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THE BEAUTIFUL COUNTESS ; O x-, A Horrible Mystery, A Startling and Exciting Story BY SHERIDAN LE FANUE. CHAPTER VIII. At sight of the room, perfectly undisturbed except for our violent entrance, we began to cool a little,and soon recovered our senses sufficient ly to dismiss the men. It had struck Mademoi selle that possibly Camilla had been wakened by the uproar at her door, and in her first panic bad jumped from her bed, and hid herself in a press, or behind a curtain, from which Bhe could not, of course, emerge until the major- domo and his myrmidons had withdrawn. We now recommenced our search, and began to •all her by name again. It was all to no purpose. Our perplexity and agitation increased. We examined the windows, but they were secured. I implored of Camilla, if she had concealed herself, to play this cruel triok no longer—to come out, and to end our anxieties. It was all useless. I was by this time convinced that she was not in the room, nor in the dressing-room, the door of which was still locked on this side. She could not have passed it. I was utterly puzzled. Had Camilla discovered one of those secret passages which the old housekeeper said were known to exist in the schloss. although the tradition of their exact situation had been lost. A little time would, no doubt, explain all—utterly perplexed as for the present, we were. It was past four o’clook, and I preferred pass ing the remaining hours of darkness in Madame’s room. Daylight brought no solution of the dlfi- culty. The whole household, with my father at its head, was in a state of agitation next morning. Every part of the chateau was searched. The grounds were explored. Not a trace of jthemiss- ing lady could be discovered. The stieam was dragged; my father was in distraction; what a tale to have to tell the poor girl’s mother on her return. I, too, was almost beside myself, though my grief was quite of a different kind. The morning was passed in alarm and excite ment. It was now one o'clock, and still no tidings. I ran up to Camilla’s room, and found her standing at her dressing-table. I was astounded. I could not believe my eyes. She beckoned me to her with her pretty finger, in silence. Her face expressed extreme fear. I ran to her in an ecstasy of joy; I kissed and embraced her again and again. I ran to the bell and rang it vehemently, to bring others to the spot, who might at once relieve my father’s anxiety. “Dear Camilla, what has become of you all this time? We have been in agonies of anxiety about you,” I exclaimed. “Where have you been? How did you come back?” “Last night has been a night of wonders, ” she said. “For mercy's sake, explain all you can.” “It was past two last night” she said, “when I went to sleep as usual in my bed, with my doors locked, that of the dressing-room and that open ing upon the gallery. My sleep was uninterrupt ed, and, so far as I know, dreamless; but I awoke just now on the sofa in the dressing-room there, and I found the door between the rooms open, and the other door forced. How could all this have happened without my being wakened? It must have been accompanied with a great deal of noise, and I Am particularly easily wakened; and how could I have been carried out of my bed without my sleep haviug been interrupted, I whom the slightest stir startles?” By this time, Madame, Mademoiselle, my father, and a number of the servants were in the room. Carmilla was of course overwhelmed with enquiries, congratulations, and welcomes. She had but one story to tell, and seemed the least able of all the party to suggest any way of ac- coun'ing for what had happened. My father took a turn up and down the room, thinking. I saw Carmilla's eye follow him for a moment with a sly dark glance. When my father had sent the servants away, Mademoiselle having gone in search of a little bottle of valerian and sal-volatile, and there be ing no one now in the room with Carmilla, ex cept my father, Madame, and myself, he came to her thoughtfully, took her hand very kindly, led her to the sofa, and sat down beside her. “Will you forgive me, my dear, if I risk a conjecture, and ask a question ?" “Who can have a better right?” she said. “Ask what you please, and I will tell you every thing. But my story is simply one of bewilder ment and darkness. I know absolutely noth ing. Put any question you please. But you know, of course, the limitations mamma has placed me under ?” “Perfectly, my child. I need not approach the topics on which she desires our silence. Now, the marvel of last night consists in your having been removed from your bed and your room, without being wakened, and this remov al's having occurred apparently while the win dows were still secured, and the two doors locked upon the inside. I will tell you my the ory, and first ask you a question.” Carmilla was leaning