Jaquelina

Jaquelina gazed in astonishment at him. A sudden sense of the strangeness of her position rushed over her.

She was here alone in the outlaw's cave, and he was talking sentiment to her.

She clasped her slim hands together, and the dark eyes looked at him pleadingly as she answered:

"I am too young and untutored to discuss these things with you, sir, and my mind is distracted by thoughts of home. Release me, if you please. If you will only show me the outlet of the cave I will find my way home. My friends will be alarmed at my continued absence."

"Do you hear the storm?" he asked. "It is pitchy dark, the rain and wind are fearful, and you are several miles from home."

"It is no matter," said the girl, desperately. "Only release me, and I will find my home if I have to crawl there. I am more afraid of you and your outlaw band than I am of the night and the darkness."

He looked at her thoughtfully.

"Child," he said, abruptly, "you need not fear me. I would not harm a hair on that little head, and yet, if I suffered you to go free, I suppose you would at once discover our hiding-place to our enemies."

Jaquelina remained perfectly silent.

"Is it not true?" he inquired, coldly.

She lifted her eyes and gazed at him defiantly.

"You mean that you would do so?" he said, interpreting her look aright.

"Yes, for it would be my duty to rid my neighborhood of such a scourge," she replied, very low.

Then there was a minute of perfect silence. The long lashes drooped upon her cheeks as the handsome outlaw studied her face.

Bowles came in with a small furnace filled with glowing coals, then silently withdrew.

"Draw near to the fire and dry your wet clothing," said the chief, abruptly.

"There would be no use," Jaquelina answered, coldly, "I shall be drenched through going home."

"You seem quite certain of going," he said, amused at her persistency. "I fear you will be disappointed, Miss Meredith. I regret the fact of Bowles bringing you here very much, and I shall order him to apologize to you for doing so. But I must tell you that my own safety demands that I shall keep you a prisoner in this cave until such time as we shall decide to leave the neighborhood, when, if you shall still persist in refusing my hand, I may, perhaps, release you."

Jaquelina made an impulsive rush toward the heavy curtains that shut in the comfortable apartment from the outer darkness of the cave, but the voice of the outlaw arrested her with her hand upon the thick hanging.

"I should not advise you to attempt leaving without my consent, Miss Meredith. I have sentries stationed through the cave. You would scarcely find them so courteous as myself!"

The white hands fell from the heavy curtains in dismay. Jaquelina remembered the rude, officious Bowles, and accepted the outlaw's statement as true. She looked at him in surprise and disgust.

"Why do you who appear to have the instincts and the training of a gentleman, herd with such ruffians?" she asked.

"Promise to marry me, and I will tell you why," he replied. "I will give up this life and try to become that which you said just now I might have been. Miss Meredith, I am in serious earnest. Become my wife, and I swear to you that you shall not have one wish ungratified. I am wealthy. I will take you away to some fair, bright clime where my history is all unknown. Costly jewels, splendid silks and laces—all that the heart of woman desires—shall be yours, with the adoration of a heart as true as truth."

"I care nothing for these things," Jaquelina answered, crimsoning with anger and disdain; "you have had my answer. Sooner than link my fate with one so wicked and crime-stained as your own, I would die here at your feet!"

"Do I, then, appear so utterly vile in the clear eyes of a pure woman?" inquired the outlaw chief, in a voice strangely tinctured with melancholy.

Jaquelina had drawn near the glowing furnace of coals, unconsciously attracted by the warmth that stole deliciously over her drenched and shivering frame.

She was too young and untouched by real sorrow to understand the vague remorse and pathos that quivered in the man's low voice. Yet when she answered "yes," it was a trifle more gently and kindly.

"I could never teach you to love me, then?" he said, questioningly.

"No," the girl said, decidedly, with her curly head set sidewise, and such an owlish gravity about her that the outlaw chief, who seemed "to be all things by turns, and nothing long," felt his risibilities excited, and laughed outright.

"Why do you laugh?" she inquired, with an air of offended dignity.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Meredith, for my rudeness," he said, "but as you stood there with the steam from your drenched clothing rising over your head, and the furnace blazing at your feet, you reminded me so comically of one of Shakespeare's witches that I was forced to laugh."

Jaquelina was thoroughly angry. To be laughed at by this man whom she scorned, was too much.

She stepped back into the darkest and coldest corner of the room, and stood there in silent, dignified displeasure.

"Pray do not allow my silly jest to drive you away from the fire," he exclaimed, anxiously. "Let me entreat you to return."

But his captive had sunk down upon the floor, and buried her face in her hands.

Folding his arms across his breast, the outlaw chief walked up and down across the soft, echoless carpet, his gloomy eyes fixed immovably upon the little crouching figure with the graceful head bowed on the clasped hands.

Jaquelina looked very childish and forlorn as she crouched there.

Quite suddenly she broke into a perfectly audible sob of grief and self-pity.

"I shall miss Violet Earle's party after all. And I had been so happy over it!"

