It is very lovely down in the country at Fairvale Park in the golden summer weather. A pang goes through Lady Vera's heart as she recalls Sir Harry Clive's warning, and thinks of losing this grand, picturesque place, the only true home she has ever known. Her sweetest, tenderest memories of her father are twined around the spot.

Bereft of this, she must indeed be desolate. Not even one spot of brightness will remain in the cold and cruel darkness that has settled over her life.

Perhaps it is this thought that drives her, as soon as she is at home again, to seek diligently through her father's papers for some writing bearing on the subject of her supposed death and burial.

Sir Harry Clive has so confidently believed in the existence of some such document, that it is with a pang of the bitterest disappointment she sees the first day pass with no tangible success, though her brain is tired, and her eyes weary with poring over the contents of his desk.

"I have found nothing, although I have closely scrutinized every little bit of paper," she tells Sir Harry, when they meet at dinner, in a tone of sad disappointment.

"You have examined all the papers?" he asks, with disappointment equal to her own.

"All, except an old memorandum-book, which I intend to look over to-morrow," she answers, "though I scarcely think it will result in anything. Do you think it worth my while to examine it?"

"Yes. It is a forlorn hope, at least, and we must try everything. Strange that your father should have neglected so important a duty," the baronet continues, musingly.

"Poor papa! You must remember, his mind was all distraught by grief," Lady Vera answers, with rising tears. "He thought only of his sorrows and his longed-for vengeance on the destroyer of his wedded happiness. We must forgive him for his want of thought."

"You must not think that I am blaming him, dear Lady Vera. Nothing is further from my thoughts," Sir Harry answers, gently, but there is a shade of anxiety on his brow that does not clear away during the evening.

He is full of sorrow for the fair young countess, full of fears that he will not speak aloud, for he has heard far more of Raleigh Gilmore's intentions than he would even hint to Vera or to Lady Clive. He knows that she will have to make a fight for title, name and fortune, and that her case before the law is so terribly weak that there is large danger of her being cast out from her inheritance, and branded as adventuress and impostor.

But of all that is in his mind Sir Harry says nothing. Why should he grieve her more, he thinks, looking at the pale, suffering young face, on whose white and wasted lineaments the traces of sorrow were so plainly and sadly outlined.

The next day, taking the old memorandum-book, she goes for a solitary ramble. Lady Clive is going for a drive with her children, so she will not be missed.

A favorite resort of Lady Vera's is a silvery little lake on the green border of the wide, level park. Water-lilies with their wide green leaves and waxen-white petals rock softly on the bosom of the lake, and feathery-green willows fringe it softly round. Lady Vera finds a quiet, sequestered seat with her back against a willow tree, and applies herself to her task, turning page after page softly and unweariedly in the pursuit of her object.

A weary quest. The simple, leather-bound memorandum volume, with plain gold clasps, had been Earl Fairvale's bosom companion in the days when he was simple Lawrence Campbell. Patiently Vera reads on and on, and the morning sun mounts higher in the heavens, the water ripples softly at her feet, the wind sighs in the grass and the willows.

But it is not the most delightful reading in the world, studying the dull entries of an old memorandum-book. Lady Vera's sweet patience begins to flag at last. Her red lips quiver with disappointment and suspense. She shuts the book with one taper finger between the pages and leans her golden head back against the tree, wearily.

"There is nothing here—absolutely nothing," she tells herself, sadly, all unconscious that but one thin leaf intervenes between her and success. "I shall lose all," she continues, with a choking sob; "I have lost my lover and all my happiness. Now I shall have to lose my name, my title, my home, all the lavish wealth to which I have become so accustomed that I shall not know how to do without it. All my life I have seemed to be the foot-ball of fate. Sorrow is ever near me. It is like Philip's song. Oh, how often I recall it:

She rests a little, letting the tears steal unchecked down her pale cheeks, while her bosom heaves with emotion—a little while, and then she dashes the blinding drops away, chiding herself for her weakness.

"I am childish and silly; I must remember I have not got to the end of the book yet. Time enough to despond then," she says, bending to her task with renewed ardor and energy.

The dark eyes under the shady fringe of the lashes rove patiently down the page—they finish it, and find nothing—the white, taper finger turns another leaf, and lo! there at the top of the page, this mysterious entry:

"Oct. 30th, 188—, Mem. To-day presented Joel McPherson, sexton at Glenwood Cemetery, Washington, D. C., with a check for a thousand dollars, as a slight testimonial of my undying gratitude for his skill and co-operation with me in the act by which my darling daughter, Vera, was restored to me from the grave itself, in which she had been immured alive."

A cry breaks from the lips of the overjoyed girl—the tears start afresh—this time the shining drops of gladness.