on her hand dejectedly; Madame and I were listening breathlessly. “Now, my question is this. Have you ever been suspected of walking in your sleep ?” “Never since I was very young indeed.” “But you did walk in your sleep when you were young ?” “Yes; I know I did. I have been told so often by my old nurse.” My father smiled and nodded. “Well, what has happened is this. You got up in your sleep, unlocked the door, not leav ing the key, as usual, in the look, but taking it out and locking it on the Outside; you again took the key out, and carried it away with you to some one of the other five-and-twenty rooms on this floor, or perhaps up-stairs or down stairs. There are so many rooms and closets, so much heavy furniture, and such accumula tions of lumber, that it would require a week to search this old house thoroughly. Do you see, now, what I mean ?” “I do, but not all,” she answered. “And how, papa, do you aocount for her find ing herself on the sofa in the dressing room, which we had searched so carefully ?” “She oame there alter you had searohed it, still in her sleep, and at last awoke spontane ously, and was as muoh surprised to find herself where she was as any one else. I wish all mys teries were as easily and innocently explained as yours, Carmilla,” said he laughing. “And so we may congratulate ourselves on the oertainty that the most natural explanation of the occur rence is one that involves no drugging, no tam pering with looks, no burglars, or poisoners, or witches—nothing that need alarm Camilla, or any one else, for our safety.” Carmilla was looking charmingly. Nothing oonld be more beautiful than her tints. Her beauty was, I think, enhanced by that graceful languor that was peculiar to her. I think my father was silently contrasting her looks with mine, for he said: “I wish my poor Laura was looking more like herself;” and he sighed. So oiir alarms were happily ended, and Gar- aailla restored to her fiiends. CHAPTER IX. As Camilla would not hear of an attendant sleep ing in her room, my father arranged that a ser vant should sleep outside her door, so that she could not attempt to make another such excur sion without being arrested at her own door. That night past quietly; and next morning early, the doctor, whom my father had sent for without telling me one word about it, arrived to see me. Madame accompanied me to the library; and there the grave little doctor, with white hair and spectacles, whom I mentioned before, was : waiting to reoeive me. I told him my story, and as I proceeded he grew graver and graver. I, suddenly laying my hand on his arm, and looking, 1 am sure imploringly in his face. “Perhaps,” he answered smoothing my hair caressingly over my eyes. “ Does the doctor think me very ill ? ” “No, dear; he thinks, if right steps are taken, you will be quite well again, at least, on the high road to a complete recovery, in a day or two,” he answered, a little drily. “I wish our good fnend, the General, had chosen any other time; that is, I wish yon had been perfectly well to receive him. ” “But do tell me, papa,” I insisted, “ lehat does he think is the matter with me. ? ” “Nothing; you must not plague me with ques tions.” he answered, with more irritation than I We were standing, he and I, in the recess of ! eveT remember him to have displayed before; ie of the windows, facing one another. When seeing that I looked wounded, Ieuppoie, he — —A... A. — — —— A — ~.. L /» /wJ fl» Vuc kissud ZQ6| ftQ'i “You shall know all about one my statement was over, he leaned with his shoulders against the wall, and with his eyes fixed on me earnestly, with an interest in which there was a dash of horror. After a minute’s reflection, he asked Madame if he could see my father. He was sent for accordingly, and as he enter ed, smiling, he said, “I dare say, doctor, you are going to tell me that I am au old fool for having brought you here; I hope I am.” But his smile faded into shadow as the doc tor, with a very grave face, beckoned him to him. He and the doctor talked for some time in the same recess where I had just conferred with the j physician. It seemed an earnest and argumenta tive conversation. The room was very large, and I and Madame stood together, burning with very long; but by God's mercy I hope to accom plish a service to mankind before I die, and to subserve the vengence of Heaven upon the fiends who have murdered my poor child in the spring of her hopes and beauty !” “ You said, just now, that you intended relat ing everything as it occurred,” said my father. “Pray do; I assure yon that it is not mere ouri- osity that prompts me.” By this time we had reaohed the point at which the Drunstall road, by which the General had oome, diverges from the road which we were travelling to Karnstein, “How far is it to the ruins?" enquired the General, looking anxiously forward. “About half a