About twelve months after what the newspapers called "The Mystery in High Life at Naples," on a very bright day in June, the Earl of Ferrers and Margaret, his wife, were standing at the open window of the drawing-room at the court.

This window commands the best view of the drive, and it seemed by the intentness with which the two pairs of eyes watched it that they were expecting some one.

Leyton Court always looks at its best in June, and it has never looked better than it did this year, for the earl had spent a great deal of money on the place—"a small fortune," as it was said. A new wing had been built; the old part of the house redecorated; but above and beyond all, an addition had been made to the picture-gallery, which raised it to the first rank in England.

This had been done "to pleasure" Margaret, the countess, whom the world rightly regarded as one of its best and noblest artists. This same world, too, had gone slightly mad over the countess, and would have been delighted to make her the sensation of the season. For, consider! she was not only the wife of a wealthy earl, but the heroine of as romantic a history as the modern world wots of. Even now people did not know the full particulars, did not know more than that the countess was supposed to have died, and that the earl had, in all innocence, married Violet Graham; and that Violet Graham had died of heart disease at Naples, and Mr. Austin Ambrose had poisoned himself—for love of her. All this the world knew, but it was still ignorant of the details, of the diabolical plot which Austin Ambrose had woven, and so nearly successfully. But it knew enough to make Margaret a "sensation," and it was quite prepared to meet her in saloons and ballrooms, and point at her in the park, and fight for introductions to her, and intrigue to get her to its concerts and dinner-parties.

But Margaret had declined to be made a sensation of. Immediately after the tragedy at the palace at Naples, both she and Blair disappeared, not together, as the world hinted, but separately; and it was only through the appearance of her pictures at the various European galleries that people were made aware of her existence.

For months Margaret lived in a seclusion as impenetrable as that of a Trappist, and it was not until Blair had fallen ill and sent for her that she had gone to him. Then the rumor went round that Leyton Court was being done up, and that the earl and countess were going to live there just like an ordinary couple who had not been the hero and heroine of romance.

"I hope they won't be late," said Blair, looking at his watch and then staring down the drive.

"The trains are always late—unless you want to catch them, then they are fatally punctual!" said Margaret. "I feel as if I were growing old waiting for them!"

He turned and looked at her with that smile of combined devotion and admiration which the man wears who is both husband and lover.

"You don't look very old, Madge," he said. "In my eyes you seem younger than when I saw you first. What is it you use? Some magical cosmetique, eh?"

"I don't generally tell my toilet secrets, but I will just this once. It is a capital preparation, Blair, and, but that you look so ridiculously boyish yourself, I'd recommend you to use it. It is Cosmetique de Felicite——"

"Which translated means——? You know I don't know two words of French."

"Which translated means 'Cosmetic of Happiness,' you ignorant young man!" and she stole a little closer and looked up at him invitingly.

He put his arm round her and kissed her, and of course she pretended to be indignant.

"Right, before the window, and these people likely to come at any moment, sir!" she exclaimed.

"I wish they would come," he said. "I hate waiting for people. Let us go out and meet them."

"Very well!" she responded, and dashed off for her hat.

In two minutes they were walking side by side down the avenue, and they had not got very far before the Court carriage came bowling up the smooth road.

"There they are, Blair! Hold up your hand or they'll pass us! Florence! Florence!"

At the sound of her musical voice a girlish head appeared at the carriage window, and a girlish voice shouted an eager greeting. The coachman, looking rather scandalized at this want of ceremony, pulled up, and Prince Rivani and the Princess Florence sprung out.

The two men shook hands warmly, each looking into the other's face with that frank, steady glance which denotes a stanch friendship; and the two girls embrace, and laugh, and almost cry in a breath.

"Oh, you dear creature!" exclaimed the princess. "Isn't this just like you to come and meet us? And we thought it was only a young couple love-making as they strolled along, for you had got hold of each other's hand, just like two sweethearts; did you know that?"

