Leonie, the Typewriter: A Romance of Actual Life

CHAPTER XXXIV.

Notwithstanding the extreme cordiality of her reception by Andrew Pryor, Leonie felt, naturally, some misgivings regarding the welcome she would receive from the feminine portion of the household.

She was, however, prepared for anything, and it was with a most thankful heart that she heard the exclamations of delight that were unanimous when she was seen at the door of the drawing-room in company with Mr. Pryor.

Doffing the ragged cap that covered her head, she smilingly received the welcome of Mrs. Pryor, followed by that of the young ladies, and grasped the hand of Miss Pyne with suspicious warmth as it was extended last.

"I don't know what we should do with you for giving us the fright that you have!" cried Mrs. Pryor, warmly. "I honestly think that Mr. Pryor has not slept a night since you left us so unceremoniously."

Leonie colored vividly, and even Mr. Pryor looked a trifle sheepish.

"Before you make any more such remarks as that, my dear," he exclaimed, laughingly, "you had better let me tell you the romance that clings to my private secretary! He is not a man at all, but a young woman who happens to be the first cousin of our little friend here, Miss Edith Pyne!"

If he intended to create a sensation, as of course he did, his object was achieved to its fullest extent.

There was not a word spoken in the room for many moments, Mrs. Pryor being the first to break the silence.

"But I don't understand it at all!" she cried. "Is not this Neil Lowell?"

Leonie stepped forward, her brow colored crimson.

"I don't think that I should have had the courage to face you after my deception, dear Mrs. Pryor," she said, timidly, "but for the cordiality of your husband. If you will allow me, when I have more time than now, I will explain to you the reason for my assuming male attire and passing myself off upon your kindness in a false light. I hope you will forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive, absolutely nothing! And you are really the cousin of Edith Pyne?"

"You read that remarkable story in the papers this morning, did you not?" cut in Mr. Pryor. "Well, this is the child of that marriage. You may be sure the papers will contain many sensational points to-morrow that they failed to get to-day, and New York will be more surprised than it has been for many days."

"I don't know what your name is, Neil Lowell," exclaimed Edith, with a merry laugh, "but I am very much pleased that you are my cousin, and before you take off your boy's clothes, I should like to kiss you!"

There was general merriment, of course, but Mrs. Pryor's next question put an end to it.

"And Miss Chandler," she said, "what had she to do with it?"

There was silence for a moment, then Andrew Pryor answered:

"This young lady is in haste to pay a call. While she goes to change her dress I will tell you all that! Gwen, or the one of you that is nearest your size, will furnish you with clothes, my dear, until your wardrobe can be changed. Run away now, and be back as quickly as you can."

Understanding the kindness of the intention, Leonie gave him a glance of gratitude, and followed the girls from the room.

Laughing, chatting, asking a hundred questions in as many seconds, they went on their way as though they had been friends for life, and it was with a heart filled with the sincerest of gratitude, that Leonie realized that she had found friends at last, friends who would never fail her in her bitter struggle with loneliness and isolation.

They soon found a gown that would fit, and not long afterward she announced to them that she must make her call at the hospital.

The carriage was ordered to the door, and she was driven away with as much ceremony and respect as though she were a member of the family, where she was in reality but a dependent.

But as she rode onward her thoughts fled from her own good fortune to that unhappy woman who had done so much to aid her in securing that which was more to her than her life, and a great sadness took possession of her.

How good God was to her, giving her name and friends when she had lost all hope, yet how far He seemed from that poor creature lying there knowing that she must die, and that the child whom she had so much loved had preceded her.

The beautiful eyes filled with tears as the carriage stopped.

She explained to the person in charge of the building who she was, and was admitted to the ward in which poor Liz lay upon one of the little, white-draped cots.

Very quietly Leonie approached her, and, kneeling beside the bed, kissed her upon the forehead.

"Don't you know me, Liz?" she asked gently.