It was the cry of a child over a broken toy, yet its artless pathos pierced the man's heart. He went quickly and knelt down beside her.

"Little one, what is this that you grieve for?" he asked, almost tenderly; "tell me?"

"It is only—only," sobbed the girl, "that you will cause me to lose the happiest hour of my life."

"Poor child! and life has so few happy hours," said the outlaw chief. "Tell me what it is you lament so much. Perhaps I may relent."

"It was Miss Violet Earle's lawn-party to-morrow night," sobbed Jaquelina. "She had invited me. I—I was never at a party in my life, and I wanted so much to see what it was like."

The listener frowned, then smiled beneath his concealing mask.

"Do not weep for that," he said. "I will tell you what every party is like, little girl. A party is an occasion when somebody else has a prettier dress than yours, and somebody else dances with your favorite beau once more than you did, and when you get home you are mad, and say you wouldn't have gone if you had known it, so there!"

"I don't believe it," wept Jaquelina, obstinately, "at least, not all of it. It may be true about the dress. I know Violet Earle's will be ever so much prettier than mine, but I should never, never wish I had not gone there."

Ah, Jaquelina, Jaquelina! If those dark eyes, dimmed now with childish tears, could but have pierced the secret of the untried future!

"She is but a simple child," the outlaw said to himself, pityingly. "Only a little wild bird. I have caged it, but it would never sing for me. I must let it fly back to its nest."

He touched the girl's damp, clinging curls lightly.

"Miss Meredith, look up at me," he said.

Jaquelina lifted her wet eyes inquiringly.

"Cannot you leave me in peace?" she asked, shrinking from his light touch impatiently.

He did not appear to notice the pretty, childish petulance.

"Little bird," he said, "I will give you your freedom if you will promise me just one thing—you will not reveal the secret of this cavern retreat to my enemies? It is the only price by which you can purchase freedom."

"Since it is my only chance of release, I must needs keep the secret," Jaquelina said; reluctantly. "What shall I tell them?"

"Only say that you were lost in the woods, and that the outlaw chief guided you to the road again," he replied.

"Very well," she replied; "but I warn you that if ever I see you elsewhere I will attempt to capture you."

He looked at the frank, determined face half-reproachfully a moment, then laughed at the threat.

Ten minutes after he was riding by Jaquelina's side through the stormy woods.

When the first faint beams of daylight glimmered in the cloudy east, he watched her riding safely toward home, mounted on the faithful Black Bess.

"Good-by, Miss Meredith," he had said, as they parted. "When you think of the outlaw whose love you scorned, do not forget that the bravest thing a brave man can do is to voluntarily resign the one fair woman who holds his heart."

But Jaquelina, with a cold and haughty bow, rode silently away.

CHAPTER VI.

"All the people we invited are here, mamma," said Violet Earle, "all except Jaquelina Meredith. Do you think she will come?"

Laurel Hill, the beautiful home of the Earles, was in a blaze of light and gayety. The handsome, roomy mansion, with its wide and long piazzas and large bay windows, was lighted "from garret to basement," and thrown open to the guests. The beautiful green lawn, with its sprinkling of laurel trees that gave the place its name, was almost as light as day with the glitter of colored lamps and Chinese lanterns.

A pretty summer-house in the center of the lawn was decorated with garlands of cedar and fluttering silken banners. It was here that Violet was standing when she spoke to her mother.

She looked very sweet and winning as she stood there, the light shining down on the fair, flushed face, and on the golden ringlets looped back with sprays of lilies-of-the-valley nestling among dark green leaves.

She wore a soft, filmy white robe, and a wide sash of pale-blue satin was knotted carelessly around the slender waist. The pretty dimpled neck and arms were quite bare, and golden ornaments, studded with pearls and turquoise, gleamed upon their whiteness.

Mrs. Earle, looking very fair and graceful in silver-gray silk and pale, gleaming pearls, looked admiringly at her lovely daughter.

"No, I am afraid Jaquelina will not come," she said; "one of the neighbors was telling me just now that she was lost in the woods last night and thoroughly drenched by the rain, so it is just possible she may be ill. Had you not heard it, dear?"

"Yes; Mr. Brown told me," answered Violet. "And only think, mamma, she met the captain of the outlaws, and he guided her to the road. Was it not romantic? I should not have expected such courtesy from such a dreadful man."

"It was perfectly shameful for Mrs. Meredith to have sent her for the doctor at midnight," said Mrs. Earle, warmly. "They tell me there was no real necessity for such a thing. The child only had a common attack of croup, which any sensible mother would have known how to subdue with simple domestic remedies. Mr. Brown, their near neighbor, tells me it is playing about the floor, as well as usual, to-day."

"Poor Lina! That terrible man might have killed her," said pretty Violet, with a shudder.

"Look, Violet—who is that coming now?" said Mrs. Earle suddenly.

Violet looked hastily.

"Oh," she said, "it is Mr. Meredith—he is bringing her after all."

The farmer came up the steps, Jaquelina following in his wake, a veil tied about her head, a thin summer shawl wrapped about her shoulders.

