A THREAT.

The old man's face grew pale and troubled.

"Celia, can not you let by-gones be by-gones?" he cried, tremulously. "I am old and feeble. I needed some one to take care of me, and as Serena—"

"Offered herself? Yes, I suppose that is about the case. All the same, I should think that you would have kept the promise you made me, since that was all the atonement you could make for my lost life—my ruined happiness. Bernard Dane, you are a villain!"

The old man's face grew stern, and a grim smile touched his lips.

"So I am. I don't deny it, Celia. When I look back upon my own past and recall all my awful deeds, and worse than all else, the plot that I had formed against two lives—the cruel, horrible plot—to ruin the happiness of two innocent hearts, I hate myself, I scorn myself, I loathe myself. Celia, you can not speak one half as bad of me as I deserve. But do not arraign me for taking the step that I have taken. I was ill and alone—"

"You might have sent for me!" the woman cried, passionately. "I would have nursed and tended you. But instead you hung a mill-stone around your neck which will prove your ruin. Serena Lynne is an artful, designing wretch, yet you think she is disinterested, perhaps. Bernard Dane, I am your wife in all justice—ay, more—"

She checked herself abruptly. The old man bowed his head, and silence—awful silence—fell over the room. Every word that she had uttered had stung his heart with the full force of truth, and for a time conscience—that whip of scorpions—stung him with its bitter smart.

Well, it was some satisfaction to be convinced that he still possessed a conscience. He drew a little nearer her side at length, and laid his hand upon her shoulder.

"Celia,"—quite humbly he spoke her name—"won't you try to be less hard with me? I do not deserve it from you. And yet," he added, swiftly, at sight of the expression which crossed her face, "I acknowledge that I have wronged you, and—and I had no right to break my promise; but it is too late now. I could not atone under any circumstances now for past mistakes. You ought not to come here to make trouble, Celia."

"No,"—her eyes flashed angrily—"I ought not to make trouble for you. Of course not. You ought to have all the easy places in life, while I toil along over the rough, stony road. You are like all other men—false, and selfish, and cruel—hard as iron. All the same, I will keep my secret—the secret which I have long considered the advisability of telling you, but which I now think wiser to bury in my own breast. It is a secret which would make your life a happier one, and brighten up the skies immensely for other parties. But it will keep. I will do no good—no kindness—to you who have made my life so utterly miserable—a wretched failure. I will return evil for evil!"

Her voice rang out harsh and hard; her white face was set and stern; she grasped the arm of the chair in which she was sitting as though to gain strength. Low under her breath she muttered, softly:

"If he only knew, if he only knew! Dare I tell him? He looks so old and worn, the shock might kill him."

She arose and walked over to the window, and stood there gazing forth upon the grounds without, her pale face full of grave trouble. That there was something upon her mind, something that troubled her and made her very anxious, there could be no doubt. She turned away from the window and began to pace slowly up and down the long room, her hands clasped, her eyes full of brooding care.

"I will go," she said to herself, at last, decisively. "If I remain here any longer, I shall be tempted to make a clean breast of the whole affair."

She turned abruptly about.

"I am going, Mr. Dane," she said, coldly; "good-bye."

He bowed his head, but made no attempt to speak. She turned away. The door opened and closed behind her. Celia Ray was gone.

Out in the hall she came face to face with Serena.

"Ah, Mrs. Dane!"—with a curious intonation in her voice, her steely eyes fixed upon Serena's startled face—"I must congratulate you—ahem! I suppose now you consider that you have made quite a grand match for yourself, that you have wedded a wealthy old man, whose entire fortune will go to you some day in the near future? My dear Serena, 'there's many a slip 'twixt cup and lip'."

"What do you mean?" demanded Serena, harshly.

"Nothing—of course not. Only some day your eyes will see the truth, and you will be astonished, Mrs. Dane!"

A swift, angry light leaped into Serena's eyes. She turned away with a wrathful gesture just as Simons appeared.

"Simons,"—Mrs. Dane's voice was cold and hard—"show this woman out, and if she ever ventures here again do not admit her."

Simons bowed.

"I'll do so, ma'am, suah!" he returned.

"Will you?" retorted Mrs. Ray. "Very well. Mrs. Serena, your day is done. This insult is the last straw that breaks the camel's back. I will pay you off for this, if I swing for it!"

She walked swiftly to the outer door, and waving Simons aside, opened it herself and passed out. Her face was white as death, her eyes burning like flame.

"I will hesitate no longer!" she muttered low under her breath as she plunged on down the street. "Serena shall suffer for this! I will not hesitate for the sake of shielding him! I will do the work of destruction! I will tumble down Serena's little house of cards! If they had treated me differently—if Bernard had been kinder, and that wretch Serena not so insulting—I might have spared them, I might have continued to keep my secret. I have kept it for years; it would have gone to the grave with me. But the time has come at last, and I will tell, if I die for it!"

The words faltered into silence upon her lips. She had been walking rapidly down the street, and as she spoke she was crossing to an opposite corner. Just at that moment down the long avenue a carriage came tearing, drawn by a pair of frightened horses running away. On, on they came! There was the sound of a fall, a wild, agonized cry of human suffering, and Celia Ray lay upon the stone pavement, with the iron-shod hoofs of the horses trampling her down.