The woman smiled feebly, making an effort to extend her hand.

"I did not until you spoke!" she answered weakly; "but nothing could ever cause me to forget that voice. You are Leonie; but how changed you are."

"Borrowed plumes make changes in us all! They have told you of the terrible things that happened last night, have they not, dear?"

"Yes; they came to take my statement—ante-mortem, I think they call it!"

"Oh, Liz! I hope it may not be true! Do not you know, dear, how we had planned to go away and live together? If you will only get well, Liz, we can do that now."

The smile upon the poor tired face deepened.

"That was before Dick died," she replied, with as much cheerfulness as a rapidly dying woman can express.

"But you would need me all the more now!"

"No. I shall never trouble any one again. God has been very good to me, after all, Leonie. He knew that I could never live without Dick, and he placed a means in my power without making me responsible for it. They tell me that I sprung out that window, but I have no remembrance of it, and I know that He will not hold me guilty. My boy is waiting for me, Leonie, just across the river, and when I close my eyes I can see him as distinctly as I can you, only that he is robbed of his deformity and his rags. It does not seem like little Dick, and yet I know that it is he. The Lord has sent him to help his mother safely over. I have not lived a guiltless life, Leonie, but for Dick's sake the Lord will forgive."

"And you are not afraid, Liz?" whispered Leonie, the awe of her tone making it extremely low.

"Afraid of my God?" returned the woman wonderingly. "Afraid of Heaven when I have known such torture here upon earth? Oh, no! I have been praying to God to have mercy upon Ben and send him repentance. That is my one torture now that I am dying. I have not forgotten you, dear, and I never shall; but here, just at the last, when I remember all the wickedness of his life, I do not see how God ever could forgive him!"

"And yet you can!"

"Upon that I found my hope. Oh, Leonie, it seems so sweet to know that it is all over and done with at last. All the old heartaches, the terror, the fear lest Ben should kill my poor, helpless baby. No one but God could ever know what a hideous nightmare it was, but it will be over now in a few hours at most. I hope you may be happy, my dear girl, and that we may meet in that heaven that is promised to us all."

"I almost wish that I could go with you," whispered Leonie, choking back her sobs. "There is so little of happiness here, and so much promised there. I know that I am ungrateful to Heaven for all the kind friends that have been sent me, but my mother is up there, Liz, and sometimes the desire is so strong upon me to see her and Dad, to be with them again, that I can scarcely control it."

"I had forgotten them. I shall see them before you will, dear."

"Yes, and if you can deliver them a message for me, tell them that I ought to be happy, that I am ungrateful, but that the whole craving of my heart is to be with them and with God. Tell them that I have and shall do only what I believe they would advise and wish me to do. Oh, Liz, I wish that I might go with you!"

There was something curiously touching in that scene, so simple and yet so explicit in its faith. There was not the smallest doubt in the heart of either.

The dying woman reached up her arms and clasped them about the girlish neck.

"Not yet, dear," she whispered. "Life should hold many things that are precious to one so beautiful and so good as you. Heaven has not forgotten you. Only trust it all to God. But when the good days come, do not forget Him in your enjoyment. Remember that the hour that I am awaiting almost impatiently now must come to you at last."

Leonie was weeping softly. Her very heart seemed breaking.

She had never seemed so utterly alone since that night upon which her grandfather had left her to battle with life alone.

The friends she had left seemed to count as nothing in that hour.

She could scarcely control an hysterical sobbing, but for Liz's sake she knew she must.

She lay there with her head upon the dying woman's pillow, the feeble hands straying softly over the short hair from which the hat had fallen.

Suddenly the motion ceased.

There were a few whispered words that Leonie did not catch, then a hand was placed gently upon her shoulder.

She lifted her head and saw beside her an attendant—a sweet-faced, low-voiced woman.

"It is all over!" she whispered reverently.

With a horrified expression, Leonie gazed at the face upon the pillow.

