If things were done right—but they are not and, never will be, while this whirligig world of mistakes spins round, and all Adam's children, to the end of the chapter, will continue sinning to-day and repenting to-morrow, falling the next and bewailing it the day after. If Leoline had gone to bed directly, like a good, dutiful little girl, as Sir Norman ordered her, she would have saved herself a good deal of trouble and tears; but Leoline and sleep were destined to shake hands and turn their backs on each other that night. It was time for all honest folks to be in bed, and the dark-eyed beauty knew it too, but she had no notion of going, nevertheless. She stood in the centre of the room, where he had left her, with a spot like a scarlet roseberry on either cheek; a soft half-smile on the perfect mouth, and a light unexpressibly tender and dreamy, in those artesian wells of beauty—her eyes. Most young girls of green and tender years, suffering from “Love's young dream,” and that sort of thing, have just that soft, shy, brooding look, whenever their thoughts happen to turn to their particular beloved; and there are few eyes so ugly that it does not beautify, even should they be as cross as two sticks. You should have seen Leoline standing in the centre of her pretty room, with her bright rose-satin glancing and glittering, and flowing over rug and mat; with her black waving hair clustering and curling like shining floss silk; with a rich white shimmer of pearls on the pale smooth forehead and large beautiful arms. She did look irresistibly bewitching beyond doubt; and it was just as well for Sir Norman's peace of mind that he did not see her, for he was bad enough without that. So she stood thinking tenderly of him for a half-hour or so, quite undisturbed by the storm; and how strange it was that she had risen up that very morning expecting to be one man's bride, and that she should rise up the next, expecting to be another's. She could not realize it at all; and with a little sigh—half pleasure, half presentiment—she walked to the window, drew the curtain, and looked out at the night. All was peaceful and serene; the moon was full to overflowing, and a great deal of extra light ran over the brim; quite a quantity of stars were out, and were winking pleasantly down at the dark little planet below, that went round, and round, with grim stoicism, and paid no attention to anybody's business but its own. She saw the heaps of black, charred ashes that the rush of rain had quenched; she saw the still and empty street; the frowning row of gloomy houses opposite, and the man on guard before one of them. She had watched that man all day, thinking, with a sick shudder, of the plague-stricken prisoners he guarded, and reading its piteous inscription, “Lord have mercy on us!” till the words seemed branded on her brain. While she looked now, an upper window was opened, a night-cap was thrust out and a voice from its cavernous depths hailed the guard.

“Robert! I say, Robert!”

“Well!” said Robert, looking up.

“Master and missus be gone at last, and the rest won't live till morning.”

“Won't they?” said Robert, phlegmatically; “what a pity! Get 'em ready, and I'll stop the dead-cart when it comes round.”

Just as he spoke, the well-known rattle of wheels, the loud ringing of the bell, and the monotonous cry of the driver, “Bring out your dead! bring out your dead!” echoed on the pale night's silence; and the pest-cart came rumbling and jolting along with its load of death. The watchman hailed the driver, according to promise, and they entered the house together, brought out one long, white figure, and then another, and threw them on top of the ghastly heap.

“We'll have three more for you in on hour of so—don't forget to come round,” suggested the watchman.

“All right!” said the driver, as he took his place, whipped his horse, rang his bell, and jogged along nonchalantly to the plague-pit.

Sick at heart, Leoline dropped the curtain, and turned round to see somebody else standing at her elbow. She had been quite alone when she looked out; she was alone no longer; there had been no noise, yet some one had entered, and was standing beside her. A tall figure, all in black, with its sweeping velvet robes spangled with stars of golden rubies, a perfect figure of incomparable grace and beauty. It had worn a cloak that had dropped lightly from its shoulders, and lay on the floor and the long hair streamed in darkness over shoulder and waist. The face was masked, the form stood erect and perfectly motionless, and the scream of surprise and consternation that arose to Leoline's lips died out in wordless terror. Her noiseless visitor perceived it, and touching her arm lightly with one little white hand, said in her sweetest and most exquisite of tones:

“My child, do not tremble so, and do not look so deathly white. You know me, do you not?”

“You are La Masque!” said Leoline trembling with nervous dread.

“I am, and no stranger to you; though perhaps you think so. Is it your habit every night to look out of your window in full dress until morning?”

“How did you enter?” asked Leoline, her curiosity overcoming for a moment even her fear.

“Through the door. Not a difficult thing, either, if you leave it wide open every night, as it is this.”

“Was it open?” said Leoline, in dismay. “I never knew it.”

“Ah! then it was not you who went out last. Who was it?”

“It was—was—” Leoline's cheeks were scarlet; “it was a friend!”

“A somewhat late hour for one's friends to visit,” said La Masque, sarcastically; “and you should learn the precaution of seeing them to the door and fastening it after them.”

