THE NEXT DAY.

Keith awoke the next morning with a strange feeling of peace and quiet in his heart—a sensation as though he had anchored at last, and all his life would henceforth lie through pleasant ways.

"My little wife!" he murmured, fondly. "I shall go to Uncle Bernard this morning and tell him of the step I have taken. I shall break the news of my marriage to him at once and have it all over. Surely he can not in his heart object, since that was once his dearest wish—his pet scheme. I wonder why he changed his mind in regard to the projected marriage between Beatrix and myself," the young man went on thoughtfully as he performed his toilet. "It is a mystery to me. Yet Uncle Bernard is very eccentric, and I need not be surprised at anything that he may do or say. Oh! how happy we shall be—my darling and I! And if Uncle Bernard is really displeased, I will take her away, and we will find some pretty little cottage down-town, and I will get a position somewhere and work for my darling—my little wife!"

As the last words passed his lips his eyes fell upon an object, the sight of which made him frown. He was standing near the window, and the object which had attracted his attention was Serena Lynne walking in the grounds outside. She was dressed in black—all in deep black—and her face was very pale, and wore upon it a look which Keith Kenyon had never seen there before.

"I wonder when those women are going to leave?" he exclaimed, half aloud. "I am tired of the sight of them, and Serena is a bitter enemy of my darling; I feel sure of that. Dear little Beatrix, how can any one dislike her? She is the sweetest-tempered, gentlest little girl in the whole round world!"

At breakfast he looked anxiously for Beatrix; but there was no sign of her; she did not make her appearance. Old Bernard Dane looked uneasy. He rang the bell, and Mrs. Graves appeared.

"Send to Miss Dane's room," he commanded, "and see if she is ill, or why she does not come to breakfast. Beatrix is an early riser," he added, glancing at Keith.

"A very good trait," observed that young man, promptly.

"Oh, yes, to be sure," intervened Serena, with a sneer in her voice which she could not repress to save her life. "Everything Beatrix does is perfection. She has not a single fault!"

"Very true," responded Keith, gravely, looking the irate lady directly in the face. "She certainly has never been guilty of sneering over the absent or traducing people behind their backs!"

Serena's face grew crimson over the reproof, which was certainly well merited. She turned to Bernard Dane.

"My mother and I expect to start for the North to-morrow," she announced. "You have been very kind to us, Mr. Dane, and we are very grateful. Our business here is ended, and—"

She did not finish. The door of the breakfast-room was thrown open, and Mrs. Graves crossed the threshold, looking as pale as if she had just seen a ghost.

"Mr. Dane, oh, Mr. Dane, Miss Beatrix is not here and her bed was not slept in last night! Everything in the room is as usual, only a small hand-bag and some of her plainer clothing are missing. And, if you please, sir, I found this upon the dressing-table."

This was the letter which poor Beatrix had left there addressed to Keith Kenyon.

Pale and trembling with indefinable horror, Keith broke the seal and read these words:

"Keith,—My own, I am going to leave you. With all my heart and soul I love you, but I am going to leave you forever. There is a reason—a bad, black, bitter reason. I can not—dare not write or speak of that now. You will know all too soon, and when you know, your heart will break, as mine has. Do not seek me; I shall be in the very last place that you will think of searching for me. You would as soon think of looking for me alive in the dark and dreary tomb as in the place that is to be my hiding-place hereafter. I have done no wrong, my darling, only in becoming your wife. If I could I would devote all my life, every moment of it, to you, and to making you happy; but fate, cruel and relentless fate, has decreed otherwise, and we must part, never to meet again on earth. I love you with all my heart, but—good-bye. Yours,

"Beatrix."

He read the letter over and over until he knew it by heart, his face as white as the face of a dead man, his eyes full of piteous suffering. Then he arose from the table, the letter clinched in one cold hand, his form shaking like a leaf.

"Uncle Bernard,"—in a low, tremulous voice—"may I see you alone in the library?"

Old Bernard Dane went straight over to the buffet and poured a wine-glassful of brandy from a cut-glass decanter which stood there. He held it to Keith's lips.

"Drink that, my boy," he said, in a kindly tone. "You look done up. Now come to the library. I am at your service."

As the door of the breakfast-room closed behind the two, Serena's eyes met her mother's gaze, and a smile of triumph coiled her thin lips.

"He leaves us out of the private conference," she said in a cold, metallic voice, "and the foolish boy does not dream that we know more about this mysterious flitting than he does. Mamma, you look surprised. Why, did you not know that when I read that letter aloud to you last night, Beatrix Dane was in the next room and heard every word? It is her sleeping-room, and she was there, and heard every word that I read. I meant that she should."

"Serena!"

Even Mrs. Lynne was horrified at this heartless announcement.

"It is true, mamma—as true as gospel!" she returned, harshly. "It was the best way to let her know; and it is quite time that she should know. I have been sharp and shrewd, for I have nipped this affair between her and Keith in the bud. The day will come when Keith will be grateful to me that he found out everything before it was too late. He is awfully cut up now, but he is a man, and men get over such things in the course of time—some of them in an exceedingly short time—and then he will come back to me—back to the woman who has sympathized with him through all his sorrows. One thing troubles me, however. I would like to know what she wrote him, how much she has told him, and all about it. I must know!"

An hour later Serena encountered Keith Kenyon in the entrance hall. At sight of his face she fell back with a cry of horror. It was awfully ghastly, white, and drawn and convulsed with suffering; his eyes were dark and dilated; he shook like a decrepit old man.

"Oh, Keith!" she cried, pausing and laying her hand on his arm, "what, in Heaven's name, is the matter? Are you grieving over poor Beatrix? Well, she has gone away, and it was all that she could do, poor child! One can not help pitying her from the depths of one's heart. Tell me, Keith, have you heard all? Has Mr. Dane told you all the awful truth concerning poor Beatrix?"

Keith bowed his head slowly, and a look of heart-break crept into his eyes.

"He has told me all," he moaned, "and I—Oh, I can not speak of it now!"

"But, Keith,"—her voice full of triumph which she can not restrain—"you should be glad that you found it out in time to prevent future sorrow to you both."

His eyes rested upon the woman's hard, cold face, and he covered his own with his hands.

"You are mistaken," he said in a voice which did not sound like his own, "the warning came too late. Beatrix and I were married yesterday, Serena; she is my own dear wife."