"They told me I should find you here. I have brought my niece to the party, Mrs. Earle. She had a cold, but I couldn't persuade her to stay at home," he said. "I will go back, now, as wife and Dollie are alone, but if you'll tell me when the party will be over, I'll bring back the mare for Lina."

"You need not trouble about that," Mrs. Earle replied as he turned away. "I'll see that she gets back safely, Mr. Meredith."

Then she turned to Jaquelina, who stood beside Violet, gazing with timid delight at the illuminated lawn and the moving groups of people.

"You may lay aside your wraps, dear," she said, kindly. "I hope you will enjoy our little party."

"I know I shall," the girl answered, gazing around her with sparkling eyes. "Oh! Mrs. Earle, how beautiful it all is. It seems just like fairyland!"

Mrs. Earle smiled indulgently as she helped her to remove the plain shawl and veil that enveloped her; then she started back with a little cry of surprise that was faintly re-echoed by Violet.

Jaquelina's sensitive lips quivered; her dark eyes filled with quick tears.

"I was afraid the dress would not do," she said, falteringly. "I will put on my wraps and go home again, Mrs. Earle."

She was turning toward the steps, but Violet caught her arm.

"Oh, you little goose!" she said, laughing, "come back. Where did you get such a sweet dress?"

"Is it pretty? Will it do, indeed?" asked Jaquelina, radiant.

"It is lovely," Mrs. Earle said, kindly. "It makes you look extremely pretty, my dear."

"Pretty is faint praise, mother," said her handsome son, as he came up the steps, and overheard the words. "Miss Lina, how do you do? You have blossomed into a beauty since I last saw you."

His college-mate, who had come up the steps with him, peered over his shoulder at the "beauty."

He saw a shy, lovely face with dewy-crimson lips, and large, dark eyes with long, black lashes like fringed curtains—chestnut curls, tinged with gold, clustering about a low, broad brow and proudly-set head—a quaint, pretty dress of yellowish India muslin with lace and satin ribbons fluttering about it.

Nothing more quaintly sweet and pretty than the dress and its wearer could have been imagined.

Jaquelina gave her hand shyly a moment to Walter Earle, then he stepped aside to introduce her to his friend.

"Miss Meredith, allow me to present to you my friend, Ronald Valchester."

Jaquelina bowed to a tall, grave-looking man with dark hair thrown carelessly back from a high, white brow, and twilight-colored eyes—blue-gray in quiet moments, starry-black in moments of excitement.

He touched the girl's slim, brown hand lightly with his firm, white one, then stepped quietly aside a moment later, and allowed Walter Earle to lead her out upon the lawn.

"My friend is not what you would call a lady's-man," Walter said to her. "He is a dreamy student, quite absorbed in his books, and yet the best friend and the bravest that man ever had. He is very intellectual, and leads in everything at college. We are all proud of him there. Miss Meredith, you have read of men who stood head and shoulders above their fellows? Valchester is one of them. I could tell you a hundred delightful things that he has done if you——"

"Walter, I'll never forgive you if you say another word," said Valchester's voice behind them.

Walter turned and saw his friend walking after him with Violet clinging to his arm.

"Listeners never hear good of themselves," he retorted, to cover his embarrassment at being overheard.

"The old adage is falsified in this case," laughed Valchester, "and for fear of not coming up to the ideal you have raised in Miss Meredith's mind, I shall always tread on thorns in her presence."

Walter Earle laughed lightly at the careless metaphor.

"Then the path will be rose-strewn, too," he said, "for where there are thorns there are roses."

"Talking of roses," said Violet, "reminds me to ask you, Lina, where are the flowers I told you to wear? You forgot them."

"No, I did not," said the girl. "I must tell you the truth, Violet; I did not have the time to gather a single flower. I was late as it was; for you see Aunt Meredith needed me so long I could scarcely get away. But I thought perhaps you could spare me a flower."

"As many as you like," said Violet, generously. "What will you have? Here we are at the flower-beds. Make your own selection."

"I am afraid of the gardener," laughed Jaquelina, shrinking back from the trim and well-kept flower-beds. "I will take anything you choose to give me."

"Daisies would suit you," said Walter Earle, looking at the sweet, shy face.

"Scarlet geraniums or roses," said Violet, thinking how beautifully they would contrast with the dark eyes and the white dress.

Ronald Valchester studied the drooping face attentively, as the dark eyes gazed at the brilliant flowers, the dark, curling lashes shading the rose-flushed cheek.

"Passion-flowers, I think," he said, and gathered a cluster of the bright flowers from the trellis and offered them to her. She took them with a slight bow, and fastened them in her belt.

What had Ronald Valchester, the gifted, thoughtful student, read in the lovely, innocent face of the simple girl that had prompted him to offer her passion-flowers for her type?

Walter Earle looked surprised, but he set it down as one of Valchester's odd freaks, and told Jaquelina that the flowers were very becoming.

