Mr. Abbot appeared to gather new strength after the events related in the previous chapter, in spite of his own predictions and the fears of others that he was dying.

The mild September weather and the quiet happiness which pervaded his home seemed to have a beneficial effect upon him. But as the weather grew colder, as the chill October winds began to sweep over the mountains, a decided change came. Just as daylight was fading one evening, and the dull gray of a coming storm began to settle down upon the mountains, he breathed his last, peacefully, quietly and willingly, and thus all earthly sorrow was at an end for him; he had gone where all wrongs would be righted, where mystery or shame would no longer envelop him.

They buried him, as he desired, beneath the great plumy pine tree that grew near their cottage, and where Virgie's great happiness had come to her, and then Sir William felt that he had a right to take his wife away to a more congenial atmosphere.

He had disposed of his claim some time before, for since he had no longer any need of an excuse for remaining there, he had given up all pretense of business and devoted himself exclusively to the care of the invalid and to making Virgie's duties as light as possible.

The cottage and its furniture were sold; Chi Lu was presented with Sir William's own neat little cabin with all its contents, besides being otherwise handsomely remunerated for all his kindness and faithfulness and then the baronet took his bride directly to San Francisco, which they decided to make their headquarters for the winter, intending early in the spring to sail for England.

Sir William had written home long before this of his marriage. But the news had not been cordially received by the members of his household.

His stately mother had replied in a brief, dignified manner, which did not fail to convey her displeasure at the step he had taken, while his widowed sister, who, with her two children, were greatly dependent on her brother, did not hesitate to express her indignation at his rashness and inconsideration of their feelings, at least, in marrying so "out of his own element."

The young baronet, of course, kept all this to himself. He had known well enough that his marriage would be displeasing to his family, who had long had other views for him, but he trusted that, when he should present his bride to them, every objection would disappear like dew before the sun, and she would be received with open arms and be loved for her own sweet sake.

At all events he was his own master, and he was not a man to tamely submit to unreasonable prejudices; and if his mother and sister refused to receive his wife with becoming courtesy and respect, as the mistress of Heathdale, it would only be the worse for them.

He did not begin to suspect, however, the bitterness which they experienced when they received the startling information that he had married a girl from the wilds of the far West. His union had followed so closely upon his betrothal that he had no opportunity to communicate plans beforehand, and thus the news had fallen like a thunderbolt upon them.

"He has ruined his life!" cried Lady Linton, his sister, in a white rage, after reading the letter. "To think of it!--he has married a perfect savage from the wilds of America! A pretty mistress for dear old Heathdale, truly. I will never receive her, never!"

"You know what William is, Miriam, and it will not be wise for you to offend him. He will never tolerate any display of arrogance or discourtesy to his wife," returned the dowager Lady Heath, more quietly, yet looking the picture of despair over the mesalliance.

"I cannot help it; it is an abominable insult to all his friends, and never to tell us anything about it until the die was cast!"

"But he explains why he could not; the marriage was hastened on account of the father's critical condition replied Lady Heath.

"Oh, I believe it was all a cunning plan to entrap him and secure the girl a title and position," groaned Lady Linton. "How will Sadie feel; what will she say?"

"I do not know as she has any right to say anything," answered the dowager, with some dignity, for she loved her son and could not bear to have any one assail him, no matter how much she might blame him herself. "William has never committed himself to her in any way; that plan has been more ours than his."

She was fully as unreconciled as her daughter; still she was capable of looking at matters as they really were.

"Oh, I cannot have it so, mamma; do not let us say anything about the affair at present," pleaded her daughter. "William says it will be some time before he returns, as he wishes to show his wife something of the world first. Doubtless," she continued, with increasing bitterness, "he desires to polish off some of the rough edges before he presents her to us; so let us suppress the fact of his marriage until the time is set for their coming; it will be hard enough even then to acknowledge the plebeian union."

Lady Heath demurred at first at this proposal, but she finally yielded the point, and nothing was said regarding the baronet's sudden marriage, and this was the beginning of a plot to ruin the life of a beautiful young wife, and to bring years of misery upon a noble man.

---

Virgie found it very pleasant in some respects, though sad in others, to return to San Francisco, her former home.

She had left the city nearly six years ago, when she was an undeveloped girl; she returned to it in the full glory of beautiful womanhood, and owing to her many changes which had occurred there, as well as in her own personal appearance and position, no one appeared to recognize her as the daughter of the unfortunate man who had figured so conspicuously in a terrible scandal there, and then suddenly disappeared covering his tracks so successfully that no one, either friend or foe, knew whither he had gone.

The young wife was very happy in spite of her recent bereavement; her husband was kindness and nobility personified, and left nothing undone that could contribute in any degree to her pleasure, or prevent her from brooding upon her father's death.

They had a cozy and elegant suite of rooms at the Baldwin Hotel, which Sir William had engaged for the winter, and from this point they made many excursions sometimes being away several weeks at a time, traveling, then returning to rest, after which they would start afresh again.

The fond husband was determined that Virgie should see everything that was worth seeing in her own country before he took her to their home in England.