league,” answered my father. “Pray let us hear the story you were so good as to promise.” (TO BE COXTINCSD.) it in a day or two; that is, all that I know. In the meantime you are not to trouble your head about it.” He turned and left the room, but came back before I had done wondering and puzzling over ; i the oddity of this; it was merely to say that he ' ! was going to Karnstein, and had ordered the ; j carriage to be ready at twelve, and that I and j : Madame should accompany him; he was going to see the priest who lived near those pictur esque grounds, upon business, and as Carmilla : had never seen them, she could follow, when | she came down, with Mademoiselle, who would bring materials for what you call a pic-nic, j whicn might be laid for us ui the ruined castle, j At twelve o’clock, acconungly, I was ready. GREEN-EYED J E AL O TTS1T. A Clandestine Marriage. (Coxcloued. ) BY WM. H. P. and not long after my fatbe?, Madame, and I set curiosity, at the further end. Not a word could . on t upon our projected drive. while for a prep- we hear, however, for they spoke in a very low tone, and the deep recesses of the window quite Passing the drawbridge we turn to the right, and follow the road over the steep gothic bridge, concealed the doctor from view, and very near- i westward, to reach the deserted village and ruin- ly my father, whose foot, arm and shoulder e d castle ot Karnstein. No sylvan drive can be only could we see; and the voices were, I snp- fancied prettier. The ground breaks into gentle pose, all the less audible for the sort of closet i hills and hollows, all clothed with beautiful ' * ' ‘ wood, totally destitute of the comparative for mality which artificial planting and early onl- ture and pruning impart. The irregularities of the ground often lead the road ont of its course, and cause it to wind beau- tifnlly round the sides of broken hollows and the steepest sides of the hills, among varieties of which the thick wall and window formed. After a time my father’s face looked into the room ; it was pale, thoughtfnl, and, I fancied, agitated. “ Laura, dear, oome here tor a moment. Madame, we shan’t trouble yon, the doctor says, at present." Accordingly I approached, for the first time a ' ground almost inexhaustible, little alarmed; for, although I felt very weak, I j Turning one of these points, we suddenly en- did not feel ill; and strength, one always fan- countered the old General, riding toward us cies, is a thing that may be picked np when we please. My father held ont his hand to me, as I drew j near, bat he was looking at the doctor, and he j said: “It certainly is verj r odd; I don’t understand ' it quite. Laura, come here, dear; now attend to ’ Doctor Spielsberg, and recollect yourself.” | “You mentioned a sensation like that of two needles piercing the skin, somewhere about your neck, on the night when you experienced j your first horrible dream. Is there still any i soreness ?” ; “None at all,” I answered. “Can yon indicate with yonr finger abont the point at which yon think it occnrred ?” “Very lew below my throat—A ere,” I answered. I wore a morning dreBS, which covered the place I pointed to. “Now, you can satisfy yourself,” said the doc- attended by a mounted servant. His portman teaus were following in a hired wagon, such as we term a cart. The General dismounted as we pnlled np, and, after the nsnal greetingB„was easily per suaded to accept the vacant seat in the carriage, and sent the horse on with his servant to the schloss. 1 CHAPTER* X. I It was about ten months since we had last seen j him; bat that time had sufficed to make an al - ! teration of years in his appearance. He had : grown thinner; something of gloom and anxiety had taken the place of that oordial serenity | which used to characterize his features. His ; dark blue eyes, always penetrating, now gleam- ! ed with a sterner light from nnder his shaggy l grey eyebrows. 1 We had not long resumed eur drive, when the tor. “You won’t mind your papa's lowering ; General began to talk, with his usual soldierly your dress a very little. It is necessary, to de tect a symptom of the complaint under which yon have been suffering.” I acquiesced. It was only an inch or two be low the edge of my collar. “God bless me!