Violet said that roses would have looked prettier. Then she gathered some dewy violets and pinned them on his coat with pretty, careless coquetry.

"Lina, we are going to have a dance on the lawn," said the latter. "Do you like to dance?"

"No," said Jaquelina, and the fitful color came and went in her cheeks.

"Why not?" Violet said, surprised.

"Because I do not know how to dance," Jaquelina said, so timidly and naively that Walter Earle and Ronald Valchester laughed. Then Walter said, good-naturedly:

"Oh, that is nothing. You must dance with me. I will show you how to do the steps and the figures."

"You are sure I shall not appear awkward?" she asked, her sensitive pride on the alert.

"You could not be awkward if you tried ever so hard," said the gallant young collegiate, captivated by the artless shyness and prettiness of the little girl whom at first he had only meant to patronize.

So they danced together.

Jaquelina fell into it all so naturally and happily that no one felt inclined to laugh at her when now and then she made a misstep, or caused a whole quadrille to blunder.

She was so ashamed and penitent over her little mistakes that it was a pleasure to set her right and forgive her. We pardon so many errors in youth and beauty.

After awhile Ronald Valchester, dancing with Violet, said, carelessly:

"Your friend, Miss Meredith, is exceedingly pretty—is she not, Miss Earle?"

Violet looked across at Jaquelina, who was dancing with someone whom Walter had introduced to her—a handsome, manly young fellow, who seemed to admire his partner very much. She was startled at the radiant beauty that happiness had kindled in Jaquelina's changeful face.

"She is not always so pretty," Violet said, quickly; "it is the effect of the moonlight and lamplight! You should see her at home by daylight. She is tanned and sunburned, and terribly shabby. Would you believe she is wearing her dead mother's wedding-dress to-night?"

"I should not have thought it," he said. "It is a very nice dress, is it not?" and he looked more carefully at the girl who was dancing in her dead mother's wedding-dress with the passion-flowers half falling from the satin girdle that bound the slender waist—the girl who was so pretty and happy in the lamplight and moonlight, and so tanned and shabby by daylight.

"I have heard of 'gas-light beauties,' Miss Earle," he said carelessly. "I suppose Miss Meredith must belong to that class."

Violet felt uncomfortable, she could not have told why, for she had only spoken what she felt to be true.

"Yes," she answered, "I suppose so. I have known Lina Meredith all my life, or nearly, but I never thought her pretty until to-night. To-morrow we will call upon her at her own home. You may see for yourself how different she will appear."

"I shall be pleased to go—thank you," said Ronald Valchester. "Is Miss Meredith the only daughter?"

Violet looked at him surprised.

"Why, of course," she began, then stopped, and said deprecatingly: "I have, perhaps, done Lina an injustice in speaking of her as I have to you, Mr. Valchester. I thought you knew that she is an orphan. It isn't her fault that she must go shabby and neglected. She is poor, and has no one to love her."

Violet looked very pretty in the thoughtful student's eyes just then—much prettier than she had five minutes ago. As he clasped the little hand in the winding figures of the gay dance, he thought that the touch of womanly pity in her voice was very winning.

More than once he looked at the slender figure of Jaquelina, as it whirled past him lightly, with a new interest in his eyes. She had been simply a pretty, interesting girl to him before, in whose radiant face he had vaguely read something that prompted him to give her the passion-flowers.

Now the vibrating chord of sympathy in his nature had been touched by those simple words: "She has no one to love her."

When that dance was over and Violet had been claimed by another partner, he went up to Jaquelina.

"You have not danced with me yet," he said. "Will you give me the next dance, Miss Meredith?"

"You must excuse me, Mr. Valchester," she replied, with a smile, "I have promised the next dance to your friend, Mr. Earle."

CHAPTER VII.

Jaquelina saw that the young student looked surprised.

"You have danced with Walter Earle twice already," he said. "Do you not know that it is not considered en regle to dance more than twice with the same partner?"

She looked at him, puzzled, for an instant. Then the long lashes drooped, and the ready color flashed into her cheek as she answered.

"I do not think I understand what en regle means, Mr. Valchester."

"I beg your pardon for using a French phrase," said Ronald Valchester, uncertain whether she was in earnest or meant to rebuke him. "I am aware that the habit is considered an affectation, but one falls into these things so naturally at college, you know, Miss Meredith."

But he did not attempt to explain it to her. It had vaguely occurred to him that she was teasing him, and he relapsed at once into his grave dignity.

But the next instant he saw that he had been mistaken. She raised her clear, dark eyes to his face, and said, gratefully:

"You do not laugh at my ignorance, Mr. Valchester—then I may dare to ask you a favor."

As she spoke she drew a ring from her finger, and held it out to him.

"Will you translate for me the French words in this ring?" she said.

Many times afterward she wondered what had given her such courage to ask Ronald Valchester this question; she had always been too timid to ask anyone before.

The student took the ring and held it up to the light of the lamp that swung in the tree above their heads.

