A WELL LAID PLOT.

Two or three days dragged by. They seemed to poor old Bernard Dane, lying upon his bed of suffering, to really drag, they were so long and uneventful. Every morning the first question asked Mrs. Graves was: "How is Serena?" And Mrs. Graves would wisely stifle her righteous wrath and answer quietly:

"About the same, sir."

The old man's anxiety as well as loneliness grew and flourished. It would have retarded his recovery but that he became suddenly possessed with a determination to get well, and as his illness had really been more due to sorrow and remorse than to any bodily ailment, he was soon able to sit up and at last, wrapped in a dressing-gown, reclined upon a sofa in his large, cheerful room. He took care to send friendly messages to Serena every day, and eagerly waited for the time when she would be able to return to him. It was true, strange as it may appear, that old Bernard Dane, wise and astute, clever and shrewd, had actually fallen in love with shrewish, plain-faced Serena Lynne.

Wonders will never cease in this strange old world of ours, and the very last thing down on the cards had befallen old Bernard Dane. And yet it was not so wonderful, after all. Give any clever, designing woman the opportunities that Serena possessed, and my word for it, she will succeed though she be as ugly as original sin and as shrewish as a virago. And so Serena won the old man's heart, hard, ossified though it was—won it by her kindly attentions, and the way in which she posed before him as an ardent admirer of his many sterling qualities.

The old man grew more impatient every day over her continued absence, but he was compelled to content himself with sending messages to Serena, and ordering all sorts of dainties to be carried to her room.

So the days went by, and Serena had been out of his sight for a whole week; and then, one morning, she made her appearance once more in Bernard Dane's sick-room. The old man, wrapped in his dressing-gown, was seated in an easy-chair at the window, his eyes fixed upon the scene without, a look of sadness resting upon his face—very pale and worn.

At sound of the closing door he turned, and as his eyes fell upon Serena, his wrinkled face lighted up with a flash of joy. He started as though to arise, but he was still quite weak, and he fell back upon the cushions once more.

"Serena!" he exclaimed, "is it really you?"

She had really been ill, but not enough to cause so long an exile from the sick-room; only that had been a part of the game—her game, which seemed destined to prove a grand success.

"I am so glad that you are able to be up!" she cried, as she laid her hands in his.

Her face was very pale, and its pallor was enhanced by a skillful application of pearl powder, while dark circles, artistically laid on beneath her eyes, increased the appearance of illness. She wore a flowing wrapper of pale blue cashmere, and altogether, Serena, who had studied the effect long and earnestly, was looking her best, and she knew it.

She sank in a low rocker at his side, and began to question him as to the care that he had received during her enforced absence from the sick-room.

He answered all her inquiries with real tenderness in his voice, and really the old man was inexpressively touched at the thought that some one cared for him, and surely, lonely and old as he was, this could not be wondered at.

They conversed together for a time upon indifferent topics and then silence gradually settled down, broken in an unexpected way—Serena bowed her head upon her clasped hands and began to weep softly, to all appearance repressing her emotion by a great effort.

The old man caught the sound of her stifled sobs, and uttered an exclamation of dismay.

"Serena! Good heavens, child!" he exclaimed, in a tone of alarm, "what is the matter? Why are you crying? Lift your head, my dear, and look me in the eyes."

She obeyed him, dabbing her eyes with her lace-bordered handkerchief as she did so, as though in shame and confusion at being detected in such weakness as this.

"It is nothing," she faltered, brokenly. "I am going away—that is all. I ought to have gone long ago, but—I could not leave you so ill and uncared for; and then I was taken ill myself. And I—I think it best that I should leave here at once; for I have learned to—to care too much for you, Mr. Dane. This feeling must be conquered."

"Serena, I did not believe that your expressed affection for me could be anything serious."

"Oh, Mr. Dane!"

She lifted her pale blue eyes to his face with a swift look of entreaty, then they drooped again.

"Serena, do you wish to leave me?" he asked, anxiously.

"No, no, I do not! I would not go if I could help it," she sobbed. "But I can not stay in this way, Mr. Dane. It is not proper. I am an unmarried woman, and you—you—"

"I am old enough to be your father!" he exclaimed; "but, Serena, old as I am, my heart is young. Life is a dreary waste to me—alone. Serena, will you marry me?"

It was said; the words for which Serena Lynne had listened and hoped for so long, the magic words which would change all her life for her; the question was asked at last for which she had schemed and plotted, and which she sometimes had despaired of ever hearing; the question whose answer would bring her wealth, a grand home, and an honored name. She caught her breath with a tremulous gasp, and one hand pressed her heart convulsively.

"Mr. Dane," she cried, "you do not mean it! You should not trifle with a lonely woman; it is cruel, unkind."

And she knew perfectly well, artful Serena, that this delicate flattery would be the very shortest cut to the old man's heart; that to imply his possession of the powers of attracting and winning the admiration of women would be the surest road to Bernard Dane's affections. In short, by appealing to his masculine vanity, guileless Serena hoped to gain her desire. She laid her hand upon his arm as she spoke, and pressed it gently. The old man's eyes rested upon her pale, sad face, which for once wore a look of gentle tenderness, which made her appear essentially womanly in the old man's eyes. He lifted her hand and pressed it to his lips.

"I mean it, of course," he returned, in a faltering voice. "I have not cared for any one in years, but your kindness has opened my heart and made me feel that there is something on earth worth living for. I ask you once more, Serena, in all honor, will you be my wife? Marry me at once, and we will go abroad for a time; for nothing can be done for poor Beatrix by staying here; and Keith's life, poor boy, is ruined. Will you be my wife, Serena?"

She bowed her head, and one little, potent word of three letters was spoken—a word which made Serena Lynne the promised wife of old Bernard Dane.