage into which I have come—descended to me straight from my South American ancestors—has wrought the ruin of my whole life. Yet I never knew it, never suspected it, until it was too late, and they had forced me to marry old Godfrey Dane. Upon my little child—my little, innocent Beatrix—the curse will descend—the awful curse which has desolated my life. Her dark inheritance will come upon her, and she will long for death, and curse the mother who gave her birth. Oh, Bernard, Bernard! pity me and help me to escape. Kill me, Bernard, will you not? It will be such a grand relief to be free from this horrible burden—to be done with this curse, and get out of the world—anywhere—anywhere—"

Here the writing ceased abruptly, and the letter ended with its grewsome secret still untold. Beatrix crumpled the letter in her shaking hand, and rising to her feet, began to pace to and fro, her face as white as the face of the dead, her eyes wild with horror—the madness of despair.

"In the name of God," she groaned, desperately, "what is this secret—this maddening, tantalizing secret—the curse which has ruined my mother's life, and which I firmly believe brought her to her death? Oh, God, have pity, and deliver me from this awful curse! But if I must suffer—if I can not get free—let me know—in pity and mercy let me know the nature of the awful blight which hangs over my life like a curse!"

Alas! poor Beatrix—poor, unhappy child—she is destined to learn soon enough; and when that hour of darkness comes, prone upon her face in the dust, she will cry aloud in bitter anguish, "Oh, God!—my God!—why hast Thou forsaken me?"

But at last, worn out with her bitter thoughts, and faint and exhausted, the girl crept into bed once more; and her last thoughts, as her head rested upon the pillow, were of Keith Kenyon, and the morrow, which was to be her wedding-day, and, although she dreamed it not, a day of doom.

Morning dawned fair and clear, with the sunshine glinting over the smooth lawn, where even in this wintry season the grass was green, and with birds chirping in the branches of the trees—quite a holiday time. Beatrix arose early, and the first object upon which her eyes fell was the letter which she had so strangely discovered the night before.

At least that was no dream.

She dressed herself and made her way at once to the round room in the western tower; she wished to restore the portrait to its former position. But when she entered the round room there was no trace of a portrait to be seen; even the brass knob had disappeared. Dazed and bewildered, the girl left the room and went down-stairs and out into the grounds. She felt restless and uneasy; her heart was weighed down with a strange foreboding. Yet today was to be her wedding-day.

Directly after breakfast Serena announced her intention of going out. She and Mrs. Lynne were to take their departure in a day or two, and Serena declared that she had important business to attend to which might occupy her all day. There was an unnatural glitter in her pale eyes as they rested upon Beatrix's face; and Beatrix fancied that there was something like concealed triumph in the tones of her shrill voice. The girl's heart sank like lead in spite of her efforts to be brave, for well she knew that that look upon Serena Lynne's face boded evil to somebody.

"No matter," she whispered softly under her breath; "after today they can not harm me. I shall be Keith's wife—Keith's own beloved wife. He will protect me from all ill."

Serena donned a street dress and set forth, her veil drawn closely over her face, as though to conceal her features, one gloved hand holding tightly, as though it was precious, a small tin box. Her pale eyes glittered with exultation behind the folds of her tissue veil; she seemed eager and anxious.

So she was. Just as eager and impatient to begin her dreadful work as the vulture which waits greedily for the corpse to putrefy upon which it expects to make its horrid feast.

She made her way down-town to the very outskirts of the business quarter of the city.

Pausing before a long row of offices in a dingy-looking building, she drew a card from her pocket and glanced at an address upon it. Her face lighted up with satisfaction.

"I believe I am right," she said, half aloud. "This is the place."

She entered a doorway and ascended a flight of bare stairs.

A little later she was standing in an office, in the presence of a pale, grave-looking, elderly man who was seated at a long table covered with papers.

Serena advanced and laid the box upon the table.

"You are Mr. Demorest, are you not?" she began, abruptly.

The man bowed and rose to offer her a seat. She checked him with a slight gesture.

"No thanks; I will not detain you. I have here the fragments of a letter supposed to be important, and which has been exposed to fire. I ask if you can decipher its contents. Please examine and let me know."

Ten minutes later he lifted his head from the small heap of smoke-scorched paper before him.

"Yes, madame," he returned, gravely; "I have reason to believe that it can be deciphered. I promise you in a few hours' time to restore to you the contents of the letter."

"Very well." Her eyes were blazing. "I will leave them now and call later in the day. Restore the contents of that letter so that it can be easily read, and I will pay you handsomely."

And drawing her veil closely over her face, she left the office, her evil work well done.