The diamond flashed and sparkled in the antique dead-gold setting. He read out aloud:

"'Sans peur et sans reproche.' It is a French motto, Miss Meredith. It simply means, 'without fear and without reproach.'"

"Oh! what beautiful words," she cried. "Thank you, Mr. Valchester, very much. All my life I have wanted to know what those words in mamma's ring meant."

"Anyone, almost, could have told you," he replied, as he handed it back to her. "Did you never ask anyone?"

"No, I was ashamed to confess such pitiable ignorance," she answered, frankly. "You see, Mr. Valchester, my mother was French, and it seemed so odd that I should be ignorant of her mother-tongue."

"No one could laugh at you for that," said Ronald Valchester, kindly.

He was leaning against the tree carelessly, and Jaquelina sat on the rustic bench beneath it, the soft, white folds of her dress falling on the velvety green turf. A little beyond them was the square-cut cedar hedge that bounded the trim lawn.

Jaquelina did not know what dark, gleaming eyes watched her beauty, as she sat there with the light falling down on her girlish face and form.

She was looking at her companion, and recalling the words in which Walter Earle had praised him.

"He is handsome, too," she said to herself. "What a beautiful, high, white brow, and clear-cut face. Mr. Earle must be very proud to have him for his friend."

"Mr. Valchester, are you a poet?" she asked, suddenly.

"No one ever accused me of being one," he answered, laughing. "Why do you ask me, Miss Meredith?"

"You look like one," she said.

Ronald Valchester laughed again.

"Did you ever see a poet, Miss Meredith?" he asked.

Then Jaquelina started and blushed.

"No, in truth, I never did," she said. "It was only my fancy. Perhaps I should have expressed my thought better if I had said that you realize my ideal of how a poet should look."

"You flatter me," he said, smiling, yet in his heart Ronald Valchester was pleased at her words, for he saw that she meant them and had no thought of flattering him.

Quite naturally he said to her after a moment of silent thought.

"Are you fond of poetry, Miss Meredith?"

"I love it better than anything in the world!" she replied, with enthusiasm.

"Tell me the name of your favorite poet," he said.

He saw the quick, sensitive flush of shame leap into the soft cheek at the natural question.

"I cannot tell you," she said. "I have had no fair opportunity of making up my mind. I have read bits from them all, but never a whole volume. We have not many books at home."

It seemed only kindness that he should say then:

"Will you permit me to lend you some of my books, Miss Meredith? I have all the poets. I will send you down a box from college."

"Thank you," she said, flushing with pleasure. "I will be very careful with them, Mr. Valchester."

Either Walter Earle had forgotten her, or something had detained him.

Another set was forming, but he did not come to claim her hand.

The dance was made up and she sat still and waited, while the wild, entrancing strains of music filled the night with melody.

Ronald Valchester did not seek another partner. He sat down by Jaquelina's side, and talked to her of books and poetry.

Now and then he repeated pretty bits from his favorite authors, to which she listened eagerly.

It was very pleasant. The night was so bright and warm, the scene was so gay and brilliant, the heavy, odorous perfume of honeysuckles and roses freighted the air.

The moon shone bright and clear, the stars seemed to twinkle with joy. In her mind Jaquelina silently contrasted it with last night.

Could it be possible that only last night she was kneeling, wet and cold and wretched in the outlaw's cavern retreat, pleading for liberty—she who sat here free and happy, and listened to the musical voice of Ronald Valchester murmuring lovely lines and gentle thoughts from the poets she loved?

She shivered as if with cold as the striking contrast presented itself to her mind.

"It is a delightful party," she said to herself. "I would not have missed it for anything. I have enjoyed every minute of it."

Just then Walter Earle came hurrying up to them.

"Miss Meredith, I beg ten thousand pardons," he cried. "Our dance is almost over, but I did not know it was on until this moment. You see I had gone into the house and was talking to my father and some of the older people, and I did not hear the music. Will you excuse me, and give me another dance?"

"You are perfectly excusable, sir," she said, "but——" she stopped and looked at Ronald Valchester.

"I have just been telling her," said Valchester, "that it is neither customary nor fair to give so many dances to one person."

Walter Earle flushed slightly.

"As I am her teacher," he said, "that objection should not apply to me. I have been showing her how to do the steps and figures. No one else volunteered to teach her. You did not, Valchester."

It was Valchester's turn to blush now.

"It was very careless and selfish in me that I did not," he replied. "But I am sufficiently punished for it, as I have not been able to secure her for my partner a single time."

"Well, suppose we adjourn to the house now," said Walter. "Refreshments are served in the dining-room."

"And mamma has sent me to hurry you in," said Violet, appearing on the scene, with a merry party of young people in her wake.

They went into the house, and Jaquelina found herself placed between Walter Earle and Ronald Valchester at table. Violet was on the other side of Valchester.

They formed a merry party. The long table sparkled with silver and cut-glass and flowers, and the dishes were loaded with rare and dainty edibles and delicious fruits.

But Jaquelina was too happy and excited to eat. She drank in pleasure from the sights and sounds about her—the bright, happy faces, the joyous voices.

