And one day the last sweet rose leaf is added to the brimming cup of Lady Vera's new happiness, which even the thought of Raleigh Gilmore's fell design could not wholly overshadow.

Sir Harry Clive had sent her an urgent request to come into the library to meet a visitor, and only staying a moment to arrange her disordered hair, for she had been in the nursery playing with Lady Nella's children, she obeys him.

Sir Harry takes her hand and draws her forward to the man, neatly clothed in black, who has risen from his chair to meet her.

"I know your face," she cries, instantly. "I have seen you somewhere. It is—oh, can it be Mr. McPherson?"

"It is Joel McPherson, Lady Vera, at your service," he answers, in honest, hearty tones. "I am glad you remembered me, my lady. I knew you again instantly although you look prettier and happier than you did that morning when your father took you away from Glenwood."

"Oh, then, you can tell me all about that dreadful night," she cries, repressing the shudder that always steals over her at the thought of her living entombment.

"Yes, my lady, that is why I came to England with Mr. Sharpe," he answers, respectfully. "I told your father that day that it was wrong to keep the story of your burial from you. He answered me that he meant to tell you all some day when you grew well and strong again."

"Poor father! He was too tender-hearted to keep that promise," Lady Vera murmurs, dropping into a chair, and hiding her tearful face in her hands.

"You wish to hear how you came to be rescued from your living grave, dear Lady Vera?" says the baronet, anxious to distract her mournful thoughts from her dead father.

"Yes, oh, yes," she murmurs, lifting her head, and looking at Mr. McPherson's grave, kindly face. "You will tell me, will you not, sir?"

"You see it was this way, my lady. On the evening of the day that you were buried, your father went to Mrs. Cleveland's to seek his wife and child. She told him cruelly to seek you both in your graves at Glenwood. He could scarcely believe it. It seemed too horrible to believe, and in the horror with which his enemy's words inspired him, he fell down like one dead at her feet. He came to himself lying out on the pavement with the wild rain and wind beating into his uncovered face. She had cast him out into the street to die like the veriest wretch, unfriended and alone."

"Heartless!" Sir Harry Clive utters, indignantly, while Lady Vera's choking sobs attest the strain upon his feelings.

"Then he came to me," continued Joel McPherson, his kind eyes moist at the remembrance of the earl's despair. "I could only confirm Mrs. Cleveland's story. Both his wife and child were dead. Then a longing came over him to look at the face of the dead wife. He had wronged her living, he said, and he could not rest until he saw her face again. He offered me gold to open the grave, but it was not the bribe, it was the misery on his face that made me yield to his wish."

He pauses, drawing a long breath, and wiping the moisture from his eyes, waits for Lady Vera to grow calmer. The sound of her suppressed sobbing fills the room.

Sir Harry touches her arm gently.

"This is too much for you," he says kindly. "Shall we defer the story's conclusion until you are better, my dear?"

"No, I will be calm," she answers, repressing with an effort the sobs that rise at these reminiscences of the past; "I will not disturb you again. Go on with your story, Mr. McPherson."

"There is little more to tell, my lady," he returns. "I yielded to the earl's wish because, after hearing all his strange story I had not the heart to refuse. But in the haste with which the deed was done, and in the pitch-black, rainy night I made a mistake. Judge of my surprise when on wrenching off the lid of the coffin, and flashing the light of the lantern on the face within, I found that I had disinterred the daughter instead of the mother. It was the happiest mistake of my life, for in a few minutes we found that she was not dead, but simply wrapped in a deep, narcotic sleep," he adds, with emotion.

In a moment he continues:

"Your father, Lady Vera, did not discover the mistake until I explained it to him. He had not seen your mother for sixteen years, and as you greatly resembled her, he fancied that she had retained the fairness of girlhood through all those years, whereas, in reality, she was gray-haired and sadly aged by sorrow. I explained all this to him, and then we took you to my cottage near by, and when you revived, he quieted you by some plausible story that you had been asleep, fearing to shock you too much by the story of your burial while yet alive. He still clung to his fancy of seeing his dead wife's face, so I went back and opened that grave too, but," with a shudder, "it was too late. Death had marred her too sadly. I filled up both graves again, and by your father's wish, my lady, no one ever knew that one was empty. I questioned the wisdom of such a course, but the earl was peremptory, and the little mound remained, while very soon after Mr. Noble erected the monument that told every one that his wife, Vera, was buried beneath, while the truth was that you had gone abroad with your father. The earl, in his joy over your restoration to life, settled a generous little fortune upon me, which has made me independent ever since. He was a good man and true, and I am sorry that he is dead," adds Mr. McPherson, brushing his hand across his eyes.

"And my letter to you—did you ever receive it?" questions Lady Vera.

"Yes, my lady, promptly. And I was making my arrangements to come right over to England and help you, when I was basely kidnapped by some unknown party and held in durance over two months, when, by good luck and constant watchfulness, I effected my escape. I went straight back to Glenwood, and there I found your man, Mr. Sharpe, interrogating the sexton, who now occupied my cottage. He was delighted to find in me the man he was looking for, and I came straight over to England with him. But if you had not sent him after me, Lady Vera, I should have come anyhow as soon as I escaped from my jailers."

Lady Vera, rising impulsively, goes over to press the hand of this kind, true friend in her two soft, white ones.

"God bless you," she murmurs; "I can never thank you enough. And will you swear to all this before a court of justice?"

"Certainly, my Lady Fairvale. That is what I came to England for," Mr. McPherson answers, heartily.

When Raleigh Gilmore's lawyer heard of this new witness in Lady Vera's favor, he declared that his client had no case at all against the defendant. He said it would be useless to bring it into court. They would only be routed ignominiously, for Lady Fairvale's identity was so perfectly established by the note in her father's memorandum-book, and by the sexton of Glenwood's testimony, that there was really nothing to be said against it. Besides, Mr. Gilmore's witnesses were all dead, or worse. So the base conspiracy fell through harmlessly, and there was no trial at all, though Countess Vera's friends were rather eager for it now, foreseeing that victory must perch upon her banner. Raleigh Gilmore retired to his country estate again, soured by his defeat and disgrace, and heartily wishing that he had never been beguiled from its quiet shades by the specious representations of the Widow Cleveland. There was one drop of sweetness in the bitter cup of humiliation pressed to the old bachelor's lips. Marcia Cleveland was dead, and he would not have to marry her as he had promised.

Countess Vera felt no animosity toward the man who had tried to oust her from her rights. She wrote him a kind and pitying letter, in which she offered him generous pecuniary assistance if he required it, and freely forgave him the part he had acted.

To this sweet and womanly offer, Mr. Gilmore replied gruffly and rudely that he neither asked nor needed aid from the usurper of his rights, and had no desire for her forgiveness.

After this, Lady Vera tacitly dropped him, and he figured no more in the pages of her romantic life-history, which thereafter flowed serenely in the unclouded sunshine of happiness.