Rex and Pluma talked for some time out in the moonlight, then Rex excused himself, and on the plea of having important business letters to write retired to the library.

For some minutes Pluma leaned thoughtfully against the 127 railing. The night was still and clear; the moon hung over the dark trees; floods of silvery light bathed the waters of the glittering sea, the sleeping flowers and the grass, and on the snowy orange-blossoms and golden fruit amid the green foliage.

“I shall always love this fair southern home,” she thought, a bright light creeping into her dark, dazzling eyes. “I am Fortune’s favorite,” she said, slowly. “I shall have the one great prize I covet most on earth. I shall win Rex at last. I wonder at the change in him. There was a time when I believed he loved me. Could it be handsome, refined, courteous Rex had more than a passing fancy for Daisy Brooks––simple, unpretentious Daisy Brooks? Thank God she is dead!” she cried, vehemently. “I would have periled my very soul to have won him.”

Even as the thought shaped itself in her mind, a dark form stepped cautiously forward.

She was not startled; a passing wonder as to who it might be struck her. She did not think much about it; a shadow in the moonlight did not frighten her.

“Pluma!” called a low, cautious voice, “come down into the garden; I must speak with you. It is I, Lester Stanwick.”

In a single instant the soft love-light had faded from her face, leaving it cold, proud, and pitiless. A vague, nameless dread seized her. She was a courageous girl; she would not let him know it.

“The mad fool!” she cried, clinching her white jeweled hands together. “Why does he follow me here? What shall I do? I must buy him off at any cost. I dare not defy him. Better temporize with him.” She muttered the words aloud, and she was shocked to see how changed and hoarse her own voice sounded. “Women have faced more deadly peril than this,” she muttered, “and cleverly outwitted ingenious foes. I must win by stratagem.”

She quickly followed the tall figure down the path that divided the little garden from the shrubbery.

“I knew you would not refuse me, Pluma,” he said, clasping her hands and kissing her cold lips. He noticed the glance she gave him had nothing in it but coldness and annoyance. “You do not tell me you are pleased to see me, Pluma, and yet you have promised to be my wife.” She stood perfectly still leaning against an oleander-tree. “Why don’t you speak to me, Pluma?” he cried. “By Heaven! I am almost beginning to mistrust you. You remember your promise,” he said, hurriedly––“if I removed the overseer’s niece from your path 128 you were to reward me with your heart and hand.” She would have interrupted him, but he silenced her with a gesture. “You said your love for Rex had turned to bitter hatred. You found he loved the girl, and that would be a glorious revenge. I did not have to resort to abducting her from the seminary as we had planned. The bird flew into my grasp. I would have placed her in the asylum you selected, but she eluded me by leaping into the pit. I have been haunted by her face night and day ever since. I see her face in crowds, in the depths of the silent forest, her specter appears before me until I fly from it like one accursed.”

She could not stay the passionate torrent of his words.

“Lester, this is all a mistake,” she said; “you have not given me a chance to speak.” Her hands dropped nervously by her side. There were fierce, rebellious thoughts in her heart, but she dare not give them utterance. “What have I done to deserve all this?” she asked, trying to assume a tender tone she was far from feeling.

“What have you done?” he cried, hoarsely. “Why, I left you at Whitestone Hall, feeling secure in the belief that I had won you. Returning suddenly and unexpectedly, I found you had gone to Florida, to the home of Rex Lyon. Do you know what I would have done, Pluma, if I had found you his wife and false to your trust?”

“You forget yourself, Lester,” she said; “gentlemen never threaten women.”

He bit his lip angrily.

“There are extreme cases of desperation,” he made reply. “You must keep your promise,” he said, determinedly. “No other man must dare speak to you of love.”

She saw the angry light flame into his eyes, and trembled under her studied composure; yet not the quiver of an eyelid betrayed her emotion. She had not meant to quarrel with him; for once in her life she forgot her prudence.

“Suppose that, by exercise of any power you think you possess, you could really compel me to be your wife, do you think it would benefit you? I would learn to despise you. What would you gain by it?”

The answer sprung quickly to his lips: “The one great point for which I am striving––possession of Whitestone Hall;” but he was too diplomatic to utter the words. She saw a lurid light in his eyes.

“You shall be my wife,” he said, gloomily. “If you have been cherishing any hope of winning Rex Lyon, abandon it at 129 once. As a last resort, I would explain to him how cleverly you removed the pretty little girl he loved from his path.”

“You dare not!” she cried, white to the very lips. “You have forgotten your own share in that little affair. Who would believe you acted upon a woman’s bidding? You would soon be called to account for it. You forget that little circumstance, Lester; you dare not go to Rex!” He knew what she said was perfectly true. He had not intended going to Rex; he knew it would be as much as his life was worth to encounter him. He was aware his name had been coupled with Daisy’s in the journals which had described her tragic death. He knew Rex had fallen madly, desperately in love with little Daisy Brooks, but he did not dream he had made her his wife. “You have not given me time to explain why I am here.”

