Long days of illness for Lady Fairvale follow upon the tragic episode of her father's death.

Nights and days go by like utter blanks to her, with only slightly recurring intervals of consciousness. It has been a great shock to her, this swift and terrible rending apart of the last filial tie earth holds for her. Near kindred she has none. Her father's death has seemed to leave her utterly alone on earth. It is true there is some distant cousin and heir-at-law who would, no doubt, take it as a favor if she would die and leave him title and estates, but him she knows not.

"There is no one living who has the least claim upon my affection," she thinks, forlornly, to herself that day, when, with agonized heart she bends to press the last farewell kiss on her father's marble lips; but even with the words a sudden memory stabs her heart and crushes her senseless to the floor with the silent whisper of one name—Leslie Noble!

That feared and dreaded name has power to blanch poor Vera's cheek and drive the blood from her heart at any moment.

"What if, dazzled by my wealth and title, he should come and claim me?" is her dreadful thought, never dreaming of that stately monument in fair and flowery Glenwood, on which Leslie Noble has caused to be inscribed the simple name of:

"VERA,
WIFE OF LESLIE NOBLE.
Died, —— —th, 18—; aged 17."

thus trying to atone to the dead in some slight measure for the pitiful, unmanly cowardice that had driven her desperate.

But after that terrible brain fever, that great struggle between the opposing forces of life and death, Vera lies still upon her couch with wide, dark eyes that look out from her small, white face drearily upon the world—the great, wicked world in which, though she has so much wealth and power, she cannot claim so much as a single true friend.

"Unless Lady Clive be one," she muses, "and—and," but then she stops, and takes herself to task because she has so strangely thought of Captain Lockhart just then.

"Where can he be?" she wonders. "Perhaps he has taken himself off to livelier quarters. The house must have been as dull as a tomb while I lay so ill. I wonder if Lady Clive will ever forgive me for spoiling her 'season' like this."

She propounds this latter question gravely to Lady Clive herself, who responds with an encouraging smile, and the gay little answer:

"I will try."

But when she sees how pale and wistful is Countess Vera's lovely face, she folds her in her arms and kisses her.

"My dear, do not give a thought to that," she says. "There is nothing to forgive, believe me. I am very glad that you were with us when you fell sick. I have nursed you with all the love and tenderness I could have given a sister."

Why should Countess Vera's heart beat so fast at the thought of being Lady Clive's sister, and why should her pale cheeks flush, and the grateful words falter on her lips?

"We all love you," her friend goes on kindly. "The children have been dolorous over you. 'When will Vera come and see us again?' they ask every day. Have you looked at the pretty bouquets they sent in for you this morning?"

Lady Vera smiles assent. Fresh flowers are brought to her room every morning, and they tell her the children send them. But there are only three children, and always four bouquets. Vera asks no questions but she knows that the fourth one is always the largest and sweetest. To-day it is of crimson rose-buds, mixed with heliotrope and pansies, for there is always some blending of her favorite flower.

"You do not know how much we miss you from our home circle," the charming Lady Clive resumes, vivaciously. "You must not leave us when you get well, dear. Make your home with us until you get settled for life. You will be so lonely if you try to live alone with a chaperon. Won't you promise to stay?"

"I will think of it," Lady Vera answers, gratefully, while tears rise to her dark eyes.

Lady Clive comes to sit with her often, sending away the prim nurse, and installing herself in her place. She chats vivaciously, retailing bits of society gossip, telling of all the great people who have left cards of condolence for the young countess, of the lovers who are all desoles over her illness; of Sir Harry's regret and the children's clamorous despair. But, strange to say, she utterly forgets the existence of her brother, Captain Lockhart, or, perhaps, deems the subject uninteresting to her guest.

He has gone away, Lady Vera tells herself; yet she, in some vague way, feels that he has not. She hears a step in the hall outside her door sometimes—a manly step that is not Sir Harry Clive's, but which has a firm, remembered ring in it that has power to send the warm blood flying from her heart to her face.

