When the chandelier was relighted in the chapel they found Ronald Valchester lying like one dead upon the floor before the altar.

The abductor of his bride had given him a murderous thrust from a knife in the dark, and his snowy vest was dyed with the crimson current that poured from his side.

He was in a deep and death-like swoon, and when he opened his dim eyes again, he found himself supported on the white arm of Violet Earle, while a flood of tears rained from her dark blue eyes.

The doctors came and examined him. They found that the wound was not so bad as was at first supposed.

It was a flesh-wound in the left lung, and, though dangerous, not necessarily fatal.

They thought the assassin had aimed for the heart, but had missed it in the darkness.

They carried him to Laurel Hill, and Walter Earle and every other man in the neighborhood set out on a hot pursuit of the daring abductor of the beautiful girl-bride.

Public indignation was thoroughly aroused, and public opinion pointed unerringly to the perpetrator of the terrible outrage.

All remembered that Gerald Huntington had sworn an oath of vengeance against Jaquelina Meredith the night on which she had effected his capture.

Meanwhile Ronald Valchester, lying in a cool, white chamber at Laurel Hill, and lovingly tended by careful hands, was racked by the pain of his wound and the still greater anguish of his mental suffering.

He had lost her, his bonny, dark-eyed bride. She had been torn from his side in the very moment when she was about to be made his own forever.

One ever-recurring question fevered and tormented his harassed mind. To what terrible fate had his darling been devoted by her ruthless foe?

He moaned and tossed in restless delirium all night. They could not soothe him. Opiates failed utterly of effect.

The doctors said it was very bad for his wound. If a fever set in they could not answer for the consequences. But the terribly bereaved bridegroom heeded nothing they said.

He lay all night with his eager, restless eyes fixed upon the door.

Whenever anyone entered he would ask them if they had heard anything—if Walter had returned, and a dozen other anxious questions that were always answered in the negative.

But in the golden dawn of the new day Walter Earle rode into the stable-yard.

His horse was panting and flecked with foam. His master looked weary and jaded, but there was a light of eager joy in his face.

He threw the reins to a servant, and hurried away to the wounded bridegroom's room.

Valchester's heavy eyes, still fixed yearningly on the door, grew bright with joy at his friend's entrance.

"Walter, you bring me news," he cried, eagerly.

And Walter answered with a quiver of joy in his voice:

"Yes, Val, we have found her!"

"Found her!" Mrs. Valchester echoed from her place beside the bed where she was fanning her son.

"Found her!" Mrs. Earle cried joyfully from the washstand where she was preparing iced cloths for Ronald's heated brow.

But Ronald was stricken dumb by that joyful answer. He lay still, pressing Walter's hand tightly in perfect silence, his whole eloquent face expressing his exceeding joy and thankfulness. It was Mrs. Earle who asked after a moment:

"Walter, where did you find the poor child?"

"In the woods, mother, where she had dragged herself until she could go no further. She was very weak and exhausted."

"Is it possible she had escaped from her captor?" exclaimed Mrs. Valchester.

"So it seems," said Walter, "but she was too weary and exhausted to give us any information, scarcely. We have taken her home, and when she is rested and somewhat recovered, she will tell us all."

"When did you find her?" Ronald asked, faintly.

"A little past midnight, lying like a little white heap under a tree," Walter replied.

"She was quite unconscious, and only rallied after we reached the farm with her. She could only answer a few questions, and we would not weary her. She was very nervous, and seemed disinclined for speech."

"Oh! that I were well enough to go to her," groaned Ronald.

Walter Earle looked at the pale, eager face compassionately.

"Valchester, do not worry yourself," he said, kindly. "It is not good for you. Lina will come to you the moment she is able. She said she would, and her uncle said that he would bring her. Try and be patient a few hours."

"If he would only sleep," said Mrs. Valchester, eagerly. "The doctor said he must be very quiet and sleep a good deal, but he has never even closed his eyes, and he's watching the door constantly, and asking wild questions of everyone."

Walter looked at the pale, worn face of the wounded man. He knew in his heart what the anguish of that night had been to him.

"Poor old Val," he said, gently, "how could he help it? It was hard to bear—the misery, and the terrible suspense. But now that Lina is safe, he will compose himself and go to sleep as you wish him—will you not, Ronald?" he inquired in a soothing tone.

"I will try," he answered, and closed his eyes obediently; but every now and then when they thought him asleep, a nervous start or a twitching of the eye-lids would betray the wakefulness and excitement which he was patiently striving to overcome.

But happiness is a potent medicine.

They knew that ere long his relieved mind would succumb to its own weariness, so they darkened the room and kept very still, waiting anxiously for the moment when "tired nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep," should fold her pinions over his weary pillow.

Then Walter himself, weary and worn with a night's hard riding, stole from the room to seek rest and comfort on his own downy couch.

Outside the door he encountered his sister restlessly hovering in the hall, her fair face strangely pallid, a frightened gleam in her large, blue eyes.

"Walter," she whispered fearfully, "is it true what I heard you saying just now—that Lina Meredith is really found?"

"Yes, it is true," he answered. "Are you not glad, Violet?"

A strange expression that Walter could not understand, came over the pallid face of the girl.

"Found—I can scarcely credit it!" she cried out, in astonishment. "Come, Walter, I will go with you to your room, and you shall tell me all about it."

She went with him to his quiet room, but she could gain no more from him than she had already heard him telling Ronald Valchester. A look of disappointment came over her lovely, blonde face. She left Walter and went away to her own room, where she threw herself down upon her snowy couch and wept the bitterest tears that had ever fallen from those lovely eyes.

"Gerald Huntington has played me false," she told herself. "He has let her go after all the risks I ran for him. Oh! how could he be so base, so cruel? What shall I do now? Oh, what shall I do?"

Weeping and sighing, Violet wrung her hands, and hid her anguished face in the lace-trimmed pillow. She had dared and risked so much to remove her hated rival from her path, and all had failed.

In the afternoon Ronald Valchester fell into a long, refreshing sleep. When he awakened, feeling wonderfully calmed and refreshed, his first question was for his little Lina.

"My dear, I do not think she has come yet," said the gentle mother, patiently watching by his bedside. "Be patient. She will come bye-and-bye."

"Mother, will you just step down and see if they have heard any more from her?"

Mrs. Valchester moved quietly away. The invalid lay still, with half-closed eyes, watching the last flickering beams of sunshine as they lay in golden bars upon the floor.

Then, although he had heard no footsteps, he saw the shadow of a woman lying across the sunbeams on the floor. He looked up quickly and saw a small, white figure in the doorway, with a wan, white face and great, dark eyes that looked at him sorrowfully yet eagerly.

"Lina, Lina, my darling!" he cried out, extending his eager arms toward her.