A peaceful smile hovered upon it. The lips were open, and a dimple rested in the left cheek as it had been in girlhood.

"Liz!" Leonie whispered, "Liz!"

But there was no answer.

She slipped from beneath the hand that the attendant had laid upon her arm, and fell to the floor, her bright, beautiful head falling across Liz's bosom.

Most tenderly she was lifted and carried from the room.

CHAPTER XXXV.

"Lynde is down-stairs, asking for you, Leonie. I don't think you are well enough to see him, but Mr. Pryor insisted that I should ask you. What shall I say to him, dear?"

Edith Pyne bent and kissed her cousin affectionately, as she asked the question, and Leonie's eyes filled with tears. Kindness had never seemed to affect her so much as since the death of poor Liz, and she had never received more of it. They all seemed to vie with each other in their attempts to do most to make her comfortable, and in consequence kept her in a state bordering on hysteria.

"I will go down to see him, of course," she returned, with a little quiet smile. "You are all too good to me. You will make a perfect baby of me if this continues."

She arose, and assisted by Edith, made her way down-stairs; but at the door of the library the support was withdrawn, and she was left to enter alone.

She did not notice the fact, as she thought she should find all the family gathered there, if she thought of it at all; but she seemed to understand when she saw that the room contained Lynde Pyne alone.

A dainty crimson overspread her face, but controlling her timidity, she entered and quietly placed her hand in the one extended.

Lynde drew her down beside him upon a sofa before either of them spoke.

"I expected to see you more exhausted, after the trying scenes through which you have passed," he said gently. "I am pleased to see you looking so well."

"Edith and the rest have been trying to persuade me that I was in a fit state for rapid decline, or nervous prostration," she answered, with an attempt at lightness. "It is quite a relief to hear you say to the contrary."

"Not at all. I never saw you look better."

"I am sorry that I cannot say the same for you. You seem harrassed, haggard. Tell me, will you not, how things are going? I have been so anxious to know; but no one knew, or if they did, refused to tell me."

"It has distressed me! I never knew how few friends I had until now. I cannot procure the amount of bail required for—Evelyn, and surely you know what the result of that will be. She is in the Tombs in a state of mind bordering upon insanity. I know that I should not tell you this, and yet, you may be able to help me. The men whom I have accounted my friends refuse to go on the bond for me, saying that she would but escape, and I should be left with an amount to pay that would ruin me, as, of course, I have offered to make the amount good in the event of an accident. Even Mr. Pryor swears at me when I insist upon it that he must do as I say. But if you would speak to him the effect might be different."

"It is so good of you to take this interest in her. If there is anything that I can do, you may be sure that I will with all my heart. Oh, Lynde, I tried so hard to spare her. I entreated her to see the condition in which she was placing herself, but she would not. Why, upon the night that we were all arrested, I told her of the papers that were in my possession—papers that I had no wish should ever come before the public. I did not even ask her to resign her position as the daughter of Leonard Chandler, but I could not see her become your wife knowing that she was a—— I cannot say the word. The thought of it is hideous to me!"

"But it has not released me from my promise, Leonie."

"What! You would not marry her now?"

"I must."

"You are mad!"

"I sometimes think I am going mad! She holds the most solemn pledge from me that man could give to woman, and I have not the power to break it. But let us leave this subject! It is not a safe one for you and me to speak upon. You will do what you can with Mr. Pryor?"

"I will."

"There was another thing that I wished to speak to you about. I have engaged one of my friends, a lawyer of considerable prominence, to examine the original records and prove that your mother's marriage to Ben Mauprat was not legal, in order that your claim to the fortune your father left may not admit of question. It may be rather painful for you, but be assured that all will be done to spare your feelings that can be. You will trust me for that, will you not?"

"I don't think I quite understand you. You say that you have engaged a lawyer for me?"

"Yes."

"To prove my claim to the fortune your uncle left?"

"To the fortune your father left."