Margaret blushed.

"We are two sweethearts," she whispered, almost piteously.

Then Margaret turned to the prince, who was waiting for his share of the greeting.

The prince looked older than when we saw him last, but as he took Margaret's hand in his and pressed it warmly, he was able to meet her clear, pure eyes without a trace of embarrassment or reserve. Good blood has many advantages over the ignoble sort, and not the least is the power to conquer self. In the twelve months that had passed since he stood opposite Blair, and sought to take his life, Prince Rivani had fought a sterner fight even than that memorable one at Naples; the fight with a passion which had threatened to absorb his life, and he had conquered so completely that he could return the gentle pressure of Margaret's hand with one of brotherly affection.

"If I cannot have her for lover and wife," he had sworn to himself, "at least, I will have her for friend!"

It was a noble and unselfish vow, and he fought for strength until he had accomplished it.

"And now, when you can tear yourselves apart, you two," said Blair, with a smile, addressing the two ladies, who displayed a great disposition to linger under the trees, and talk for the remainder of their lives, "perhaps we'd better go to the house."

"And what a lovely place it is!" exclaimed the princess. "I always thought the Villa Capri the beautifulest house in the world, but it is a hovel compared to this. Oh how happy you must be, dear!" she added in a whisper.

"Yes," said Margaret, with her quiet smile; "yes I am very fond of the Court, but I think I am happy because I am the wife of its master!"

Florence glanced at Blair as he strode along beside the prince in earnest conversation.

"What a splendid fellow he is, dear," she said in a low voice, not altogether free from awe. "Do you know, if I weren't so fond of him—you aren't jealous?—I think I should be a little afraid of him. The stories we are always hearing about him since we came to England! It is always how Lord Blair—they always call him Blair!—rode in such and such a race, and how he swam such and such a river, and fought such and such a man, and what a magnificent place Leyton Court is, and how lovely and famous the Countess of Ferrers had become! Why, when some people heard we were coming to stay with you they looked at us as if we were going down to Windsor Castle!"

Margaret laughed with all her old light-heartedness.

"You always were a terrible flatterer, Florence!" she said.

"Now, that's a shame, for it prevents me saying what I was going to remark; but I'll say it all the same. Margaret, do you know that I should scarcely have known either of you?"

"Really? We have both grown so gray!"

"You have both grown so ridiculously young!" retorted the princess emphatically. "I don't mean that you ever looked old, that's absurd of course; but you were so grave and quiet and sad. Don't you remember the first day I saw you I said you reminded me of mamma? That you were so—so—what is the word you English are so fond of?—so sober! That's it! And now you speak and laugh like a young girl again!"

And Margaret answered her almost as she had answered Blair.

"Do I, dear? It must be because I am so happy!"

And indeed it was a very happy little party in the small dining-room that night. Blair was like the old Blair, full of stories of his wild youth, ready with the old light laughter; just the same Blair who used to win the hearts of old and young in the time before Austin Ambrose had commenced to set his snares.

They were so merry in a wise fashion, so light-hearted, that they had forgotten the past entirely; and it was not until the two ladies had left the room—the princess beseeching the two gentlemen not to leave them alone in the drawing-room too long, in case they should quarrel—that Blair grew suddenly quiet.

"I can't tell you how I have looked forward to this visit, Rivani," he said. "I have been looking forward to it since that day in Florence when we shook hands at parting, and you promised to come and stay with us."

"I am very glad to come," said the prince, with sincere earnestness. "Gladder still to see you so well—and the countess."

"You thinks she looks well?" said Blair, his face lighting up at once.

"She looks the picture of youth and health and happiness," said the prince, quietly, "and more beautiful—you will pardon me—than ever in my eyes."

"And in mine, old fellow!" said Blair, holding out his hand.

There was silence after that significant meeting of the palms, then Blair said, "Any news?"

The prince was silent a moment.