—so it is,” exclaimed my father, growing pale. “You see it now with your own eyes,” said the doctor, with a gloomy triumph. “What is it ?7 I exclaimed, beginning to be frightened. “Nothing, my dear young lady, but a small bine spot, abont the size of the tip of yonr fin ger; and now,” he continued, turning to papa, “the question is what is best to be done?” “Is there any danger ?” I urged, in great tre pidation. “I trust not, my dear,” answered the doctor. “I don’t see why you should not recover. I don’t see why you should not begin immediately to get better. That is the point at which the sense of strangulation begins ?” “Yes,” I answered. “And—recollect as well as yon can—the same point was a kind of centre oi that thrill which yon described jnst now, like the current of a cold stream running against yon ?” “It may have been; I think it was.” my “Ay, you see?’ he added, turning to father. “Shall I say a word to Madame ?” “Certainly,” said my father. He called Madame to him, and said: “I find my yonng friend here far from well. It won’t be of any great consequence, I hope; but it will be necessary that some steps he taken, which 1 will explain by-and-bye; but in the meantime, Madame, you will be so good as not to let Miss Lanra be alone for one moment. That is the only direction I need give for the present. It is indispensable. ” “We may rely upon your kindness, Madame, I know,” added my father. Madame satisfied him eagerly. “And yon, dear Lanra, I know you will ob serve the doctor’s direction.” “I shall have to ask yonr opinion upon an other patient, whose symptoms slightly re semble those of my daughter, that have jnst been detailed to you —very much milder in de gree, but I believe quite of the same sort. She is a young lady—oar gaest; bat as yon say yon will be passing this way again this even ing, yon can’t do better than take your supper here, and yon can then see her. She does not come down till the afternoon.” “I thank yon,” said the doctor. “I shall be with yon, then, at aboat seven this evening.” And then they repeated their directions to me and to Madame, and with this parting oharge my father left ns, and walked ont with the doc tor; and I saw them pacing together np and down between the road and the moat, on the grassy platform in front of the castle, evidently absorbed in earnest conversation. The doctor did not retnrn. I saw him mount bis horse there, take his leave, and ride away eastward through the forest. Nearly at the same time I saw the man arrive from Dranfe.d with the letters, and dumount and hand the bag to my father. In the meantime, Madame and I were both busy, lost in conjecture as to the reasons of the singular and earnest direction which the dootor and my father had concurred in imposing. Madame, as she afterwards told me, was afraid the dootor apprehended a sadden seizure, and that, without prompt assistance, I might either lose my life in a fit, or at least be seriously hurt. This interpretation did not strike me; and I fancied, perhaps luckily for my nerves, that the arrangement was prescribed simply to secure a companion, who would prevent my taking too mnch exercise, or eating nnripe fruit, or doing any of the fifty foolish things to which yonng people are supposed to be prone. Abont half-an-honr after my father oame in— he had a letter in his hand—and said: “This letter has been delayed; it is from Gen eral Spielsdorf. He might have been here yes terday, he may not oome till to. morrow, or he maybe here to-day.” He pat the open letter into my hand; but he did not look pleased, as he nsed wh-n a guest, especially one ao much loved as the General, was ooming. On the con trary, he looked as if he wished hint at the bot tom of the Red Sea. There was plainly some thing on his mind which he did not choose to divulge. “ Papa, darling, will yon tell me this ? ” said directness, of the bereavement, as he termed it, which he had sustained in the death of his be loved niece and ward; and he then broke ont in a tone of intense bitterness and fnry, inveighing : against the ‘ hellish arts ' to which she had fallen j a victim, and expressing, with more exasperation ; than piety, his wonder thai-Heaven should tol- i erate so monstrous an in£nlgenoe of the lust j and malignity of hell. ! My father, who # saw a^wtree tha't something : very extraordinary had befallen, asked him, if not too painful to him. to detail the circumstan ces which he thonght justified the strong terms in which he expressed himself. “ I should tell you all with pleasure,” said the General, “ but you wonld not believe me.” “Why should I not? ” he asked. “Because,” he answered testily, “ you believe in nothing bat what oonsists with yonr own pre judices and illusions. I remember when I was like yon, but I have learned better.” “Try me,” said my father; “ I am not such a dogmatist as you suppose. Besides which, I very well know that you generally require proof for what you believe, and am, therefore, very strongly pre-disposed to respect your conclu sions." “Yon are right in supposing that I have not been led lightly into a belief of the marvellous —for what I have experienced is marvellous— and I have been forced by extraordinary evidence to credit that whioh ran counter, diametrically, to all my theories. I have been made the dupe of a pre-ternatnral conspiracy.” Notwithstanding his professions of confidence in the General’s penetration, I saw my father, at this point, glanoe at the General, with as I thonght, a marked suspicion of bis