The announcement of Mrs. Lyon’s sudden and unexpected death caused great excitement and consternation the next morning at Glengrove.

“Oh, dear!” cried Gertie, “how provokingly unfortunate for her to die just now! Why couldn’t she have waited until after our birthday party? Of course Rex wouldn’t be expected to come now; and this whole matter was arranged especially for him; and my beautiful lilac silk is all made, and so bewitchingly lovely, too!”

“What can’t be cured must be endured, you know,” said Bess; “and now the best thing to be done is to send a note of condolence to him, extending our deepest sympathy, and offering him any assistance in our power; and be sure to add: ‘We would be very pleased to have Birdie come over here until you can make other arrangements for her.’”

“Have Birdie here!” flashed Gertie, angrily. “I actually think you have gone crazy!”

“Well, there is certainly a method in my madness,” remarked Bess. “Aren’t you quick-witted enough to understand that would be a sure way of bringing Rex over here every day?––he would come to see his sister––and that is quite a point gained.”

“You are rather clever, Bess; I never thought of that.”

And straightway the perfumed little note was dispatched, bearing Gertie’s monogram and tender-worded sympathy to the handsome young heir, who sat all alone in that darkened chamber, wondering why Heaven had been so unkind to him.

An hour later Bess and Gertie were in the library arranging some new volumes on the shelves. Mrs. Glenn sat in a large easy-chair superintending the affair, while Daisy stood at an 118 open window, holding the book from which she had been reading aloud in her restless fingers, her blue eyes gazing earnestly on the distant curling smoke that rose up lazily from the chimneys of Rex’s home, and upon the brilliant sunshine that lighted up the eastern windows with a blaze of glory––as if there was no such thing as death or sorrow within those palatial walls––when Rex’s answer was received.

“It is from Rex!” cried Gertie, all in a flutter. “Shall I read it aloud, mamma?” she asked, glancing furtively at Daisy, who stood at the window, her pale, death-like face half buried in the lace curtains.

“It is certainly not a personal letter,” said Bess, maliciously glancing at the superscription. “Don’t you see it is addressed to ‘Mrs. Glenn and daughters.’”

“In a time like that people don’t think much of letters,” commented Mrs. Glenn, apologetically. “Read the letter aloud, of course, my dear.”

It read:

“Dear Ladies,––I thank you more than I can express for your kind sympathy in my present sad bereavement. I would gladly have accepted your offer of bringing my dear little orphan sister to you, had I not received a telegram this morning from Miss Pluma Hurlhurst, of Whitestone Hall, West Virginia, announcing her intention of coming on at once, accompanied by Mrs. Corliss, to take charge of little Birdie.

“Again thanking you for the courtesy and kindness shown me, I am

“Yours very truly,
“Rexford Lyon.”

There was a low, gasping, piteous cry; and the little figure at the window slipped down among the soft, billowy curtains in a deadly swoon; but the three, so deeply engrossed in discussing the contents of the note, did not notice it. At last Daisy opened her eyes, and the blue eyes were dazed with pain. She could hear them coupling the names of Rex and Pluma Hurlhurst. Rex––her husband!

Daisy was blind and stupefied. She groped rather than walked from the library––away from the three, who scarcely noticed her absence.

Who cared that her heart was broken? Who cared that the cruel stab had gone home to her tender, bleeding heart; that the sweet young face was whiter than the petals of the star-bells tossing their white plumes against the casement?

Slowly, blindly, with one hand grasping the balusters, she went up the broad staircase to her own room.

She tried to think of everything on the way except the one thing that had taken place. She thought of the story she had read, of a girl who was slain by having a dagger plunged into her breast. The girl ran a short distance, and when the dagger was drawn from the wound, she fell down dead. In some way she fancied she was like that girl––that, when she should reach her own room and stand face to face with her own pain, she should drop down dead.

The door was closed, and she stood motionless, trying to understand and realize what she had heard.

“Have my senses deceived me?” She said the words over and over to herself. “Did I dream it? Can it even be possible Pluma Hurlhurst is coming here, coming to the home where I should have been? God help me. Coming to comfort Rex––my husband!”

She could fancy the darkly beautiful face bending over him; her white jeweled hands upon his shoulder, or, perhaps, smoothing back the bonny brown clustering curls from his white brow.

“My place should have been by his side,” she continued.

It hurt and pained her to hear the name of the man she loved dearer than life mentioned with the name of Pluma Hurlhurst.

“Oh, Rex, my love, my love!” she cried out, “I can not bear it any longer. The sun of my life has gone down in gloom and chill. Oh, Rex, my husband, I have not the strength nor the courage to bear it. I am a coward. I can not give you up. We are living apart under the blue, smiling sky and the golden sun. Yet in the sight of the angels, I am your wife.”