The hour that was spent at the table passed like a dream of pleasure, but afterward she remembered that she had only trifled with her knife and fork; she had been too excited to eat.

When they left the table the young people all went into the parlor.

Violet had a new piano—a fine instrument that she laughingly said it was a perfect delight to touch.

Several of the young ladies sang and played. Jaquelina sat quietly at the window and listened.

Music was a passion with her. It seemed to stir a thousand slumbering harmonies into life within her heart.

"Do you play?" said Valchester a voice beside her, presently.

"No, I have never been taught," she answered, and he caught the faint tone of regret in the low voice.

"But you love music?" he said.

"Dearly," she answered, with unconscious pathos.

"You have not had a fashionable boarding-school education, Miss Meredith, I suppose," he said, and was sorry for the words a moment after as he saw the sensitive, ever-ready color tinge her cheek.

"Why do you say so?" she asked, toying nervously with the heavy fringe of the curtain. "Do I betray my ignorance so plainly?"

"Excuse me; not in the least," he replied. "I guessed so because you do not play."

"I am an orphan, Mr. Valchester," she said, raising her dark eyes to his face a moment. She seemed to think that all was said in that.

"A song, Mr. Valchester," said Violet Earle, looking round from the piano toward the window. "It is your turn now."

"Valchester! Valchester!" cried a score of voices.

Jaquelina thought he looked annoyed.

"I am not in voice——" he began.

"No excuses," laughed Walter Earle, who was turning over some sheets of music. "Send him away from the window, Miss Meredith."

Valchester looked at her.

"Shall you do so?" he asked.

"I should like to hear you sing," she replied, simply.

"Very well, I will sing for you," he answered, as he crossed the room and sat down on the stool which Violet vacated as he came up.

The long, white hands swept over the pearl keys lightly. A rush of divine melody filled the room.

Jaquelina shivered, it was so weirdly, thrillingly sweet. He sang song after song in a full, rich tenor voice, seeming to lose himself in the strains.

Almost without knowing it, Jaquelina arose and went over to the piano, standing by Violet, who was turning the leaves of the music.

He glanced up at her with a slight smile, and she saw that his blue-gray eyes were sparkling with pleasure or excitement—they were glittering starry black.

"He has the sweetest tenor voice in the country," Violet whispered to her. "Is it not a perfect treat to hear him sing?"

Jaquelina thought so, but she only whispered "Yes," very faintly. She did not wish to lose a note of the perfect strains.

At last he rose abruptly.

"I have made you all twice thankful," he laughed. "That is my worst fault. When I am induced to play I never know when to stop."

No one could be induced to touch the piano after Ronald Valchester had played—his music was too superior to anyone else's. They all went out on the lawn again. Some danced—some wandered under the trees. Among these latter was Jaquelina.

She was walking with Walter Earle again, and Violet with Ronald Valchester.

It was growing far into the night. Some of the lights had burned low; the moon was about to go down. The trees grew thick where they were walking, and some sudden impulse made Jaquelina shiver and lift her eyes half nervously.

As she did so she met the burning gaze of a pair of dark eyes watching her from behind a tree.

A scream of surprise and terror. Jaquelina pulled her hand from Walter Earle's arm and rushed forward. The outlaw chief, for it was no other, was turning to fly; but she caught his arm and held it tightly in both her own.

"The outlaw! the outlaw!" she panted. "Do not let him escape!"

He was surrounded in an instant. He made no attempt to fly, but stood still, gazing around him on the angry faces of the men, and his dark eyes blazed as they rested on the excited face of the fair girl who had betrayed him to his enemies.

CHAPTER VIII.

One of the men who was holding the captive looked at Jaquelina and said:

"Miss Meredith, is this really the man you say he is?"

"Yes, he is really the chief of the outlaws," she replied; but her eyes fell as they all looked at her—the swift color came into her cheek.

No one thought of doubting her word.

They had all heard the story of her adventure in the woods last night, that she had lost her way in the terrible storm, and the outlaw chief had guided her to the road.

"Are you quite sure of his identity?"

She looked at the dark, handsome face that was regarding her so intently. Every feature was stamped indelibly on her memory.

"I am perfectly sure," she replied. "He was unmasked when I saw him at first. I remember his face perfectly."

"Are you really Gerald Huntington?" they asked him.

"I am called by that name," he responded, almost mechanically, without looking at them. It seemed as if he could not remove his eyes from Jaquelina Meredith's flushed and defiant face.

"And this is your gratitude, Miss Meredith," he said, slowly. "Last night you were in my power, I had every temptation to hold you a prisoner, but I yielded to pity and let you go free. To-night you reward me by betraying me into the hands of my enemies."

"I warned you I should do so," she answered, spiritedly. "Why did you come here?"

"I had a fancy for seeing you again," he answered, boldly. "Last night, when you wept so bitterly at the thought of missing this merry-making, I wondered if it would really make you as happy as you thought. To-night the fancy seized me to come and see. I did not believe you would betray me even if you saw me."