They frequented the opera and theater, attended concerts and lectures, and Sir William was both surprised and delighted to notice how readily Virgie adapted herself to the requirements of society and etiquette, notwithstanding the seclusion of the last half-dozen years.

About the middle of March they started for the East, intending to take the trip leisurely and visit points of interest along their route.

They arrived in New York early in May, and were intending to sail for England the last of the month.

But Virgie, although not really ill, was far from well when they reached the great metropolis, and her husband insisted that she must have medical advice.

He called in a skillful physician, who, upon being told what their plans were, immediately and emphatically vetoed further travel for the present.

"It will be simply impossible for Mrs. Heath to undertake a sea voyage at present," he asserted.

"But the trip occupies eight days--" Sir William began.

"If it occupied only three it would make no difference it will not be safe for her to attempt to cross the ocean under three months," Dr. Knox said, with an air of decision which admitted of no further argument.

Sir William was disappointed, yet he was too fond and careful of his beautiful wife to rebel against this verdict.

A week or two passed and Virgie appeared to be improving, when, one morning, there came a cablegram from Heathdale, announcing that the dowager Lady Heath was alarmingly ill, and imploring the baronet's immediate return if he desired to see her alive.

The message threw the young husband into a distressing state of mind.

It seemed like harshest cruelty to obey the summons and leave his wife alone in that strange city. And yet the alternative of remaining and allowing his mother to die without seeing him once more, seemed almost equally unkind.

He sought Dr. Knox again in his extremity and explained his desperate situation.

"I could not answer for the consequences if you take your wife; it will be a fearful risk for Mrs. Heath to go. She might endure the voyage safely, but the probabilities are that she would not," the physician gravely told him. "But," he added, kindly, "I sympathize with you--I appreciate your dilemma, and, if you must go, I advise you to leave her in my charge and I promise faithfully to give her every attention during your enforced absence."

This seemed the only thing to be done and Sir William finally decided to return to his home alone.

Virgie herself urged him to go, though her heart was almost breaking at the thought of the separation, for it might be that she would never see him again.

Still she was brave--she put aside her own feelings out of regard for the duty which he owed his mother, and there was a possibility that he could return to her in the course of two or three weeks.

"Do not feel unduly anxious for me, Will," she said to him, on the evening before he was to sail, "I know that Dr. Knox will do all for me that you can wish. I will either write or send some message to you by every steamer, and I am going to trust that everything will be well."

"But it is agony to me to leave you--oh! my darling, if your heart fails you in the least, if you say you prefer to have me stay, I will not go even now," he said, his own courage failing him and having more than half a mind to renounce his intended voyage even at that late hour.

"No, dear, I know that it is your duty to go," Virgie answered, gently. "I should never forgive myself, if your mother should die, for keeping you from her at such a time."

"But if--I should lose you, too," he was going to say, but checked himself and concluded, "but if you should be neglected and unhappy?"

"I shall not be, Will; you have provided against the former contingency most generously, and the latter I can regulate myself. I will not be unhappy, for I know that you are doing right and that you will return to me the moment that you are at liberty to do so."

"Indeed I shall," he answered, as he gathered her close to his breast and rained passionate kisses upon her lovely face.

But his heart was very heavy notwithstanding her apparent cheerfulness.

A superstitious dread seemed to have seized him, warning him that some fearful calamity would follow this separation. He was not given to such unreasonable imaginings, and he reproached himself for indulging in them; but he could not shake them off nevertheless.

Morning came and with it the hour of departure and the last farewells.

Virgie wore a brave and even smiling face through all. She had resolved that she would not unman him at the last moment.

She watched at her window until he drove away, waving her handkerchief and throwing him a kiss as he passed from sight, then the pent-up grief of her heart found vent in a wild burst of tears such as she had not shed since the hour of her father's death.

But she would not indulge it long.

She had every comfort. Her rooms were cheerful and elegant; a motherly, middle-aged woman had been engaged to remain with her as companion and nurse during her husband's absence; she had an abundance of money at her command, and Dr. Knox had promised to look in upon her every day. Surely she had nothing to complain of, save the enforced separation from her dear one, and that would not be for long, she trusted.

The ninth day after the departure of Sir William there came a cablegram, telling of his safe arrival at Liverpool, and this, at his request, she immediately responded to, telling him that all was well with her.

The next steamer, she knew, would bring her a letter and after that she would hear from him every few days.

Sir William found his mother alive, but in a very low state; "she might rally, she might not," they told him; and, with a sigh of resignation, he could only wait and try to patiently adapt himself to circumstances.

Thus four weeks went by, and then, early one June morning, a message went flying through the depths of the ocean, telling that a tiny little maiden, with eyes and hair like her father's, but bidding fair to become the counterpart of her mother in form and features had come to Virgie the morning previous, and "all was well."

The fervent "thank God!" accompanied with something very like a sob, which burst from Sir William Heath's lips as he read this message, told how intense had been his anxiety during the weeks of his absence from his darling, and how great his relief at those favorable tidings.

He returned a message of love and congratulation, and when, a little later, there came a letter to the happy young mother, it begged that their little one should be called "Virgie May," the latter name being that of a dear sister of whom Sir Will had been very fond, and who had died several years previous.

And thus the little heiress of Heathdale was christened by her mother.