"ALL'S WELL."

There was silence in the room when Doctor Darrow finished his story—silence broken at length by Serena's cold, harsh voice.

"But that does not prove that Beatrix is exempt from the curse entailed upon her," she said, coarsely. "I consider her unfit to associate with other people until the exact truth is proved, and I decline to receive her here in my house. I will not expose myself and others to possible contagion. And, besides, the very thought of having such a horror under one's roof is not agreeable, I can tell you. I think, Doctor Darrow, that you, as a physician, would be better employed with something else, than in trying to impose a case like this upon Mr. Dane and myself!"

Doctor Darrow colored.

"I assure you, Mrs. Dane," he began, coldly, "that Mrs. Kenyon is free from the awful taint. You need not be uneasy."

But Serena only tossed her head with a sneer.

"I do not intend to be!" she cried. "Mrs. Kenyon is nothing to me. It does not matter to me what becomes of her. She has made trouble always where-ever she went. But she shall certainly not remain under my roof!"

"Mrs. Dane!"

Keith Kenyon came to Serena's side and gazed into her angry face with eyes full of calm contempt.

"You need say no more. My wife shall not trouble you, or infringe upon your hospitality any longer than is absolutely necessary, for she is not altogether penniless. Mrs. Ray bequeathed her little property to Beatrix."

"Aunt Celia!" Serena's voice rang out shrill and sharp. "Oh, no, Keith, that is impossible. She has always intended mamma to have her property; and mamma is her only relative, and according to law is entitled to the estate."

"Mrs. Ray's will says differently," returned Keith, coldly. "It matters little to us, however; we can exist without the legacy; but these are cold facts, Mrs. Dane, as I will prove to you at any time. But we will not trouble you now, or remain as unwelcome guests. Come Beatrix."

Bernard Dane sprang forward, pale and excited.

"No, you shall not go!" he cried. "This is my house; nay, more—it is yours, Beatrix. You shall not go. Do not mind what Serena says; you have more right here than she has!"

"Mr. Dane!" Serena's voice trembled with suppressed anger. "What do you mean?"

"I mean this!"

Old Bernard Dane faced the angry woman with unflinching eyes.

At that very moment Beatrix's slight form began to sway unsteadily, and she fell to the floor in a dead faint.

"Good heavens!" cried Bernard Dane, excitedly, "here we stand dickering over a foolish matter, and poor Beatrix is suffering. Doctor, her burns must be attended to at once. Mrs. Graves will help her to bed; she must be taken care of."

Doctor Darrow was already busily engaged in removing the scorched and tattered bodice of Beatrix's dress from about the beautiful white neck and arms. As he did so, a package of papers fell from the bosom of her dress to the floor. Bernard Dane stooped and picked them up. It was the package of papers which Celia Ray had intrusted to the care of Beatrix. As his eyes fell upon these papers the old man uttered a cry of surprise. Drawing his spectacles from his pocket, he put them on, and eagerly opened the package.

"Good heavens!" he ejaculated; then turning aside he sank into a seat and began to read the papers carefully.

He started up and faced Serena, pale and trembling.

"Listen!" he cried, in an awful voice, "and before you enact the rÔle of grand lady and turn your betters from your doors, first find out if they are your doors. Serena Lynne, go home to your mother as soon as you see fit. You have no right here. You are not my wife!"

A horrible silence fell over the room, and over the astonished group. Unable to speak, Serena stood glaring into the old man's angry face.

"Explain, Uncle Bernard!" said Keith.

"I will. In the first place, I must confess my own crime. Years ago Celia Ray first began to care for me, but I was madly in love with Mildred Dane, and would not think of any other woman. Still, Celia continued to care for me, and her love lived as long as she did. It was the only unselfish affection ever bestowed upon me. But I was a villain; and although at last seeing that my love for Mildred was vain, I consented to make Celia my wife, secretly resolved that the marriage should not be legally solemnized. I have nothing to say in extenuation of my own villainy, only I have suffered since that time more pangs of conscience than enough to atone. Well, the marriage was gone through with, and she believed herself my wife. One child was born to us—a girl—who died in infancy. After a time I told her the truth—that we were not legally married, and that we had better separate. She went away, and for years we did not meet. And now she is dead, and it is too late to atone! But these papers prove, beyond a doubt, a surprising truth, which she knew for years, but was too proud to break to me. She only begged me never to marry, and trusted to my honor to keep my word. But here is the truth. Our marriage was legal! Here is every proof. Serena, you have never been my wife. The fortune for which you married me could not be yours, anyway, for the wealth in my possession was willed to me by Mildred Dane, as she inherited it from my relative, Godfrey Dane, and it was long ago given to Keith Kenyon by deed of gift."

Doctor Darrow was eagerly glancing over the papers in his hand. All at once he uttered a cry of surprise.

"Listen!" he panted, breathlessly. "Why, it is miraculous!"

And then he went on to read Celia Ray's dying confession. When Bernard Dane had taken poor Mildred and her child to the distant North, hoping to prolong her life for a time, Celia had followed them. It was Mildred's child that had died, and Celia had substituted her own in place of it. For she had falsely represented that it was dead, with the hope of bringing about a substitution some day.

So the truth dawned upon the group, and Beatrix, recovered from her swoon, listened with bated breath, and it seemed more than Bernard Dane could bear—this sudden change from grief to happiness. Beatrix was his own child—Celia Ray's little child! The tainted blood of Mildred Dane's ancestors did not flow in her veins. Every necessary proof accompanied Mrs. Ray's deposition—there was no room for doubt.

And so the black clouds rolled away from the lives of Beatrix and Keith, the two who had loved each other so devotedly, and who had so nearly been parted by an awful fate; and Beatrix thanked God that she had been permitted to cheer her dying mother's pathway to the grave.

Serena and Mrs. Lynne left New Orleans forever and returned to the North; but first Beatrix nobly settled upon them the little fortune which Celia Ray, her own mother—how strange it all seemed!—had bequeathed to her.

And now, as happy as mortals can be, Beatrix and Keith Kenyon live in the grand old Dane mansion with the old man whose wickedness had so nearly wrecked both their lives. He is a repentant old man now—good and kind to everybody. Doctor Darrow is a welcome visitor there, and a bonny boy with soft, dark eyes and golden hair is called Douglas Darrow Kenyon, while a golden-haired tot of three years—a veritable sunbeam—is named Angela. And every day of her life Beatrix Kenyon thanks God from the depths of her grateful heart for saving her from that fearful curse—her dark inheritance.

THE END.