"Why did you think so? I had warned you I would," she replied.

"I thought that common gratitude would have restrained you. I did not merit this treatment at your hands," was his reply.

"Miss Meredith has acted exactly right," said one of his captors, coarsely. "I look upon her as a real heroine. Everyone will feel pleased and relieved when they hear that she has actually captured the scourge of the country."

"Aye, she has done what two-score men set out to do last night and failed in," said another.

Jaquelina lifted her drooping head a little at their words of praise. At the outlaw's words it had drooped upon her breast.

"She has treated me ungenerously," repeated Gerald Huntington, scornfully, as he looked at the girl's defenders. "When she fell into my power last night I treated her fairly and honorably. I will leave it to any of you whether she has repaid me in like manner."

His dark, flashing eyes ran round the circle of eager, excited faces under the dim, waning light of the flickering lamp.

In a moment he lifted his finger and pointed at Ronald Valchester, who stood apart, silently regarding the curious scene.

"You, sir," said the outlaw, "have a noble face, and clear eyes that no deceit can blind. You can understand what is meant by that much abused term, honor. I will leave it to you. Has Miss Meredith used me fairly?"

It was a striking scene. It was past the midnight hour. The moon was sinking behind the distant hills, the starlight and the flickering lamplight shone weirdly down on the glistening laurel trees, and on the eager, curious crowd about that central figure, the outlaw chief. His splendid form was drawn haughtily erect, his head was raised, and his white hand pointed at the grave, noble face of Ronald Valchester.

Between the two figures was Jaquelina Meredith, lovely, frightened, half-defiant, yet hanging with her whole heart on Ronald Valchester's decision. He did not know how eagerly and fearfully she awaited his words.

Yet Gerald Huntington, as he looked at her, more than half guessed it. He remembered what they had said to each other last night.

"What manner of man might he be whose admiration would be acceptable to you?" he had asked her, and she had answered, promptly:

"A man quite your opposite in everything."

Looking fixedly at Ronald Valchester, the outlaw beheld the man whom Jaquelina's fancy had painted to her heart before she ever beheld him—the one man, "sans peur et sans reproche," whose admiration would be welcome to her.

"I will leave it to you," he repeated. "Has Miss Meredith used me fairly?"

"I decidedly decline to express an opinion on the subject," replied Ronald Valchester, gravely and coldly.

There was a moment's silence.

"Very well," said the outlaw, with a quiet bow; then he looked again at the fair young face that had caused his downfall.

"Miss Meredith," he said, "you have repaid my kindness to you last night with the basest ingratitude. It was love for your beautiful face that led me here to-night. I have lurked in the shadows for hours watching your happiness, and unselfishly rejoicing in your unclouded joy. But your cruelty has awakened the sleeping tiger in my heart. Henceforth beware the name of Gerald Huntington! I swear to you that sooner or later I will take a terrible revenge for this injury!"

"Do not be frightened at the villain's threat, Miss Meredith," said a gentleman, kindly, as they led the captive away. "He will not have the chance to harm you. They will be sure to send him to the penitentiary for life."

Jaquelina looked startled.

"Will the punishment, indeed, be so severe?" she cried. "I did not know that! I only thought——"

"Do not begin to repent of your brave deed, Miss Meredith," cried Walter Earle, gayly, at her side. "Of course he will go into imprisonment for life, or for a very long term of years, certainly—and deserves it, too, the handsome rascal!"

"Then you do not think I acted wrong?" said Jaquelina, almost piteously.

"Wrong! no, indeed!" said Walter Earle. "I think you are a perfect little heroine."

"So do I," "And I," "And I," cried a score of voices; but Ronald Valchester, whose opinion she longed to hear, was gravely silent.

No one could induce the gifted student to utter his opinion on that one subject—whether or not Jaquelina had treated Gerald Huntington unfairly.

When asked about it afterward, as he often was, he distinctly and invariably declined to discuss it.

Walter Earle, his dear friend, could not chaff him into betraying himself.

Violet, though she coaxed and teased bewitchingly, could not charm his thoughts from him. He kept his opinion to himself.

The delightful party broke up in a whirl of excitement. More than half the young men went away with the squad that guarded the prisoner, anxious to see him placed in safe custody.

Others hurried home to carry their friends the welcome news of the dreaded horse-thief's capture.

Walter Earle drove Jaquelina home in his mother's pretty little basket phaeton.

Mr. Meredith was awake, and in answer to his question his niece told him it had been a pleasant party, but she did not tell him what he would have been delighted to hear, namely, that the outlaw chief had been captured.

She went to her room, laid aside her mother's wedding-dress, and put away with the ring and locket the withered passion-flowers that Ronald Valchester had gathered for her.

"I will keep the flowers in remembrance of to-night," she said, artlessly. "It would have been the happiest night of my life," she added, "if only——" a vague sigh followed the broken sentence.

CHAPTER IX.

Jaquelina was lying at ease under her favorite apple tree the next afternoon when the murmur of voices roused her.