"Eureka! I have found it!" she quotes, with a low and happy laugh, and bending her graceful head, she kisses the precious record made by that beloved hand now mouldering into dust.

It is some little time before she grows quite calm. The happy excitement of joy has made her pulse beat and her heart burn. At last, with the book still lying open on her lap, and her head leaned back against the tree, the tired lids fall over the dark eyes, she relapses into pleasant musings over this happy chance, and so—drops asleep, little dreaming of the baleful presence hovering so near her.

The winds sigh past her cheek, fanning it softly with a touch as soft as a kiss; the silver waters murmur at her feet, lulling her into sweeter, softer slumber. And no instinct warns her of the baleful gaze that watches her through the screen of the bending willows, nor of the stealthy footsteps creeping, serpent-like, nearer and nearer, until the eager gaze peers over her shoulder at the precious page spread open on her knee.

The sun climbs higher, broad noonday throws a lance of golden light into Vera's shady retreat and shines into her face. She wakes with a start, and springs to her feet.

"I have been asleep! How came I here?" she cries; then suddenly she remembers. "I was looking over papa's book, and I found the record of my burial and my rescue from the grave. Where is it, now? It lay open on my lap when I fell asleep. I hope it has not fallen into the lake."

A hurried survey of the green, mossy bank convinces her that such must be the case. The memorandum-book is nowhere to be seen. Most probably it has been precipitated into the water by her startled spring to her feet on awaking.

"How could I have been so careless?" she cries, in poignant grief and dismay. "I should have gone straight to the house and shown Sir Harry my important discovery. But I remember every word of it just as it was written. Perhaps that will do as well. I will go and seek Sir Harry at once and tell him all."

Carelessly donning her wide-brimmed sun-hat she leaves the spot, little dreaming that she has been ruthlessly robbed of her treasure.

"Are you sure—quite sure that you have not dreamed the whole thing, Lady Vera?" Sir Harry Clive asks her, incredulously, when she told him her story.

The sensitive color mantles her delicate cheek.

"I am perfectly certain of what I have stated," she answers. "It was only after I had found the entry that I fell asleep a few delicious moments. It must have been the greatness of the reaction from suspense and grief to success and joy that caused my sudden, overwhelming drowsiness. I remember that I kissed the precious words a few minutes before I fell asleep. I read them over and over. Listen, Sir Harry, I am quite sure I can repeat every word with perfect accuracy now."

Slowly she repeats:

"Oct. 30th, 188—. Mem. To-day presented Joel McPherson, sexton at Glenwood Cemetery, Washington, D. C., with a check for a thousand dollars, as a slight testimonial of my undying gratitude for his skill and co-operation with me in the act by which my darling daughter, Vera, was restored to me from the grave itself, in which she had been immured alive."

As she slowly utters the words, Sir Harry jots them down in his own memorandum-book. There is a puzzled look on his broad, fair, intelligent brow.

"If only you had not fallen asleep," he says, regretfully. "But, dear Lady Vera, this sounds so much like the vagaries of sleep. It seems real to you, I know, but I am almost afraid to pin my faith on it."

"The lake is not deep; I will send one of the servants to dive for the book. I am sure he will find it. Then I shall convince you of my credibility," she answers, quietly, as she leaves the room.

As she has said, the lake is not deep, and several of the men-servants at Fairvale Park are skillful swimmers, but for all that they cannot find the earl's memorandum-book beneath the shallow waves. All trace of it is gone.

"Are you quite sure you carried it down to the lake with you?" the baronet asks, unfeignedly perplexed.

"I am quite sure," she replies, with decision. "It lay open on my lap when I fell asleep."

"Can any one have stolen it?" he asks, unconsciously hitting the truth.

"Impossible," she answers. "I am sure if any one had come near me, I should have awakened. I am a very light sleeper."

"There is something very mysterious about its loss. I am quite confident it did not fall into the lake," muses Sir Harry Clive.

Lady Vera, on the contrary, is quite sure that it did, but she does not urge her belief, feeling a little wounded by his incredulous air, but after a little, she says, thoughtfully:

"I am so sure that what I have told you is the truth and no dream, Sir Harry, that I shall write to this Joel McPherson in America, and offer him a large reward to come to England and explain that strange entry in the lost memorandum-book. What do you think of my plan?"

"It can do no harm," he answers, after a moment's thought, "and it might be a good plan."

"Then I shall lose no time in executing it," she answers, decisively.

The baronet detains her to say, hesitatingly:

"Do not think me officious, Lady Vera, if I suggest that you advertise the loss of the earl's memorandum-book, and offer a suitable reward for its recovery. It is just possible that some strolling tramp has quietly pilfered it while you lay sleeping, attracted by the golden clasps."

"It may be," Lady Vera answers, incredulously, but she duly writes out the advertisement, and it is forwarded without delay to the county papers.