sanity. The General did not see it, lnckily. He was looking gloomily and curiously into the glades and vistas of the woods that were opening before us. “You are going to the Ruins of Karnstein?” he said. “Yes, it is a lucky coincidence; do yon know I was going to ask yon to bring me there to inspect them. I have a special object in exploring, There is a rained chapel, isn’t there, with a great many tombs of that extinct family ?” “So there are—highly interesting,” said my father. “I hope yon are thinking of cLiming the title and estates ?” My father said this gaily, bat the General did not recollect the laugh, or even the smile, which courtesy exacts for a friend’s joke; on the con trary, he looked grave and even fierce, ruminat ing on a matter that stirred his anger and horror. “Something very different,” he said gruffly. “I mean to unearth some of these fine people. I hope, by God’s blessing, to accomplish a pious sacrilege here, which will relieve our earth of certain monsters, and enable honest people to sleep in their beds without being assailed by murderers. I have strange things to tell you, my dear friend, suoh as I myself would have scooted as inoredible a few months since.” My father looked at him again, but this time not with a glanoe of suspicion—with an eye, rather, of keen intelligence and alarm. “The house of Karnstein,” he said “has been long extinct: a hundred years at least My dear wife was maternally descended from the Karn- steins. Rut the name and title have long eeased to exist. The castle is a rain; the very village is deserted; it iB fifty years since the smoke of a chimney was seen there; not a roof left. ” “Quite true. I have heard a great deal abont that since I last saw you; a great deal that will astonish yon. But I had better relate every thing in the order in whioh it occurred,” said the General. “You saw my doar ward—my child, I may call her. No creature could hare been more beautiful, and only three months ago none more blooming.” “Yes poor thing! when -I saw her last she certainly was quite lovely,” said my father. “I was grieved and shocked more than I can tell yon my dear friend; I knew what a blow it was to yon.” He took the General’s hand, they exchanged a kind pressure. Tears gathered in the old soldier’s eyes. He did not seek to oonoeal them. He said: “We have been old friends; I knew yon would feel for me, childless as I am. She had become an object of very near interest to me, and repaid my care by an affection that oheered my home and made my life happy. That is all gone. The years that remain to me on earth may not be Not meaning to shat myself up either in the city, I sent for a dress-maker, and month was in a whirl of excitement over aration of dresses calculated to disguise the twist in my figure, which, even to my morbid scrutiny, began to grow less noticeable, as I was able to walk with greater ease. The gay season was at its height when I reach ed town. Jndie, who had been motherless from childhood, presided over her father’s es tablishment. She had remained away from a dinner party, on account of my arrival, but was under obliga tions to attend a reception at a later hour, an hour at which I was in the habit of going to bed. j She invited me to^come and stay in her dress- , ing-room, so that we might talk, while her toil- I et progressed. What a superb creature she was! j How I envied her as I watched her. “How happy you look and are, Jndie,” I said, with a half smile. She turned round with a half-surprised air, I thought. “You are happy, too, darling?” she said, com ing towards me, to kiss me. “I know some thing, and lam so glad.” “Yon refer to Mr. Cadogan, I suppose? Did you suspect last summer?” “No, I did not. In fact, I—” She saw from my face, that she had made a mistake; saw that I hoped she had suspected, and evidently knew not how to remedy her blander. “You what, Jndie?” I asked. She bent down and took my hand uneasily. The locket she wore, hung just within my reach. Some evil impulse moved me. I caught it, and pressed the spring; the lid flew open. “I ought to know your secret, as well as yon mine,” I cried, maliciously, as she snatched the locket from me. There were two faces in the two halves. 