SERENA'S NEW SCHEME.

If ever a man lived in the world with a broken heart, Keith Kenyon was the man. He was utterly prostrated; life seemed at an end to him; he had no hope, no ambition. The woman he loved—his own dear wife—was gone from him forever, and with an awful curse resting upon her life, an inheritance of woe which was liable to descend upon her head at any moment. And she had gone from him, gone in all the bitterness of her awful anguish out into the cold world—where? He could not, dared not think. Suppose that she had taken her life into her own hands? That she was even now lying at the bottom of the Mississippi, that great and mighty stream which has borne away upon its ceaseless current so many of the heart-broken creatures of this world, who, weary of life, and tired of its heavy burdens, cast themselves into the murky waters of the river, and their souls are hurried before their Maker, there to account for the wrong-doing of their lives.

At first Keith was in a sort of lethargy of despair. He sat for hours in his room, never moving, never looking up—sitting with his head upon his hand, buried in deep thought, awful, anguish-stricken. To all appearances he was dead to the things of this world, and oblivious of all that was taking place.

In his own room old Bernard Dane lay upon a sick-bed; he had given up and taken to his bed when the news of Beatrix's disappearance was first announced, and he seemed likely never to arise. The days went by, and Mrs. Lynne and Serena still lingered at the Dane mansion, which was in reality a house of mourning now.

Poor Mrs. Graves was quite at her wits' end in all this trouble, and she had begged the Lynnes to remain. As this was just what Serena fully intended doing, it was, of course, easily arranged.

On the morning of the day after Beatrix's flight from the Dane mansion, Keith came into his uncle's room, and sat down beside the bed.

"Uncle Bernard," he began, "I must try to find her. The shock of her disappearance has been so great—so overwhelming—that I have been benumbed. I feel like one groping in the dark, but now I am awake, and I see that the child may be in great danger. I must search for her, and find her, if she is living; if not—if she is dead—I will go away—away from Louisiana forever."

The old man uttered a cry of distress.

"Keith! Keith, my boy!" he moaned. "You will surely not do that? You would not go, and leave the old man to die alone? Oh, Heaven! what have I done that I should be punished so, and deserted in my old age?"

The words touched Keith's heart, and made it ache. He seized the old man's wrinkled hand and pressed it warmly.

"No, Uncle Bernard," he said, slowly, "I will not go and leave you—I will never leave you while you live. But I must search for Beatrix—I must know whether she is living or dead. If she is still alive, I must know where she is, and she must be provided for. You will help me, Uncle Bernard?"

"I will, my boy—I will, indeed. We will devote our lives to that end. We have wasted precious time already. Go at once, Keith. Ah, if I were well, and able to accompany you!"

Keith left the house, his mind absorbed with the one hope of finding his lost darling, poor, heart-broken child! His first step was to insert advertisements in all the daily papers—a few words.

"Beatrix, come home. No matter what may come, I will protect you.

K."

But, alas! poor Beatrix was destined never to see the advertisements; and even had she seen them she would not have obeyed the request, for she dared not risk the lives of other people in that reckless fashion. Keith's next step was to place the matter in the hands of a skilled detective. Then, impelled by a strange intuition, he visited the lepers' hospital. For well he knew Beatrix Dane and her high-strung, sensitive nature; and the conviction had crept into his heart that she would fly to this refuge, believing herself accursed, and intuition, as is apt to be the case, was correct in this instance. Yet, as we already know, Keith was destined to fail in his search.

The old physician in attendance at the hospital was, of course, in perfect ignorance of the existence of Beatrix, and so relieved Keith's anxiety upon that score, for it seemed to him that the knowledge that Beatrix was incarcerated in that horrible place would kill him outright.

He returned home heartsick and despairing, yet conscious of a feeling of gratitude and relief that he had not found her there. He repeated to old Bernard Dane the result of his search, and the old man wept bitter tears. He was very weak and childish now; all the old harshness had disappeared forever, and he was not at all like the hard-hearted old man he had been so short a time ago.

"We must find her, Keith," he sobbed; "and I will devote my life, what is left of it, to her care. I am old, and my days will soon be ended here on earth; but I can devote the remnant of my life to no higher or better object than the care of this unfortunate child. And when that awful affliction falls upon her, I will be with her to help her to bear it. Oh, how wicked, how cruel, how sinful I have been to her—my Mildred's little child! Oh, will God ever forgive me?"

He wept like a weak woman, overcome with the full weight of his sorrow and remorse. And in the midst of his grief he found an unexpected comforter.

Keith having been summoned from his side, Serena slipped softly into the room, and came to the old man's bedside.

"Mr. Dane," she began, in a sympathetic tone, "let me try to cheer you a little. Do not grieve over poor lost Beatrix, poor child. We will find her and restore her to her home; or—or—if the awful curse must come upon her, we will do all in our power to alleviate her sufferings. Do not grieve so, Mr. Dane. Let me bathe your head with cologne water, and do try and sleep a little, will you not?"

The old man smiled grimly.

"You may do as you like," he made answer, "I am completely prostrated."

So Serena went to work and bathed the old man's throbbing temples, and made him comfortable. At last his eyes closed, and his slow, regular breathing announced that he was asleep. Serena's face wore a look of triumph, and her pale blue eyes flashed with exultation.

"Why not?" she muttered, low under her breath, "why not? He is very rich and very old, and—I must have money. And Keith will never care for me, and he is married to that wretched girl who will be a mill-stone about his neck while she lives, and she may live many years. I am not sure but that I have solved the problem for myself, and found a way—an unexpected way—out of my difficulties. Keith's love—the love of the only man on earth worth having—can never be mine—never! It is useless to aspire, to hope. But why should I spoil all my life for the sake of a love that can never be mine? I will not do it! I will put forth all efforts now to a special end, and live henceforth for that one purpose. I must have money. I will marry old Bernard Dane, and be rich, and"—her pale eyes shining like glass—"I will thus control the fortune which Keith Kenyon expects to inherit. Oh, it will be a game worth playing; and I will play it, even though I am destined to be beaten at the game!"

It was an idea worthy of the brain from which it emanated, and a scheme which would not have occurred to any one else. Serena was desperate. She had lost her game; but money she must have, and she had devised a scheme by which to secure it. It was not an original idea, but there was no reason why it should not succeed; for old Bernard Dane was completely broken down now—a perfect wreck—a mere ghost of the aggressive old man who had been guilty of plotting, as he had done, against the life and happiness of the two who, after all, he held most dear. Sorely he was being punished—severely, fearfully punished—for his wicked scheme to marry those two young people, when he believed that only ruin could come of the marriage. Ah! believe me, we who sin must suffer for our sins. I think that old Bernard Dane realized this truth at last.

And so Serena laid her plot, and went to work with a will. She must have money, for her funds were nearly exhausted, and her mother was not much better off. Real poverty stared them in the face. And here, right before her, was the possibility of retrieving her fallen fortunes and securing a grand home for herself and her mother.

And better than all else—to a narrow nature like hers—it would be opening a road to the ruin of Keith Kenyon, and to wreak upon him a dire and speedy vengeance. He would not love her; he would not make her his wife; he had discarded her for the pretty face of another woman; had cast her off coldly. Well, she would marry old Bernard Dane and possess the great Dane fortune. Then Mr. Keith Kenyon might look out for himself. To a nature like Serena Lynne's, this was a glorious triumph.

She little dreamed how, in the dark days to come, she would bitterly regret having ever made this decision.