When she is well enough to sit up in her white dressing-gown, lying back in a great, cushioned arm-chair, the children are admitted to see her. They spend a noisy five minutes with their friend, then the nurse bundles them out, closing the door on their clamorous tongues, but not so quickly but that Countess Vera catches Mark's disgusted dictum in the hall:

"Oh, Uncle Phil! Vera isn't a bit pretty any more. Her face is all white and thin, and her eyes are so big."

So he is here. Her subtle intuitions had been right.

Impulsively she turns to the prim old nurse.

"Open that door, and ask Captain Lockhart to come in here."

He comes, eager, smiling, filled with wonder, yet outwardly calm.

"You are very kind; you permit me to share the children's treat," he says. "May I——" then he pauses, confused.

"Look at me? yes, do," she says, crimsoning painfully. "I want you to tell me—is it true what Mark said—that I am not pretty any more?"

The blue eyes meet hers with the old, strange look that always made her heart beat against her will.

"Mark is a little dunce," he answers, smiling. "He has no eye for anything but roses. I assure you, Lady Vera, that you are as beautiful in your pallor and delicacy as you were in health. More beautiful to me," he adds, his voice falling slightly lower "because now you are kind."

"Kind!"

She arches her dark brows slightly in surprise.

"Yes," he answers. "Did you not know how I have been longing for a sight of your face, Lady Vera? But I dared not ask, and now you allow me to see you of your own free will. You cannot guess how much I thank you."

His voice trembles with feeling. The countess, blushing in spite of herself, tries to make light of it all.

"I did not think of les proprietes when I called you in here," she stammers. "My vanity was so alarmed by Mark's terrible speech that I forgot everything. I think you must go now."

But he lingers.

"Won't you come down into the library?" persuasively. "We could all amuse you there. You could lie on the sofa with a warm shawl over you, and we would read aloud to you, or sing, or play—whatever pleased you most. It must be dull for you here with your sick fancies. Will you come?"

What an atmosphere of cheerfulness he has brought into the sick-room.

Lady Vera's heart that has lain numb and chill, and hopeless in her breast so long, seems to warm itself to life again in the sunlight of his smile.

"I will go, if Lady Clive thinks it prudent," she declares.

Lady Clive—that astute general—on being consulted, puts on the gravest face over her well-pleased mind, and declares that Lady Vera may venture to-morrow, perhaps, and so gives Captain Lockhart twenty-four hours of the pleasures of anticipation, which philosophers declare exceed those of reality.

With to-morrow begins a love-idyl, one of the sweetest ever enacted, perhaps, and the most innocent, for Lady Vera is unconscious of it all, nor dreams that love is near. Captain Lockhart is no bold nor intrusive lover. He does not weary Lady Vera with his company or attentions, oftener than not leaving her to the companionship of his sister. But when he enters the room it is always brighter for his coming; when he reads, the volume gains a new interest; when he sings, she lies with closed eyelids, and wonders why she had ever fancied she would dislike this pleasant, agreeable gentleman, with his handsome face, his scholarly mind and chivalrous manner.

"It is very pleasant having such a friend," she thinks, within her innocent, unconscious heart. "I was so lonely losing dear papa, and having not one true heart to turn to in my sorrow."

A remembrance of her oath of vengeance comes into her mind, and a troubled look sweeps over the fair, young face. It weighs upon her like a burden—the legacy of hate her dying father has left her. How shall she ever keep her vow?

"Shall I go to America and seek my enemies who are so securely hidden away that even detectives cannot find them?" she asks herself. "Or shall I lie passive and wait? and when found, how shall I strike Marcia Cleveland's cruel heart?"

Alas! poor Vera, if you only knew the dreadful truth. If you only guessed how, in wounding your enemy's heart, you must fatally stab your own, you might pray to die now while the pulses of life are low, ere life became a living death. Well for us that:

And the pretty idyl goes on. Lady Vera's morbid thoughts are drawn out of herself, and lifted to a higher plane by Philip Lockhart's cheerful, active mind. The weeks round into a month, and she is almost well again. The color and roundness of youth have come back to her cheek, the light of a strange, new, unconscious happiness is dawning in the darkness of her eyes.