1 only saw one—Bert Cadogan. “Oh, yoi do not want tog: • nejouroonfid nee. | I beg yonr pardon,” said I, almost pushing her I from me. “Lanra, you must not misjudge me.” “I never judge without proof,” was my retort. “Do not ever,” she answered, earnestly. I had lost my stimulant to get well. I shut myself in my room for a week. Then two mo tives prompted me to appear at n amateur con cert, which Judie gave. One was the mere re bound of excitement, which made my seclusion no longer bearable; the other, the expectation that Bert Cadogan wonld reach town that night. I think I looked, perhaps, as well as ever in my life, that evening. I wore an exquisite Par is dress of white cashmere; my brown, abund ant hair, fell in heavy ringlets to my waist. I sat near Jndie at the head of the room, in a deep chair covered with maroon silk, watching with listless interest the faces that came and went. There was some very good amatanr music, that pleased, even my fastidious musical taste, and at length, abont the middle of the evening, Bert Cadogan came down the room towards me, smiling with anxions eyes. “How are yon Lanra—better?" I was perverse enongh to think, that to tell him I was better, was to solicit a renewal of his wooing. I was proud and suspicious. So I said: ‘ I am well enough to look on, as like an oyster grown to its rock. “Bat you are enjoying yonr visit? glad that you came ?” “Doubtless you are." “Why, Laura?" “It gives you an excase to come also, yon seen Miss Martindale ?” “Yes, ofconrse, for a moment.” “Thereshe comes, now.” Judie’s eyes were fastened on Bert Cadogan’s face. She joined us, and a few minntes later, they left me, and walked away together. My eyes followed them till they left the room. What did it mean, I asked myself—this bond between them ? Evidently Mr. Cadogan went and came at Judie’s bidding. Had he loved her? Had she rejected him? If so, why did she not let him alone? She was a coquette; she could cot resist to use her power. Aud he—he could not resist her, even while declaring lore for me. That was my decision. What a tortnring half-hoar I spent, sitting there in my maroon-covered chair alone. I tried to persuade myself, that I wanted no man’s love—that I would never marry. I tried to justify Bert I had forbidden, refused him. I had no right to restrict him. Bat, spite of all, I was mad with jealous longing for him. Mr. Martindale oame to take me to sapper, and Bert and Judie were left together still. “Now, Miss Laura,” said my host, “I have a favor to ask, and I hope I shall do it in my best manner, for I do not want to be refused. ” “What favor can I possibly do you, sir?’ 1 “You can give us a song, after sapper. Is it too much to ask? You may wait if you like, till the ‘vulgar crowd* has gone. I will keep only the choice spirits to hear you.” “You need not take any stupendous precau tions, I will sing willingly, whenever it is de sired. “ “My dear yonng lady, I am delighted, I never gained a preoious boon so easily before.” “Jndie knows that I always sing without urg- ing. ” We thonght yonr ill health and aversion to crowds might render you averse to singing for oompany.” “Not at all. I can neither danoe or flirt. I ought to consider it a privilege to sing.” It is no wonder that I astonished Mr. Martin dale. An hour before, no inducement oonld have prompted me to sing. Now it seemed to offer a vent to my excited feelings. I exerted myself to please Mr. Martindale, who was a polished, entertaining man, and who had conceived a great liking for me from oar first meeting. We whiled away the time in disonss- ing politics, until the time had oome for my song, and then he led me to the piano. As I glanced about the room, my eye fell npon J udie and Beit Cadogan in earnest talk “They look quite lover-like,” I remarked to Mr. Martindale, who did not peroieve the sting of my tone. “I would to Heaven they were!” he answered, with a significance I oonld not interpret you see, Y'ou are Have The tumult of my feelings was complete. It was a tumult that brimmed my voice with in tense dramatic pathos, an expression whose eletric thrill went among my listeners from soul to soul. I sang a verv simple ballad, bat it held the tragedy of my own heart in its words; “Little Clo’i {• the old, old story. Love’s dream and a rammer friend, Jnne roses dead, and the bright dream is fled: Aud little Clo’ moans at the end. He never loved me, you see. He never will, no never; And wbat will become of me f she cries, For I shall love him forever, Aud the years are ao weary, weary. For all through the nights and days Her heart goes back in the bright dream's track, And little Clo’ moans as she says. He never loved me." I slipped away unnoticed from the piano, and bid myself amid the curtains of a recess. There was a hush like a sob among my listen ers, which was the beBt applause they oonld give. No one else offered to Bing, and the com pany broke up in little conversational gronps. Near me a gentleman and lady sat down and began to discuss me. “I don’t know,” said the latter, “about people giving such public vent to private griefs. I am always inclined to suspect the sincerity that displays itself on the surface." “I am snre no one could have sang that song so who did not fell every word of it.” “She is not really deformed,” continued the lady; “the defect in her fignre isscaroely notic eable. She need not have been so sensitive.” “Did yon hear that she had broken her en gagement?” "No: but I should judge so from her song. They say that the gentleman felt in some man ner to