KEITH HEARS THE NEWS.

Once decided in his course, old Bernard Dane was not the man to turn back, or to express regret for what he had done. The die was cast. He had asked Serena Lynne to be his wife, and he would make her Mrs. Dane, no matter what obstacles stood in the way. Keith wandered about the house, looking like a ghost, his mind so absorbed in the disappearance of Beatrix that he had no thought for anything else, and did not, therefore, perceive the state of affairs between Bernard Dane and Serena. Mrs. Graves would have attempted to put him on the track of that which the good old lady saw was about to take place, for she alone had kept her eyes open and seen the true state of affairs, but she shrank from being the one to call Keith's attention to the fact, and so no one spoke, and Keith remained in utter ignorance.

Serena at once began preparations for the marriage. She had decided that it must be soon—at once.

Bernard Dane allowed himself to be persuaded; and so, all preliminaries having been gone through with, a clergyman was engaged to perform the ceremony one April eve. But first there remained the task of breaking the news to Keith.

"I can't do it, Serena," the old man declared, childishly. "He will be so surprised—so shocked! You must tell him yourself."

Serena's pale eyes flashed. That was just what she wished to do. She felt a strange satisfaction in wounding this man who had scorned her, and whose fortune she was now about to usurp.

"Very well," she made answer, her pale face growing livid as she spoke; "I will break the news to Keith Kenyon."

She left the room at once, and went up to her own apartment, there to stand for a few moments before the mirror, while she scanned, with true feminine criticism, the details of her own toilet.

She was looking very well in pale lavender muslin—she had discarded mourning—with a bunch of pansies in the yellow lace which covered the corsage. Her dull flaxen hair was in a Psyche knot, and fell in a fringe upon her brow. There was a glitter of cruel triumph in her eyes, and she caught her breath with a low cry of exultation.

"Serena, you are a trump!" she exclaimed, apostrophizing her own reflection. "Beauty is well enough to possess, but a clever woman can overreach mere beauty any day. Well, I will go now to the library—Simons says that Keith is there—and break my important news to that gentleman. But—oh! Keith! Keith!"

She covered her face with her hands for a moment. Not another word passed her lips, but that one wild, agonized cry revealed the bitter truth that, come what would, she had not forgotten Keith Kenyon, and had not ceased to love him. It was the one mad passion of her narrow, empty life.

She left the room and went down-stairs straight to the library. The door was closed. She rapped lightly upon it.

"Come in!" called Keith's voice; and she turned the knob and entered the room.

It was nearly sunset; the slant rays of gold which marked the road taken by the departing god of day streamed in at the open window and across the bowed head of the young man seated at the desk, his eyes fixed upon the western sky with a hopeless look in their depths. At sight of Serena he started up and his face grew paler than before.

"Any news?" he asked, swiftly. "Serena, have you heard anything of—of Beatrix? Have you come to tell me that she is found?"

Serena stopped short, suppressing an exclamation of disgust. Always Beatrix—always Beatrix! Never any thought of her—and there never would be. She drew a little nearer the desk where he was sitting, and turned her face away, that he might not be able to read its expression.

"No,"—trying in vain to keep the harshness out of her voice—"I have no news of Beatrix. She has probably taken her own life; and if that be true, would it not be better, Keith?"

He started to his feet, then sank back wearily once more.

"No, no!" he panted, fiercely; "it would not! Nothing can ever make up to me for her loss—nothing! She is gone, and the light of my life has gone with her. I shall never be happy again. I am utterly and forever alone!"

Serena laid her hand upon his arm and lifted her white, set face to his.

"Whose fault is it that you are all alone?" she demanded, madly. "I would have died to make you happy, Keith; but you would not. You scorned me—scorned my love, and I—I have given up all hope of ever winning a kindly feeling from you; so I have done the best for myself that I can. Keith, are you listening? I come here this evening—I have intruded upon your solitude to tell you a piece of news which concerns me alone, but in which you may be interested. Keith, I am going to be married."

He started and pushed back the heavy hair from his brow with an impatient touch; into his dark eyes a look of satisfaction stole. It was plain to be seen that he felt no regret for the fact of Miss Lynne's intended marriage.

"Indeed?" he returned, trying to show some interest. "Well, Serena, I am sure you have my best wishes. When is it to be?"

"Tonight."

"What? Is it possible? I thought, of course, that the happy bridegroom would be some one from the North. Perhaps he has come here to New Orleans to win his bride. Tell me all about it, Serena."

"Ah! you are interested at last. No, Keith, my intended husband does not come from the North; he lives here in New Orleans. In short,"—gazing full into the young man's pale, handsome face, with eyes full of exultation and a triumph which he could not fail to perceive—"I am going to marry Mr. Bernard Dane."

"What!"

Keith sprang to his feet, with a cry of astonishment and dismay, his face pale as marble, his eyes full of a dawning terror, and something which for a moment made Serena afraid.

"Be good enough to explain," he said, at last, after a long silence.

"There is nothing more to say. I am going to marry Mr. Bernard Dane tonight at eight. He is old, but I must have a home and protector, and he has asked me to marry him. The marriage will be solemnized in two hours' time. That is all that I have to say. Good-night, Keith."

But before she could leave the room he had opened the door and strode over the threshold. Out to the stables he went, his face set and stern and white as death, his eyes full of darkness. He understood at last her plot of vengeance—knew it now when it was too late. It was the utter overthrow of all his hopes and ambitions. He would be homeless, friendless; for how could he expect Bernard Dane to make him his heir now, when he would have a wife and perhaps children to inherit his wealth?

Keith Kenyon had never been a money-worshiper; but he had fully realized the importance of wealth and position, and he had been reared to believe himself Bernard Dane's heir. It seemed to him now that the end of the world had come.

He entered the stables and ordered his horse saddled. It was a new purchase, a splendid thoroughbred, black as night, and well named Satan. In his mad desire for excitement, Keith believed that he could quench the fire which was burning in his brain. He sprang into the saddle when the groom led Satan forth, and whirled madly away, flying like the wind. On he went through the most unfrequented streets of the city. On, on, the horse growing wilder and more ungovernable every moment. In the lower part of the city it came to grief. Foam-flecked, wild-eyed, it dashed into a narrow, stone-paved street and threw its rider violently to the ground, upon the sharp paving-stones.