"No, not much," he answered, after a pause. "All you wished done I have had carried out."

He referred to two graves in the cemetery at Naples which he had undertaken to keep in order—two graves covered with huge slabs of black marble, one bearing the initials "A. A." and the other "V. G."

Blair nodded, and his face grew cloudy for a moment.

"And Lottie?"

"Lottie doesn't need your generous assistance any longer," said the prince, with a smile. "She is now one of the most famous young ladies in Italy. I forgot to send you the paper containing an account of her great success in the new spectacular play"—he had not forgotten, but had remembered with some consideration that the paper would only recall the past and its old bitterness—"she took them by storm, I assure you, and for weeks our volatile people were raving about her; for that matter they are raving still," and he laughed.

Blair smiled, but his face was still clouded, and the prince laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Blair, forgive me, but I think the time has now come when the past may be allowed to bury its dead. That it may do so the more completely I want you and Lady Ferrers to assist me in a short ceremony."

Blair looked at him inquiringly.

"Will you ask her ladyship if she will kindly show me round her studio?" said the prince gravely. "She knows how devoted I am to the art of which she is so great a mistress!"

"Certainly," said Blair, rising, and still puzzled.

They went into the drawing-room, where Margaret and the princess were sitting very close together, and Blair whispered a few words to Margaret.

She got up directly, and drew the princess' arm through her own.

"Follow me," she said; and she led them to the magnificent studio which Blair had built for her.

Here, amongst costly pictures and rare statues gleaming in the reflected light of antique curtains of deep reds and blues of Oriental dyes, she showed them her latest work.

"Beautiful!" exclaimed the prince. "Beautiful! Ah! if Alfero could but be here! Do you know what he said when I told him that I was coming to see you?"

"No," said Margaret; "but everything that was kind and thoughtful I am sure," she added.

"He told me to convey his devotion to you, and say that he looked forward to the hour when he should be able to kiss your hand; then he sighed and added, 'and tell her not to forget that she is an artist as well as a great English lady. Anybody can be a countess, but Heaven only sends us such a painter as she is at long intervals. Tell her to put the paint-brush and the palette first and her coronet afterward!'"

"That was like him!" said Margaret softly. "How much I owe him! You shall take my answer back, prince. But, see; do you think I have been idle?" and she looked modestly at the pictures on the wall and on the easel.

"No," he said. "No," then he was silent a minute; "but there is one thing I wish you would do—it is for myself. I want you to alter a picture of yours I have got."

"Really!" she cried eagerly. "Of course I will!"

"Thanks!" he said gravely, "I knew you would not refuse me. I will go and fetch it, for I have brought it with me."

He left the room, and the other three waited expectantly. While he was gone, Margaret took up her palette and brush, and absently began mixing some colors.

He re-entered the room presently with a canvas-inclosed case, and, unlocking it, placed upon the easel the famous picture of the Long Rock.

Blair uttered an exclamation, but Margaret stood and regarded it in silence, though her face was very pale.

"I want you to alter this for me," said the prince, gravely and gently. "Can you not guess how?"

She looked up at him inquiringly, then, reading his meaning in his eyes, she took up a large brush, filled it with black paint, and in another minute the picture had disappeared.

Florence uttered an exclamation of dismay, but the prince inclined his head, and as Margaret turned and hid her face on Blair's breast, he said:

"That is what I wanted. Now, in deed and in truth, my friends, we may say that the past is blotted out; not even the shadow of it can mar the happiness of your future; a future made bright with a love that has been tried in the furnace and found not wanting."

And this is the reason why Lady Ferrers' great masterpiece, which set all Italy talking and made her famous, can never be found, and some art critics are beginning to doubt whether, after all, it could have been so good as Signor Alfero and others declared it to have been; and whether some of her later pictures, which dealt with the bright side of nature, may not be far better than the mysterious work which has disappeared so strangely.

[THE END.]