blame for her hart, and believing that she was fond of him offered himself." “From a sense of duty?” “Well, something of that sort.” “She is notone whose heart need go a begging, I should say.” Then the couple rose and went away. So, this then was the story—the truth doubt less of the matter. Bert Cadogan had offered himself out of pity, as a compensation, so to speak, for his negli gence, which had resulted in my injury. He loved Judie. She loved him. But he felt that I had a claim npon him, and the claim of his own heart was to be set aside. My blood boiled. I said to mysell, “Abominable !” Without seeing Mr. Cadogan again, I left the city the ensuing day. I sent him the following note as a leave-tak ing: “I know your motives; they seem to be mis taken. Since you have never been bound, it is perhaps superfluous for me to say that yon are free from Laoba.” I looked j ided when I reached home, and they thonght me worse. Aunt Isabel said I must rest. “That is precisely what I cannot do,” I replied. “I want to go away and travel and not know what rest means.” They were delighted that Ishonld wish to go, and after brief preparation Aunt Isabel and I started for the Continent, to be followed by my father in the ooming antnmn. I had my way. I lived without rest. My capacity for excitement was perfectly insa tiable. And instead of injuring my health, I improv ed upon the regimen. My first news from home came from papa, who joined us in Spain, in the autumn. Bert Cadogan had not been home daring the summer. Papa, j ust before he left, had met him with Mr. and Miss Martindale, which was the snm of his information, and npon which I built such conjectures as my mood indicated. I had taken a pecnliar aversion to everything like admiration or attention from the other sex, but we became interested in spite of onrselves in an English gentleman with whom our acquain tance began during our sojourn in Madrid. Mr. Keith—that was his name —was, as I have said, an Englishman, but he had spent so many years abroad that he had almost lost his nation ality. He was one of those rare men who can display interest withont affecting sentiment; with whom yon dare be intimate with entire immunity from the suspicion of flirting. He was very nsefnl to us on recount of his fa miliarity with the language, and a common lik ing led him to attach himself to and remain with our party for the time being. It, was, I think, in Rome that for the first time a species of home-sickness came over me one evening after a long and fatiguing day of sight-seeing. We were Bitting in the parlor of the lodgings we had secured that morning. Papa and Mr. Keith played ac cribbage; aant Isabel did tatting—she was never too tired for tatting; and I, after sitting with my head npon my hand for a good half-hoar, got np and brought my camphor bottle and photograph album by way of dispelling my home-sickness. The album still lay open before me, when by- and-by Mr. Keith sauntered towards me, and his glance fell npon the page. He started. “Miss Laura, where did you get that?" he exclaimed. “Do you know Jndie Martindale?” I enquired with equal surpiise. “I know this lady, Miss Lanra. She is my wife.” The mere excess of my astonishment kept me from screaming outright. Mr. Keith had spok en in a very low tone, and had not been over heard, for papa was buried in his newspaper, and aunt Isabel had discovered a snarl in her thread. “Yon must be jesting, Mr. Keith ?” “I never spoke more sober trath. I have no right, I suppose, to speak of it, but I am tired of concealment.” “Why do yon oonceal what you have told me?” “From necessity for the time, I met Judie Martindale in Switzerland three years and more ago. After six months' acquaintance, I offered myself and was accepted. Her father, however, interposed. He desired a more brilliant match for her. He called me lazy and shiftless, be cause I had preferred to live upon my moderate inoome, as suited my taste, instead of investing my money and going to work upon something more practical than the art I love. Judie refus ed to break with me, and her father to sanction our union. We met clandestinely; we corres ponded. At last she was going home. Our last interview transpired. “No hnman agency shall force me to marry another, ” she said. *‘ ‘Judie,’ I answered, ‘if that is so, bind your self to me. Make it impossible for anything to oome between ns.”' “She yielded to my urging. I left her to find an acquaintance who wonld assist us. The ar rangements were made. We were married; and since we parted at the ohapel door we have nev er met” “How long is it?" “Two year*.” “And have yon had no communication with each other since?” “Only occasionally, through the friend who is in oar oonfidenoe. “Who is this friend?" “Since I have gone so far, Miss Laura, there is no object in keeping anything baok. His name is Bertham Cadogan.” “Oh Mr. Keith!”