She lifted her head, and saw Walter and Violet Earle with Mr. Valchester.

"I knew we should find you here," said Violet, with her soft laugh. "I have heard about your pretty retreat under the apple trees."

She did not say that she had come straight there, feeling quite sure of catching Jaquelina at a disadvantage.

Violet would not have owned to herself that she was prompted by a spiteful little feminine instinct. But she gave Ronald Valchester an arch little smile that said plainer than words:

"Did I not tell you the truth? Is not the little beauty of last night brown, awkward and shabby to-day?"

Violet herself looked as fair and pure as a lily in her cool, white dress and white chip hat with its delicate wreath of violets.

She had some violets fastened with the lace at her throat, and they were just the color of her eyes.

She was fully conscious of the pleasant fact that though Jaquelina had rivaled her last night, she had a very decided advantage over her to-day.

But men never do see with woman's eyes. Ronald Valchester only saw that the brune skin was glowing with the rosy tint of health, that the careless, boyish locks of chestnut hair had caught and held some stray gleams of summer sunshine, that the brown hands were slender and delicately formed.

He noticed, too, that the girlish form, guiltless of stays or laces, was very graceful with the willowy lightness and roundness so lovely in youth.

But he never realized at all, until he heard Violet telling her mamma at tea that night, that "poor Lina Meredith had on a faded and darned calico, and worn-out boots with half the buttons gone."

Jaquelina had been reading a book of poetry, and some of the dreaminess still lingered in her eyes as she rose to greet her visitors.

A half wish darted into her mind that they had gone into the house at first, that she might have slipped into the back way and donned her Sunday dress, but no one guessed the thought, not even Walter Earle, who said, with a careless laugh:

"Ah! Miss Cinderella, we have caught you without your ball-dress to-day. Where are your diamond ring and gold locket?"

Jaquelina looked at them a little surprised.

"I have put away the ring and locket," she said. "I do not wear them usually; they belonged to my mother."

Then she added, a little shyly and anxiously:

"Will you come into the house and see Aunt Meredith?"

"Thanks—no," answered Violet, promptly. "It is so pretty out here in the orchard, we would rather stay."

She fluttered down to a seat at the root of the great apple tree, making a pretty picture with the low boughs bending above her head.

Valchester had already taken a seat and possessed himself of Jaquelina's worn poetry volume. He immediately became lost in its pages.

Walter Earle groaned.

"What has the book-worm got hold of now?" he inquired.

Violet moved a little nearer—near enough to look over at the open volume.

"Favorite poems by favorite authors," she replied.

"Is that your daily reading?" asked Walter of Jaquelina.

"Yes," she admitted.

"Are you fond of poetry?" Violet asked her.

"Yes," she said again, demurely.

"You should ask Valchester to show you his volume of manuscript poetry," said Walter, laughing. "He is a very untiring and voluminous poet—I might say a second Byron!"

Valchester looked up, flushed and confused—evidently annoyed. He was about to speak when Jaquelina broke out reproachfully:

"Oh! Mr. Valchester—I asked you—and you denied it!"

"Asked him what?" cried Walter, enjoying the situation immensely.

"If he was a poet," said Jaquelina, breathless, "and he said——"

"That no one ever accused me of it," said Valchester. "I confess to some rhymes, Miss Meredith, but to be a poet—a real poet—means more than that."

"Miss Lina, it is only modesty that makes him talk so," said Walter, laughingly. "He has written some very readable rhymes, I assure you."

"Miss Meredith, I hope you will not give credence to Walter's idle gossip," exclaimed Ronald Valchester, really distressed now. "It is as I told you just now, I have rhymed some—I confess it. Of course my verses sound well to Earle—he has not the slightest taste for poetry. True poetry and real doggerel would be alike to him. But the critics might tell me to——"

"Return to your gallipots, as they told the poet-apothecary," laughed Earle.

"Yes," said Valchester, and returned to his reading.

"Read aloud to us," said Violet. "Should you not like that, Lina?"

"Very much," she replied, and her dark eyes brightened at the thought.

"Then I will read on from where we interrupted you," said Valchester, looking at Jaquelina. "Which poet was it, Miss Meredith?"

"Longfellow—it was Hiawatha's Wooing," she said, and blushed, though she did not know why, at Violet's laugh.

"And you left off—where?" inquired Valchester, holding the open book toward her.

Jaquelina leaned forward a moment, turned a page with her brown forefinger, and showed him the verse.

She did not know why her breath came quicker for an instant as his white hand touched hers quite accidentally, but Violet Earle saw the swift color rise into her cheek.

It was a beautiful scene. The day was so bright and golden, the grass so green, the clover blossoms and the orchard blooms were so sweet, and the quartette under the apple tree were so young and so happy.

Sorrow had never touched them with her gloomy finger. It was one of those "hours we frame in gold—pictures to be remembered."

Valchester read on in his deep, sweet voice that seemed to blend harmoniously with the warble of the birds and the myriad sweet voices of nature: