Kathleen's Diamonds; or, She Loved a Handsome Actor

Sammy Hall was bitterly sorry that he had missed getting any information from the blonde about the beautiful girl he had seen with her that night at the station.

The beautiful white face and closed eyes of the young girl haunted him with strange persistency.

And after his accidental rencontre on the street with the insolent blonde he felt more apprehensive than ever.

"I wish I knew where she lived: I would find out more about her," he thought; and fell to watching for the bright, steel-blue eyes and golden hair every day.

He was rewarded for his efforts when one day he saw her at the trimming counter buying some gold passementerie from Tessie Mays.

Sammy Hall waited till she had sailed out of the store, then went across to the young salesgirl.

"It's that woman—the one that carried off the girl that night. I saw her give you her address. What is it?" he queried, excitedly.

As much excited as himself, Tessie gave it to him, and he began to set his wits to work to find out the mystery of that night.

To Kathleen's indignation and dismay, Fedora had kept her a close prisoner in the shabby little garret chamber ever since that night—now five days ago—when she had been brought there.

To quiet the complaints of the girl, Fedora told her that she dare not let her go outside the house, because her aunt's emissaries were searching for her everywhere, and that, if found, she would be arrested and taken back to the asylum.

"You must remain quietly hidden here until the search blows over," she said; and no entreaties could move her jailer's heart; there was always a plausible excuse; but Kathleen, looking into the flippant, insolent face, began to distrust the woman.

"She hates me—hates me because Ralph Chainey said he loved me," she thought, uneasily; and she grew frightened in the miserable little garret room in which she was kept a prisoner, seeing no one but Fedora, who brought her food with her own hands—food which tasted palatable enough, but which seemed only to sap the young girl's strength.

For with each day Kathleen grew weaker and weaker.

At first she had been wont to pace the chamber restlessly for hours. Now her limbs grew weary; her brain seemed to reel. She rested in the chair, then upon the bed, and her burning brain was full of the thought of Ralph Chainey's treachery.

"I loved him so, I loved him so—yet he was wicked, false and cruel beyond all men!" she sobbed; and the knowledge was killing to her. She thought that now, at last, she was going mad, like poor Daisy Lynn, over a lover's falsity.

She did not know that it was death, not madness, that was approaching; but the food brought her by Fedora was drugged, so that in a short time it must cause her death if she kept on taking it.

She did not dream what a terrible interest the woman had in her death, and that she had decided that Kathleen Carew must never go out of that house alive.

"He did it for me, and I must not let her go free," she decided, grimly, and went unfalteringly about her plans for ending that sweet, innocent young life.

Kathleen found her imprisonment here more galling than it had been in the home of Miss Watts. There was here no pretty, dainty room filled with a young girl's dainty books and pictures, but only squalor such as might have surrounded an uneducated servant.

She wondered much over the house she was in, and if her jailer, the gaudily attired blonde beauty, inhabited such a shabby apartment as she allotted to her guests. But she was not likely to have her curiosity gratified on this point, as Fedora always locked the door on leaving, and there was only one window—a small one, very high up—that gave an uninteresting outlook on the walls of other houses—poor ones, it seemed, from their moldy bricks.

A day came when Fedora did not bring her any dinner, and the whole day wore away dully and gloomily. It was the day when Samuel Hall saw her shopping in the store of Granville B. Haines & Co. Kathleen did not dream of what had happened, but Fedora had moved out of the house that day, leaving her victim to her fate.

Kathleen ate so little of the drugged food prepared for her that she had lived longer than the woman anticipated, so she decided to leave her to starve to death in the unoccupied house, where she was locked into the wretched garret.

When she gave her address to the pretty saleslady at Granville B. Haines & Co.'s, it was in a fit of absent-mindedness that saved Kathleen's life.

Instead of giving her new address, she gave her old one, and, as we have seen, Samuel Hall at once secured it from Tessie Mays.

So excited was the young man, and so fearful that harm had befallen the beautiful young girl of that night's adventure, that he actually secured the services of a policeman, and finding the house closed and seemingly unoccupied, the doors were broken open and a strict search instituted.

When they had almost begun to despair of success, the beautiful victim was found by the delighted young clerk, who at once recognized her as the fainting girl he had placed in the carriage that night.

She fainted again when she learned that she was saved, and the policeman and Sammy had some difficulty in restoring her to consciousness. When they had done so, they were filled with grief and horror at the story she had to tell.

"Oh, let me go to papa!" she begged them, pathetically, and Samuel Hall, melted by her beauty and distress, assured her that she should be sent at once to Boston. A closed carriage was secured, and Sammy and the sympathetic policeman escorted her to the station, where a first-class ticket was bought and Kathleen placed in a Pullman car.

"God forever bless you!" sobbed the young girl, weeping over Sammy's hand, and overwhelming him with promises of what her rich father would do to reward him for his nobility.

Then the train steamed away out of the station, and there were tears in the eyes of both men, through which they saw dimly the pale and lovely face, on which a little hopeful smile was budding into bloom.

The policeman made Sammy promise to keep a sharp lookout for the perfidious blonde, and to let him know if he found her, so that she might be arrested and punished for kidnapping the girl. Then the two separated, the policeman returning to his regular beat, and Sammy to the store, where he told the sympathetic young girls the story of his knightly deliverance of Kathleen, and became quite a hero in their admiring eyes.

But gladdest of all was our beautiful Kathleen, speeding as fast as steam could carry her back to Boston and to papa, who must surely have come home ere now, and who would be so glad to see his little girl.

CHAPTER XXIII.

"PAPA, DARLING, IT IS I, YOUR LITTLE KATHLEEN!"

It snowed in Boston that night when Ivan Belmont came home on his usual mission—to extort money by begging, coaxing, threats or curses—(he usually tried all in succession before he succeeded)—from the rich widow, his mother, and the heiress, his sister.

And he was wont to say on these occasions that he would almost rather work for the money than to extort it from those two penurious women, they were so close-fisted and quarrelsome.

It was quite true what he said. Money he would have, but he was so spendthrift and reckless that his mother groaned in spirit over his excesses, and often flatly refused him a penny.

Then he would have recourse to Alpine, and he never left until he secured it, although he invariably had to raise a storm before he succeeded.

His periodical pirating visits grew to be deplored by the whole household, even by the servants, who knew that the effects of his demands were to be dreaded for days, in the increased harshness and ill-temper of the two women they served.

To-night the contest had raged hotter than ever before and only the threat of criminal deeds, unless his demands were met, had sufficed to draw gold from the pockets of his relatives.

Chuckling over his success, he left the house and prepared to face the raging storm outside on his way back to the distant city whence he had come.

Crushing his hat down over his face, he hurried down the marble steps, pausing at the bottom in surprise at seeing the cloaked figure of a female in the act of ascending the steps.

The glare of a street-lamp shone full on the scene. Curiosity prompted him to stare at the beautiful white face upraised timidly to his own.

As he did so, his own face whitened with horror, his eyes dilated, his limbs trembled with fear.

"My God!" he muttered, hoarsely; and turning, fled from the spot in mad haste, like one pursued by fiends.

He believed that he had seen a veritable ghost, for it was the pale, lovely face of Kathleen Carew into which he had gazed so wildly—Kathleen, whom he believed dead. So he fled from the spot as wildly as his trembling limbs would permit.

Kathleen had always disliked and despised Ivan Belmont, so she only smiled scornfully at his precipitate flight, and began to ascend the marble steps, her heart beating with joy at the thought of meeting her father again.

"I wonder if James will be frightened, too, and run away, thinking me a ghost?" she murmured, with a sad little smile, as she rang the bell.

But it was not James who opened the door to her; it was a total stranger, who stared in surprise at the sight of a beautiful, refined-looking young girl out alone on such a stormy night.

All the old servants had been discharged after Kathleen's death, because they had irritated Mrs. Carew by grieving after their young mistress.

So the man looked in wonder at the strange young girl with the rich golden hair and flashing dark eyes who stepped across the threshold as if she belonged there, and said to him with gentle imperiousness:

"Tell your master there is a young lady to see him."

Without waiting for a reply, Kathleen brushed past the astonished servant, entered a small reception-room on her right, and sat down to await the entrance of her father.

She had not mentioned her name, because she wanted to take him by surprise.

She wanted to see the joy-light flash into his handsome face when she should throw herself into his arms and cry out, tenderly:

"Papa, darling, it is I, your little Kathleen, come home to you again!"

How glad he would be to see her again! He had always loved her so fondly that his heart must have almost broken when they told him she was dead.

And how glad he would be to have her back again. How his eyes would flash when she told him how wretchedly she had been treated. He would certainly call in the strong arm of the law to punish her persecutors. Only she did not want them to do anything to old Mrs. Hoover, the kind matron who had befriended her in the asylum.

She sunk down into a beautiful satin chair with a sigh of relief at getting back to papa and home again—her beautiful home, so warm, so luxurious, filled with the rich odor of hot-house flowers, in strong contrast to the storm raging bleakly outside.

The man-servant, somewhat amazed at her coolness in entering the reception-room, but supposing her to be some intimate friend of the family, went in search of his mistress.

"A young lady is in the small reception-room asking for Mr. Belmont," he said.

He had naturally supposed that Kathleen meant Ivan Belmont, as he was the only man connected with the house.

"Did you send Mr. Belmont to her?"

"He had just gone out, madame, and she did not wait for me to tell her, but brushed past me and went into the room," he replied.

"Impertinent!" exclaimed the lady, in angry surprise. "I will go and see what she wants," she added, rising and throwing down her novel to go.

She was already in a towering rage, because she had been bullied by Ivan into giving him five hundred dollars a few minutes ago, and the idea that a woman, one of his low associates, most probably, had had the effrontery to follow him here, added fuel to the flame of her fury.

Kathleen heard the swish of a silken robe, and the heavy curtains parted and fell behind the tall and stately form of her handsome step-mother.

The girl rose up—grieved that it was not her father, but so glad to be safe at home again that she was almost glad to see again the wicked woman who was the cause of all her trouble.

"Mamma!" she faltered, using the name she had been taught to give her cruel step-mother, and Mrs. Carew, who had been advancing angrily toward her, recoiled with a smothered cry and starting eyes.

Kathleen came toward her with eager, imploring hands outstretched in greeting.

"Do not be frightened, mamma, I am not a ghost, I am human," she said, sweetly; but Mrs. Carew, who had sunk down on her knees in mortal terror, waved her back.

"Back, back!" she breathed, hoarsely; and Kathleen saw that she believed herself haunted by the spirit of her dead step-daughter.

She went back to her seat and began to explain her appearance in soothing tones:

"It was all a mistake, mamma. I was in a trance, not really dead, and I came to myself in the coffin that night, and dazed and frightened lest they should bury me alive, I ran away into the woods. Some people caught me and put me into a lunatic asylum, from which I have just escaped!"

CHAPTER XXIV.

TURNED OUT INTO THE STORM.

Mrs. Carew drew a long, sobbing breath, and struggled up to a chair, keeping her eyes fixed fearfully on Kathleen, who went on sorrowfully:

"I can not tell you mamma, what I have suffered since I went away last spring. The recital would be enough to melt a heart of stone. You never loved me, I know, but you would have pitied me if you could have known how I was suffering from the stupidity of those people, who took me for another girl, and kept me a prisoner so many months. Thank Heaven, it is all over now, and I am at home again. But where is papa? I want to see him so much, and I am sure he can not be out this stormy night."

While the young girl talked, the color had been coming back to Mrs. Carew's lips and a malevolent gleam to her blue eyes. Straightening herself up in her chair, she looked across at the girl, realizing that it was indeed Kathleen Carew come back from the portals of death.

She had always hated the lovely, innocent girl, and now she thought triumphantly that Kathleen's day was past. Her father was dead, and she was disinherited. She had no part nor lot in the home to which she had returned.

The cruel woman looked at the lovely young suppliant, and sneered:

"You can not impose on me with your false claims. You are not Kathleen Carew, and your resemblance to her is very slight—not strong enough to bear out your assertion. My step-daughter is dead."

"No, no!" Kathleen cried, piteously. "I am your step-daughter, indeed I am, mamma, and I have told you the truth. I have been so ill and unhappy all these months, it is that which has changed my looks and made me look so unlike the Kathleen you remember. Where is papa? He will know me, he will be glad that I am alive!" She made a movement to leave the room, but as suddenly Mrs. Carew barred her way.

"You lunatic! you shall not leave this room!" she hissed, savagely.

Kathleen's hot temper, held at bay so long, flamed up at once.

"I will go to papa!" she uttered, angrily; and in a low but perfectly clear voice her tormentor answered:

"Vincent Carew is dead!"

She saw the girl start and tremble as if she had been struck. Her sweet face, flushed a moment ago with anger, went deathly white, and she clutched the back of a chair for support.

"Vincent Carew is dead!" repeated the pitiless woman before her. She heard a moan of mortal agony issue from Kathleen's pale lips, but she continued, heartlessly: "My husband was lost at sea in the Urania, that was burned to the water's edge the very week after my step-daughter was murdered in Pennsylvania. By his will, made in London just before he sailed, he disinherited his daughter for her intimacy with an actor, and left his whole fortune to me and my daughter."

"It is monstrous, impossible! You are telling me a falsehood!" moaned Kathleen, with difficulty, for her senses were leaving her under the shock of her step-mother's words. A low gasp came from her lips, she staggered blindly forward, then fell insensible upon the carpet.

Mrs. Carew spurned the senseless form with her foot and threw wide the velvet portière, calling:

"Jones, lift this woman up and put her out into the street. And be careful never to admit disreputable characters inside my doors again, or you may lose your place!"

The man, who had been lingering about very near, approached with profuse apologies and excuses.

"Carry her out into the street!" repeated his mistress, angrily.

Jones took up the light, unconscious figure in his arms and moved toward the door, but he muttered, deprecatingly:

"She'll die out there in the snow."

"What is that to you? Creatures like her ought to be dead! Do as you are bid, or you will rue it!" stormed his mistress; and Jones, dazed and frightened by her violence, hastened to obey her commands.

The door had hardly closed on him as he bore poor Kathleen out into the stormy night, when Alpine Belmont, disturbed by the noise, came gliding down the stairs, demanding the cause of the excitement.

Mrs. Carew was pale and trembling in every limb, and she answered, reluctantly:

"It's something not fit for a young girl's ears, my dear."

"Oh, bosh! I'll find out from the servants if you don't tell me," retorted Alpine; and then Mrs. Carew said, cunningly:

"Well, if you must know such awful things, a woman came here demanding to see that disreputable brother of yours! You can imagine the sort of woman, crazy with drink, that would follow him! So I made Jones put her out into the street, and the whole disgraceful thing will be talked over by the servants by to-morrow."

Alpine shivered with horror and disgust, and muttered:

"I wish Ivan was dead! He is too wicked to live! The idea of that woman's effrontery!"

Mrs. Carew thought to herself:

"That was a good idea of mine! She believes every word. Good! for I would not like for her to know the truth. She has been so soft over that girl ever since her supposed death, that there's no telling what pity would lead her to do!"

CHAPTER XXV.

TEDDY DARRELL AGAIN.

Mrs. Carew's servant, Jones, was a very humane and tender-hearted man, and his heart swelled with anger as he obeyed the command of his mistress, and bore the fainting young girl out of the splendid abode of luxury and wealth into the cold and stormy night.

He stopped under the flaring street-lamp and looked pityingly into the lovely white face that had fallen back against his arm.

"Why, what a pretty young thing she is—little more than a child—and looks as innocent, too!" he soliloquized. "I'll bet my life that if she's ever done any harm, she's been betrayed into it by that scoundrelly Ivan Belmont that she came here to find! He ought to be hung, so he ought!"

He glanced anxiously up and down the almost deserted avenue. The snow lay white and deep upon the ground, and the great flakes swirled through the air, striking him coldly in the face.

"If I put her down here on the ground she will freeze to death, poor girl, that's certain!" he murmured, uneasily. "I just can't do such a wicked thing—no, not even if she is bad, as Mrs. Carew said. Why, even if she was a murderess it wouldn't be right to leave her out here to die in the cold! But, land, what be I to do with her? That's what I want to know!"

The whinny and stamp of an impatient horse attracted his attention at that moment. He turned his head and saw a smart cab waiting at the next door. The driver, half asleep, sat on his box, his head sunk into the collar of his great-coat.

A sudden temptation came to the troubled Jones, and he did not fight against it, but rather welcomed it as an inspiration.

Walking noiselessly across the snow, Jones placed his burden inside the cab upon the cushions, and closed the door so softly that it did not attract the attention of the tired and sleepy driver on the box.

"God bless you and raise you up a friend this awful night, you poor little wretch!" apostrophized Jones, as he returned from the scene and re-entered the Carew mansion.

He had not been gone ten minutes before a servant came from the house before which the cab was waiting and roused the sleepy cabby.

"The lady as you brought here has decided to stay all night with her sick mother, so she told me to pay you and send you away," he said.

"All right, but I wish she had made up her mind afore she kep' me a-waitin' here all night! I be frozen with the cold, that's what I be!" grumbled the driver, accepting the double fee ungraciously, and driving away at a high rate of speed, all unconscious of the silent passenger inside.

He went rattling down to a large hotel, hoping he might get a fare for the theater.

A tall, handsome young man came down the steps and hailed him.

"Take me to the Opera House," he said, opening the door and springing lightly in.

"All right, sir," and away they went.

Teddy Darrell, the new fare, pulled up the collar of his long, fur-lined overcoat about his ears, and was about to settle himself comfortably when he received a violent shock.

He discovered that he was not alone in the cab. A slight girlish form, shrouded in a heavy cloak, was huddled up on the opposite seat, and low moans were issuing from its lips.

CHAPTER XXVI.

"I WOULD LAY DOWN MY LIFE TO SERVE YOU!" SAID TEDDY.

Teddy Darrell had had some adventures in his day, and was not given to nerves, so he did not let the shock of his discovery overcome him.

The thought flashed over him that some drunken woman had crept into the cab, unknown to the driver, and fallen into a troubled slumber.

The flaring lanterns on the outside of the cab did not afford much light, so Teddy struck a match and held it over the face of his unknown companion.

Then indeed he had a shock much greater than the first one.

The lighted match fell from his hand and he recoiled with a startled cry.

"Good heavens! what a likeness!"

He sunk upon the opposite seat, actually trembling with surprise and emotion.

In the pale and lovely face lying unconscious on the cushions the young man had recognized a haunting likeness to one he had loved very dearly, and whose tragic fate, six months ago, had thrilled him with unutterable horror. Although other lovers had succeeded Kathleen in Teddy's young, impressionable heart, he had never ceased to regret the fact that she had rejected him.

"The sweetest, loveliest girl in all the world!" he had always thought of bonny, dark-eyed Kathleen.

And he trembled with pain when he saw in the poor street waif, as he believed her, the awful likeness to his lost loved one.

Kathleen, who was beginning to recover consciousness, moaned and stirred, half lifting herself toward the young man.

He bent toward her kindly and said:

"Are you ill, madame?"

That voice! It was one from her happy past. It stirred a pulse in Kathleen's heart, and she turned toward him wildly, her dark eyes opening wide upon his anxious face.

The flaring lights from some place of amusement shone into the cab and showed her his features.

"Teddy Darrell!" she murmured, in a feeble tone of amazement.

"Good heavens! you know me!" he exclaimed. "Who are you?"

She held out her white hands to him with an entreating gesture.

"Don't you know me? Don't you remember Kathleen Carew?" she cried, faintly.

"Kathleen Carew is dead!" he answered, blankly.

"No, no; she lives! It was a mistake. I was in a trance, and I escaped from my coffin and ran away into the woods," whispered the girl, rapidly regaining the strength to speak.

"Good heavens! So that's what became of you!" cried Teddy Darrell. He seized her little white hands and pressed them rapturously. "Welcome back to life, my dear girl!" he laughed, happily, and she exclaimed:

"You know me—you believe me?"

"Of course I do," he replied, joyously. "But how came you to be here in this cab, alone and unconscious?"

"I do not know," she answered, in a puzzled voice. "I went home, and mamma told me my father was dead, and that he had disinherited me in his will. Then she denied my identity, and the last thing I remember I fell fainting on the carpet. Oh, Mr. Darrell! will you do me one favor? Take me to my dear friend, Helen Fox."

"Helen Fox is in Europe," he replied, reluctantly.

"In Europe? Oh, good heavens! what am I to do, then? Helen is the only friend I have to turn to in my distress!" exclaimed the young girl, clasping her beautiful hands in the keenest despair.

Teddy Darrell looked at her reproachfully.

"You seem to forget me, Miss Carew. But I would lay down my life to serve you!" he exclaimed, impetuously.

She glanced up and met his eyes. They wore the most killing expression of devotion—and Teddy's dark eyes could be very expressive when he chose.

Kathleen blushed vividly, and answered:

"I—I—did not know—if I might call you my friend or not. Some men—might not like a young girl after—after——" She paused in confusion.

"After she rejected him," finished Teddy, coolly. "Well, I hope I am not as mean as that, Miss Carew. I shall be only too happy to be your friend and brother if you will allow me."

"You are too good to me," she whispered, gratefully, as she held out her little white hand to him, adding, sadly: "'A friend in need is a friend indeed,' and I am poor in everything now, with not even a shelter for my head."

"Don't say that," exclaimed the sympathetic young fellow, with a break in his voice. "I am going to take you to my cousin, one of the kindest ladies in the world, if you will allow me to do so;" and, pulling the check-string, he gave the driver orders not to proceed to the opera house, but to the street where his cousin lived.

Kathleen acquiesced gratefully in his decision. Her heart went out warmly to this cordial friend, and she regretted in her heart that she had ever laughed with Helen Fox over the young man's flirting proclivities.

CHAPTER XXVII.

ALPINE'S RENEWED HOPES.

Alpine Belmont, all in a flutter of surprise and delight, was making herself beautiful, with her maid's assistance, for the eyes of a caller who was waiting for her in the drawing-room.

Ten minutes ago a card had been brought to her bearing the name of "Ralph Chainey."

"He asked for Mrs. Carew first, but I told him she was out; then he sent his card to you," said Jones.

Alpine's heart leaped with wild delight.

She was as romantically in love with the gifted and handsome young actor as was possible to one of her vain and selfish nature.

After Kathleen's death she had cherished some hope of winning him, but his coldness and indifference had been so marked, and his despair over Kathleen's loss so deep, that in angry pique she had given up her hopes, and determined to console herself with her newly acquired wealth.

The novelty of her position as a great heiress had for a time diverted her thoughts, but of late they had returned to him again, and rested longingly on her desire to win his heart.

So the sudden announcement of his presence filled her with joyful anticipations.

Her maid was hurriedly summoned to array her mistress for the coming interview.

In the servants' hall, a little later, she expressed the opinion that the gentleman must be a very particular beau, as the lady was so hard to please.

Meanwhile, Alpine, palpitating in a light-blue silk that set off very becomingly her blonde beauty, was entering the drawing-room to meet her caller.

Ralph Chainey, dark, stately, handsome, the incarnation of a romantic young girl's idea of a lover, rose and bowed with courtly grace over Miss Belmont's hand.

He had been searching vainly for Kathleen more than a week, and at last it occurred to him that perhaps she had come home. He hastened to Boston in a fever of anxiety.

Alpine could never remember afterward in what words he told his story, it came on her so suddenly, it found her so unprepared, but presently she knew it all—knew that Kathleen, whose death had so softened her heart, was alive, and that but for some strange happening of fate, she would that moment be Ralph Chainey's beloved wife.

With that knowledge, Alpine's heart grew cold as ice again; the old jealous hate revived.

She could not speak for some moments, but sat staring with burning blue eyes at the unhappy young man, who was pouring out his whole heart.

"Oh, Miss Belmont, think what an awful shock it was to me, losing her in that mysterious fashion. I have scarcely eaten or slept since, I have been so wretched, I employed detectives, but they seem to be all at sea. They even believe that I was mistaken—that it was not Kathleen Carew at all, but really Daisy Lynn, a lunatic. Miss Watts, from whom she had escaped, had been found, and she declared that the girl was her niece."

A wild hope came into Alpine's mind, and she faltered:

"I believe the detectives are right. Kathleen can not be alive. Remember we saw her in her coffin, cold and dead."

"Not dead, for I have seen her alive!" he exclaimed. "Oh, Miss Belmont, do not discourage me—do not turn unbelieving ears to my story, for I swear to you that Kathleen Carew is alive to-night—alive, but given over to some fate, perhaps, worse than death!"

Alpine's heart beat wildly as he fixed his great burning brown eyes so sorrowfully upon her face. Oh, God! she thought, what would she not give for Ralph Chainey to love her as he did Kathleen Carew, her hated step-sister!

Some burning words of the Virginia poetess, Mittie Point Davis, came into her mind:

Ralph Chainey did not dream what a wealth of love for him had blossomed into full flower in the young girl's heart. Men are blind, or they would never confide to one beautiful young girl the story of their love for another one. Few girls are noble enough to listen without being piqued and jealous.

Alpine Belmont's heart burned within her, and she said to herself that she hoped he was mistaken, and that poor Kathleen was dead. She believed it herself, and she and her mother had long ago agreed that Kathleen's body had been stolen from the doctor's cottage for purposes of dissection. She had shuddered at the thought of that beautiful body being so desecrated, but Mrs. Carew had seemed quite indifferent, and congratulated herself that she had escaped the expenses of a fashionable funeral and a costly monument.

All the sorrow she had felt for Kathleen's death died out of Alpine's heart as she beheld the trouble of the handsome young actor, and she said to herself that if Kathleen could rise from the grave and stand before her, she would be tempted to strike her dead at her feet.

While these cruel and jealous thoughts ran through Alpine's mind, Ralph Chainey was looking at her with pathetic eyes that mutely craved her sympathy. At last she began to understand this, and a clever idea came to her. Why not pretend to sympathize with him in his sorrow? It would bring them closer together, and perhaps win her some kind thoughts from him.

Following out her thought, Alpine moved to a seat beside the young actor, and laying her soft, ringed white hand lightly upon his, she gave it a sympathetic pressure, and murmured:

"No words can tell you how deeply I sympathize with you in your sorrow. I hope, for both our sakes, that your belief may prove true, and Kathleen be restored to your heart."

Her sympathy pleased him, as she knew it would, and he answered, eagerly:

"You loved her. I know. How could any one live in the house with her and not be devoted to one so sweet and lovely?"

Alpine withdrew her hand and played nervously with her many rings.

"Yes. I was fond of Kathleen," she murmured. "You did well to come to me. You have all my sympathy, and oh! how I wish I could find her and restore her to you. Is there nothing I can do? I am rich, you know, and if you wish it, I will employ a detective to find Kathleen;" but even as she breathed the tender words, the wily girl knew that she would rather employ a detective to hunt her rival down to her death.

Ralph Chainey, blind mortal that he was, looked at her gratefully, without detecting the hollow ring in her voice.

"God bless you for your noble offer, Miss Belmont, but I can not accept it," he replied. "I have detectives already employed. I, too, am rich, and my whole fortune shall be devoted to finding her, if it costs that much. All that you can do is to write to me at once if you hear from our poor lost darling. I shall be moving from one city to another, but I will keep you informed of my whereabouts."

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Chainey, and I will write you if I have the least bit of news!" exclaimed Alpine, with sparkling eyes, for she began to see a prospect of getting up a correspondence with the great actor. She would write to him often, asking if he had any news, and he would be obliged, in common courtesy, to reply.

He rose to go, and Alpine poured out eloquently her sympathy for him and her sorrow for Kathleen.

"We both love her; it is a link between us," she said. "Try to think of me as a sister, and remember I shall often be thinking of you in your sorrow."

He thanked her gratefully and hurried away, after promising to call again the first time he came to Boston.

Alpine told her mother on her return of the young man's visit, and his startling disclosure, but Mrs. Carew pooh-poohed the whole story.

"Kathleen is certainly dead," she said. "Ralph Chainey has been imposed on by a pretty lunatic, that's all. I thought he had more sense."

CHAPTER XXVIII.

TEDDY DARRELL'S PLANS.

Teddy Darrell kept his promise to Kathleen. He took her immediately to the home of his cousin, a widow lady of about thirty-eight years—a woman of good circumstances and social standing, but whose divided devotion to two pretty children and literary pursuits caused her to live a very retired life.

Mrs. Stone must have been very fond of her cousin Teddy, for she accepted his story of the finding of Kathleen in good faith, and made the young girl welcome to her luxurious home. She saw that the hapless girl was nearly fainting with fatigue, and leaving Teddy alone in the pretty library, carried her off to bed, after first coaxing her to take some tea and toast.

"Bless you, my dear, your name has been a familiar one in this household for more than a year. Teddy was so madly in love with you once that he could talk of nothing else but Kathleen Carew whenever he came. Even the children knew all about it!"

Kathleen blushed at receiving so much kindness from Teddy's cousin, after having rejected him, so to clear herself she said:

"But he got over it directly. Helen Fox told me he proposed to her the week afterward."

Mrs. Stone, who was warming a dainty lace-ruffled night-gown before the fire for her guest, threw her head back and laughed heartily.

"Teddy Darrell is the worst flirt in Boston! Actually, Miss Carew, I've known that boy to be engaged to three girls at the same time!" she exclaimed, merrily.

"I suppose he can never be really in earnest," said the young girl.