“Rest assured, I shall do so for the future,” said Leoline, with a look that would have reminded Sir Norman of Miranda had he seen it. “I scarcely expected the honor of any more visits, particularly from strangers to-night.”

“Civil, that! Will you ask me to sit down, or am I to consider myself an unseasonable intruder, and depart?”

“Madame, will you do me the honor to be seated. The hour, as you say, is somewhat unseasonable, and you will oblige me by letting me know to what I am indebted for the pleasure of this visit, as quickly as possible.”

There was something quite dignified about Mistress Leoline as she swept rustling past La Masque, sank into the pillowy depths of her lounge, and motioned her visitor to a seat with a slight and graceful wave of her hand. Not but that in her secret heart she was a good deal frightened, for something under her pink satin corsage was going pit-a-pat at a wonderful rate; but she thought that betraying such a feeling would not be the thing. Perhaps the tall, dark figure saw it, and smiled behind her mask; but outwardly she only leaned lightly against the back of the chair, and glanced discreetly at the door.

“Are you sure we are quite alone?”

“Quite:”

“Because,” said La Masque, in her low, silvery tones, “what I have come to say is not for the ears of any third person living:”

“We are entirely alone, madame,” replied Leoline, opening her black eyes very wide. “Prudence is gone, and I do not know when she will be back.”

“Prudence will never come back,” said La Masque, quietly.

“Madame!”

“My dear, do not look so shocked—it is not her fault. You know she deserted you for fear of the plague.”

“Yes, yes!”

“Well, that did not save her; nay, it even brought on what she dreaded so much. Your nurse is plague-stricken, my dear, and lies ill unto death in the pest-house in Finsbury Fields.”

“Oh, dreadful!” exclaimed Leoline, while every drop of blood fled from her face. “My poor, poor old nurse!”

“Your poor, poor old nurse left you without much tenderness when she thought you dying of the same disease,” said La Masque, quietly.

“Oh, that is nothing. The suddenness, the shock drove her to it. My poor, dear Prudence.”

“Well, you can do nothing for her now,” said La Masque, in a tone of slight impatience. “Prudence is beyond all human aid, and so—let her rest in peace. You were carried to the plague-pit yourself, for dead, were you not?”

“Yes,” answered the pale lips, while she shivered all over at the recollection.

“And was saved by—by whom were you saved, my dear?”

“By two gentlemen.”

“Oh, I know that; what were their names?”

“One was Mr. Ormiston, the other was,” hesitating and blushing vividly, “Sir Norman Kingsley.”

La Masque leaned across her chair, and laid one dainty finger lightly on the girl's hot cheek.

“And for which is that blush, Leoline?”

“Madame, was it only to ask me questions you came here?” said Leoline, drawing proudly back, though the hot red spot grew hotter and redder; “if so, you will excuse my declining to answer any more.”

“Child, child!” said La Masque, in a tone so strangely sad that it touched Leoline, “do not be angry with me. It is no idle curiosity that sent me here at this hour to ask impertinent questions, but a claim that I have upon you, stronger than that of any one else in the world.”

Leoline's beautiful eyes opened wider yet.

“A claim upon me! How? Why? I do not understand.”

“All in good time. Will you tell me something of your past history, Leoline?”

“Madame Masque, I have no history to tell. All my life I have lived alone with Prudence; that in the whole of it in nine words.”

La Masque half laughed.

“Short, sharp, and decisive. Had you never father or mother?”

“There is a slight probability I may have had at some past period,” said Leoline, sighing; “but none that I ever knew.”

“Why does not Prudence tell you?”

“Prudence is only my nurse, and says she has nothing to tell. My parents died when I was an infant, and left me in her care—that is her story.”

“A likely one enough, and yet I see by your face that you doubt it.”

“I do doubt it! There are a thousand little outward things that make me fancy it is false, and an inward voice that assures me it is so.”

“Then let me tell you that inward voice tells falsehoods, for I know that your father and mother are both dead these fourteen years!”

Leoline's great black eyes were fixed on her face with a look so wild and eager, that La Masque laid her hand lightly and soothingly on her shoulder.

“Don't look at me with such a spectral face! What is there so extraordinary in all I have said?”

“You said you knew my father and mother.”

“No such thing! I said I knew they were dead, but the other fact is true also; I did know them when living!”

“Madame, who are you? Who were they?”

“I? Oh, I am La Masque, the sorceress, and they—they were Leoline's father and mother!” and again La Masque slightly laughed.

“You mock me, madame!” cried Leoline, passionately. “You are cruel—you are heartless! If you know anything, in Heaven's name tell me—if not, go and leave me in peace!”

“Thank you! I shall do that presently; and as to the other—of course I shall tell you; what else do you suppose I have come for to-night? Look here! Do you see this?”

She drew out from some hidden pocket in her dress a small and beautifully-wrought casket of ivory and silver, with straps and clasps of silver, and a tiny key of the same.