Suddenly, the solemn bells from Rex’s home commenced tolling, and through the leafy branches of the trees she caught a glimpse of a white face and bowed head, and of a proud, cold face bending caressingly over it, just as she had pictured it in her imagination.

Dear Heaven! it was Rex and Pluma! She did not moan. She did not cry out, nor utter even a sigh. Like one turned to marble she, the poor little misguided child-wife, stood watching them with an intentness verging almost into madness.

She saw him lift his head wearily from his white hands, rise slowly, and then, side by side, both disappeared from the window.

After that Daisy never knew how the moments passed. She remembered the tidy little waiting-maid coming to her and asking if she would please come down to tea. She shook her 120 head but no sound issued from the white lips, and the maid went softly away, closing the door behind her.

Slowly the sun sunk in the west in a great red ball of fire. The light died out of the sky, and the song birds trilled their plaintive good-night songs in the soft gloaming. Still Daisy sat with her hands crossed in her lap, gazing intently at the window, where she had seen Pluma standing with Rex, her husband.

A hand turned the knob of her door.

“Oh, dear me,” cried Gertie, “you are all in the dark. I do not see you. Are you here, Daisy Brooks?”

“Yes,” said Daisy, controlling her voice by a violent effort. “Won’t you sit down? I will light the gas.”

“Oh, no, indeed!” cried Gertie. “I came up to ask you if you would please sew a little on my ball dress to-night. I can not use it just now; still, there is no need of putting it away half finished.”

Sew on a ball dress while her heart was breaking! Oh, how could she do it? Quietly she followed Gertie to her pretty little blue and gold boudoir, making no remonstrance. She was to sew on a ball dress while the heiress of Whitestone Hall was consoling her young husband in his bitter sorrow?

The shimmering billows of silk seemed swimming before her eyes, and the frost-work of seed-pearls to waver through the blinding tears that would force themselves to her eyes. Eve was not there. How pitifully lonely poor Daisy felt! The face, bent so patiently over the lilac silk, had a strange story written upon it. But the two girls, discussing the events of the day, did not glance once in her direction; their thoughts and conversation were of the handsome young heiress and Rex.

“For once in your life you were wrong,” said Bess. “The way affairs appear now does not look much like a broken-off marriage, I can assure you.”

“Those who have seen her say she is peculiarly beautiful and fascinating, though cold, reserved, and as haughty as a queen,” said Gertie.

“Cold and reserved,” sneered Bess. “I guess you would not have thought so if you had been at the drawing-room window to-day and seen her bending over Rex so lovingly. I declare I expected every moment to see her kiss him.”

The box which held the seed-pearls dropped to the floor with a crash, and the white, glistening beads were scattered about in all directions.

“Why, what a careless creature you are, Daisy Brooks!” cried Gertie, in dismay. “Just see what you have done! Half 121 of them will be lost, and what is not lost will be smashed, and I had just enough to finish that lily on the front breadth and twine among the blossoms for my hair. What do you suppose I’m going to do now, you provoking girl? It is actually enough to make one cry.”

“I am so sorry,” sighed Daisy, piteously.

“Sorry! Will that bring back my seed-pearls? I have half a mind to make mamma deduct the amount from your salary.”

“You may have it all if it will only replace them,” said Daisy, earnestly. “I think, though, I have gathered them all up.”

A great, round tear rolled off from her long, silky eyelashes and into the very heart of the frosted lily over which she bent, but the lily’s petals seemed to close about it, leaving no trace of its presence.

Bessie and Gertie openly discussed their chagrin and keen disappointment, yet admitting what a handsome couple Rex and Pluma made––he so courteous and noble, she so royal and queenly.

“Of course we must call upon her if she is to be Rex’s wife,” said Gertie, spitefully. “I foresee she will be exceedingly popular.”

“We must also invite her to Glengrove,” said Bess, thoughtfully. “It is the least we can do, and it is expected of us. I quite forgot to mention one of their servants was telling Jim both Rex and little Birdie intend to accompany Miss Hurlhurst back to Whitestone Hall as soon after the funeral as matters can be arranged.”

“Why, that is startling news indeed! Why, then, they will probably leave some time this week!” cried Gertie.

“Most probably,” said Bess. “You ought certainly to send over your note this evening––it is very early yet.”

“There is no one to send,” said Gertie. “Jim has driven over to Natchez, and there is no one else to go.”

“Perhaps Daisy will go for you,” suggested Bess.

There was no need of being jealous now of Daisy’s beauty in that direction. Gertie gladly availed herself of the suggestion.

“Daisy,” she said, turning abruptly to the quivering little figure, whose face drooped over the lilac silk, “never mind finishing that dress to-night. I wish you to take a note over to the large gray stone house yonder, and be sure to deliver it to Mr. Rex Lyon himself.”