Then Mrs. Stone replied, more seriously:

"I have never known him to be in earnest but once, and I have been his confidante, I believe, in all of his love affairs. He has had many fancies, but he never really loved any one but you, my dear girl."

Kathleen did not know what to say to this, and the lady rattled on:

"Well, Teddy is a good catch, if I do say it myself, for he is a real good boy, and very rich. His wife, if he ever gets one, will have a happy life; and I hope he will soon marry, for that would cure him of his little fads."

"Fads?" observed Kathleen, inquiringly.

"Yes," replied her new friend; "he is full of them. Some time ago it was to be an author, and I believe he wrote up whole reams of foolscap in the six weeks while the fever lasted. He came here every day, bringing dozens of pages of the thrilling romance over which he had been wasting the midnight oil. Finally he sent it off to a publisher, and a prompt rejection cooled his ardor. Now his fad is to be an actor."

"An actor?" Kathleen exclaimed.

Her thoughts flew with exquisite pain to Ralph Chainey—so beloved and so false!

"He has been stage-struck ever since he saw Ralph Chainey act last winter," continued the communicative hostess. "He tells me now that he is studying to go upon the stage, but I'm sure he will fail. He will certainly have stage-fright."

"I hope not," answered Kathleen; and then the gentle lady tucked her kindly into bed as if she had been a little child.

"Good-night, my dear," she said, with a kiss, and then she went away, saying she must go down-stairs and see Teddy Darrell.

He was waiting for her alone. The children who had been amusing him, had gone off to bed, and he settled himself for a long, confidential chat.

From his talk she soon learned that his love of a year ago for bonny Kathleen had revived with fuller intensity than ever.

"Cousin Carrie, I'm bound to marry that girl!" he exclaimed, with sparkling eyes.

"But she rejected you last winter, Teddy."

"I know; but everything is different now. She was a belle and heiress then; now she is poor, and friendless but for us. When she learns that I love her in spite of her changed position, and that I want to marry her as soon as she will have me, she will be touched by the romance of the affair, and—now don't laugh so, Cousin Carrie—it is romantic, is it not, my devotion?"

"Certainly," she agreed, merrily; then added: "But I'm afraid you will find it hard to convince her of your devotion; for she told me when I spoke of it just now that you had proposed to Helen Fox the very week after she rejected you."

Teddy made a grimace.

"Oh, that was all fun, and I think it was very shabby in Helen telling all the other girls about it. Of course, I only wanted the engagement for a few weeks, then to pique her and get discarded, as I've done with other, girls," he said, carelessly, having a very elastic conscience in matters of love.

But he added, rather lugubriously:

"But I'm in earnest, Carrie, with Kathleen Carew. Positively, she is the only girl I ever loved in my life—that is, real, sure enough love—and it will break my heart if I don't get her for my wife."

"You didn't break your heart when you believed that she was dead," his cousin reminded him, cynically.

"Oh, that's different!" he replied, vaguely. "I've set my heart on getting her now, and I could never get over it, if I failed. Look here, Cousin Carrie," leaning toward her, his bright, dark eyes full of tender pleading, "help me, won't you? Speak a good word for me to her. I'm not such a bad sort, am I?" wheedlingly. "I would make a nice young girl a good husband, wouldn't I, now?"

"Yes, Teddy, I believe you would."

"Then help me, won't you? It's not selfish in me, is it, to want to marry this poor girl who has been so strangely despoiled of home and fortune, and make up to her for all her cruel loss?"

He was deeply, romantically in earnest, and Mrs. Stone could not help admiring his nobility.

"No, Teddy, it's not selfish, for you are a good match, and I'll help you with sweet Kathleen, if I can. I used to be called a good match-maker in other days when I went more into society, and I'll exert my powers now for your benefit."

"Thank you over and over!" he exclaimed, fervently.

Thus in two homes in Boston plans were being made to keep Ralph Chainey and Kathleen apart. Teddy Darrell meant to marry his old sweetheart, if she was to be won, and Alpine Belmont was scheming to marry Ralph. These two hearts, that had gone out so tenderly in love to each other, seemed but footballs of fate, tossed relentlessly hither and thither. Well might Kathleen, tossing restlessly on her soft bed, wet the pillow with bitter, burning tears for her lost love—her false love, as she believed.

CHAPTER XXIX.

FEDORA'S ESCAPE.