“Well!” asked Leoline, looking from it to her, with the blank air of one utterly bewildered,

“In this casket, my dear, there is a roll of papers, closely written, which you are to read as soon as I leave you. Those papers contain your whole history—do you understand?”

She was looking so white, and staring so hard and so hopelessly, that there was need of the question. She took the casket and gazed at it with a perplexed air.

“My child, have your thoughts gone wool-gathering? Do you not comprehend what I have said to you! Your whole history is hid in that box?”

“I know!” said Leoline, slowly, and with her eyes again riveted to the black mask. “But; madame, who are you?”

“Have I not told you? What a pretty inquisitor it is! I am La Masque—your friend, now; something more soon, as you will see when you read what I have spoken of. Do not ask me how I have come by it—you will read all about it there. I did not know that I would give it to you to-night, but I have a strange foreboding that it is destined to be my last on earth. And, Leoline my child, before I leave you, let me hear you say you will not hate me when you read what is there.”

“What have you done to me? Why should I hate you?”

“Ah! you will find that all out soon enough. Do content me, Leoline—let me hear you say; `La Masque, whatever you've done to me, however you have wronged me, I will forgive you!' Can you say that?”

Leoline repeated it simply, like a little child. La Masque took her hand, held it between both her own, leaned over and looked earnestly in her face.

“My little Leoline! my beautiful rosebud! May Heaven bless you and grant you a long and happy life with—shall I say it, Leoline?”

“Please—no!” whispered Leoline, shyly.

La Masque softly patted the little tremulous hand.

“We are both saying the name now in our hearts, my dear, so it is little matter whether our lips repeat it or not. He is worthy, of you, Leoline, and your life will be a happy one by his side; but there is another.” She paused and lowered her voice. “When have you seen Count L'Estrange?”

“Not since yesterday, madame.”

“Beware of him! Do you know who he is, Leoline?”

“I know nothing of him but his name.”

“Then do not seek to know,” said La Masque, emphatically. “For it is a secret you would tremble to hear. And now I must leave you. Come with me to the door, and fasten it as soon as I go out, lest you should forget it altogether.”

Leoline, with a dazed expression, thrust the precious little casket into the bosom of her dress, and taking up the lamp, preceded her visitor down stairs. At the door they paused, and La Masque, with her hand on her arm, repeated, in a low, earnest voice,

“Leoline, beware of Count L'Estrange, and become Lady Kingsley as soon as you can.”

“I will hear that name to-morrow!” thought Leoline, with a glad little thrill at her heart, as La Masque flitted out into the moonlight.

Leoline closed and locked the door, driving the bolts into their sockets, and making all secure. “I defy any one to get in again tonight!” she said, smiling at her own dexterity; and lamp in hand, she ran lightly up stairs to read the long unsolved riddle.

So eager was she, that she had crossed the room, laid the lamp on the table, and sat down before it, ere she became aware that she was not alone. Some one was leaning against the mantel, his arm on it, and his eyes do her, gazing with an air of incomparable coolness and ease. It was a man this time—something more than a man,—a count, and Count L'Estrange, at that!

Leoline sprang to her feet with a wild scream, a cry full of terror, amaze, and superstitious dread; and the count raised his band with a self-possessed smile.

“Pardon, fair Leoline, if I intrude! But have I not a right to come at all hours and visit my bride?”

“Leoline is no bride of yours!” retorted that young lady, passionately, her indignation overpowering both fear and surprise. “And, what is more, never will be! Now, sir!”

“So my little bird of paradise can fire up, I see! As to your being my bride, that remains to be seen. You promised to be tonight, you know!”

“Then I'll recall that promise. I have changed my mind.”

“Well, that's not very astonishing; it is but the privilege of your sex! Nevertheless, I'm afraid I must insist on your becoming Countess L'Estrange, and that immediately!”

“Never, sir! I will die first!”

“Oh, no! We could not spare such a bright little beauty out of this ugly world! You will live, and live for me!”

“Sir!” cried Leoline, white with passion, and her black eyes blazing with a fire that would have killed him, could fiery glances slay! “I do not know how you have entered here; but I do know, if you are a gentleman, you will leave me instantly! Go sir! I never wish to see you again!”

“But when I wish to see you so much, my darling Leoline,” said the count, with provoking indifference, “what does a little reluctance on your part signify? Get your hood and mantle, my love—my horse awaits us without—and let us fly where neither plague nor mortal man will interrupt our nuptials!”

“Will no one take this man away?” she cried, looking helplessly round, and wringing her hands.

“Certainly not, my dear—not even Sir Norman Kingsley! George, I am afraid this pretty little vixen will not go peaceably; you had better come in!”

With a smile on his face, he took a step toward her. Shrieking wildly, she darted across the room, and made for the door, just as somebody else was entering it. The next instant, a shawl was thrown over her head, her cries smothered in it, and she was lifted in a pair of strong arms, carried down stairs, and out into the night.