“I have heard all about it,” he answered, impatiently; “but I do not understand why they sent for you.”

“Mrs. Lyon requested it,” she replied, quietly. “Rex simply obeyed her wishes.”

“Perhaps she looked upon you as her future daughter-in-law,” sneered Lester, covertly. “I have followed you to Florida to prevent it; I would follow you to the ends of the earth to prevent it! A promise to me can not be lightly broken.”

Not a feature of that proud face quivered to betray the sharp spasm of fear that darted through her heart.

“You should have waited until you had cause to reproach me, Lester,” she said, drawing her wrap closer about her and shivering as if with cold. “I must go back to the house now; some one might miss me.”

He made no reply. The wind bent the reeds, and the waves of the sea dashed up on the distant beach with a long, low wash. He was wondering how far she was to be trusted.

“You may have perfect confidence in me, Lester,” she said; “my word ought to be sufficient,” as if quite divining his thoughts. “You need have no fear; I will be true to you.”

“I shall remain away until this affair has blown over,” he replied. “I can live as well in one part of the country as another, thanks to the income my father left me.” He laid great stress on the last sentence; he wanted to impress her with the fact that he had plenty of money. “She must never know,” he told himself, “that he had so riotously squandered the vast inheritance that had been left him, and he was standing on the verge of ruin.” A marriage with the wealthy heiress would save him at the eleventh hour. “I will trust you, Pluma,” he continued. “I know, you will keep your vow.”

The false ring of apparent candor did not deceive her; she knew it would be a case of diamond cut diamond.

“That is spoken like your own generous self, Lester,” she said, softly, clasping his hands in her own white, jeweled ones. “You pained me by your distrust.”

He saw she was anxious to get away from him, and he bit his lip with vexation; her pretty, coaxing manner did not deceive him one whit, yet he clasped his arms in a very lover-like fashion around her as he replied:

“Forget that it ever existed, my darling. Where there is such ardent, passionate love, there is always more or less jealousy and fear. Do you realize I am making an alien of myself for your sweet sake? I could never refuse you a request. Your slightest will has been my law. Be kind to me, Pluma.”

She did try to be more than agreeable and fascinating.

“I must remove all doubts from his mind,” she thought. “I shall probably be Rex’s wife when we meet again. Then his threats will be useless; I will scornfully deny it. He has no proofs.”

She talked to him so gracefully, so tenderly, at times, he was almost tempted to believe she actually cared for him more than she would admit. Still he allowed it would do no harm to keep a strict watch of her movements.

“Good-bye, Pluma, dearest,” he said, “I shall keep you constantly advised of my whereabouts. As soon as matters can be arranged satisfactorily, I am coming back to claim you.”

Another moment and she was alone, walking slowly back to the house, a very torrent of anger in her proud, defiant heart.

“I must hurry matters up, delays are dangerous,” she thought, walking slowly up the broad path toward the house.

Slowly the long hours of the night dragged themselves by, yet Daisy did not return to Glengrove. The hours lengthened into days, and days into weeks, still there was no trace of her to be found. Gertie’s explanation readily accounted for her absence.

“She preferred to leave us rather than deliver my note,” she said, angrily; “and I for one am not sorry she has gone.”

“Rex did not mention having received it,” said Bess, “when he came with Birdie to bid us good-bye.”

“She probably read it and destroyed it,” said Gertie, “Well, there was nothing in it very particular. Toward the last of it I mentioned I would send the note over by Daisy Brooks, my mother’s companion. More than likely she took umbrage at that.”

“That was a very unkind remark,” asserted Eve. “You had no business to mention it at all; it was uncalled for.”

“Well, she would not have known it if she had not read it,” replied Gertie. “You must admit that.”

Mrs. Glenn felt sorely troubled. In the short time Daisy had been with her she had put unlimited confidence in her.

No one thought of searching for her; they all accepted the facts as the case presented itself to them. Daisy had certainly left them of her own free will.

Eve alone felt distressed.

“I know everything looks that way, but I shall never believe it,” she cried.

She remembered the conversation she had so lately had with Daisy. How she had clasped her loving little arms about her neck, crying out:

“Pray for me, Eve. I am sorely tried. My feet are on the edge of a precipice. No matter what I may be tempted to do, do not lose faith in me, Eve; always believe in me.”

Poor little Daisy! what was the secret sorrow that was goading her on to madness? Would she ever know?

Where was she now? Ah, who could tell?

A curious change seemed to come over romping, mischievous, merry Eve; she had grown silent and thoughtful.

“I could never believe any one in this world was true or pure again if I thought for one moment deceit lay brooding in a face so fair as little Daisy Brooks’s.”