"No one can lay a claim to that in my name without my sanction, can they?"

"Of course not."

"And I have authorized no one to do it. I have already said that I have no right to that money, and no intention of having it! It is yours, and yours it shall remain."

He looked at her a moment in stupefied silence, then placed his hand very gently on hers.

"And you think that I am so little a man that I would receive what is yours by every right under Heaven? You think that I would rob a girl to enrich myself?"

She lifted her sweet eyes pleadingly.

"It is not that!" she cried earnestly. "It was never meant for me, and I should always feel that I was using that to which I had no right, that I was living upon charity so to speak! It would eternally hang like a stone about my neck, dragging me to a premature death. You must not ask me to do it, Lynde, for indeed I cannot!"

"But consider, dear; even were I to do the contemptible thing you wish, your heirs could one day come forward and demand their rights of me, and there is not a law under the sun that would not give it to them. You see I should but become a trustee, after all, responsible in the years to come for that of which, very likely, I should not take the best of care. There is nothing for it, Leonie, but for you to accept that which is yours by every right, and of which you have been robbed so long."

Her lovely face had grown almost sullen.

A slow, determined light was burning in her eyes, her hand loosened itself from his, and she arose slowly to her feet.

"If that is all that you have come to say, let me settle it with you as I have with Mr. Pryor, who has ceased to bother me upon the subject. I will not touch one cent of that money. I did not sell my sister to a prison for the sake of gaining a few paltry dollars, and I will not have it appear even to myself that I did. If there were no other reason than that, it would still be enough."

Lynde arose and stood before her.

His face was deadly pale and quivering with the suppression he was putting upon himself, but he was very quiet, for all that.

"It seems too absurd," he said slowly, "for us to be standing here fighting like two children over who shall and who shall not have the money. Your argument is unreasonable. You might as well say that I am selling my cousin to a prison in that I contemplate prosecuting him for the concealment of his knowledge in this affair. There is just one thing that I wish to say to you, and that is that I shall never touch a dollar of the money which no more belongs to me than it does to Evelyn Chandler. If you wish Luis Kingsley to have possession of it, a man who until a few days ago, was a stranger to you, why, I have nothing to say."

She looked at him for some time incredulously, then:

"You don't really mean that!" she exclaimed. "You would never do anything so mad!"

"It contains less of madness than the absurdity you contemplate. I swear to you that I do mean it. I will never touch it!"

She hesitated a moment, her eyes filling with tears, then went a step toward him, laying her hand upon his arm timidly.

"At least we can come to a compromise, Cousin Lynde," she said, with strong emphasis upon the relationship. "The money was left to you; you say it is mine by right of my unfortunate birth, which never was intended. Very well! I will agree to accept one-half if you will take the other. Surely you can see the justice in that! I tell you frankly, that if you refuse, Luis Kingsley may have the money!"

He saw that she meant it.

If he only could have said to her what was in his heart! If he only had had the privilege to propose to her the compromise that was hovering upon his lips, he would have felt himself the happiest of men, but honor closed his lips.

He had not answered her, when Andrew Pryor entered.

"Well!" he exclaimed, "what understanding have you two arrived at?"

"None!" returned Leonie, turning to him, desperately. "Oh, sir, I wish you would make him see that I am right and he is wrong! I wish you would make him understand how impossible it is for me to do as he thinks I should! You see it as I do, do you not? At least he should take half!"

"That seems to me fair enough, Lynde, unless you could name a different compromise!"

He laughed as the remark was made, but would have recalled it if he could, when he saw the expression of both countenances.

"You must give me time to think of it!" cried Pyne, speaking hastily, to cover his confusion. "That is a proposition that I never thought of before. I will call about it to-morrow; and in the meantime, Leonie, see what you can do about the other matter that I spoke to you of, will you not?"

She was about to reply, when the door opened to admit a servant, followed by a messenger.

"For Mr. Pyne!" the servant announced, handing the brownish envelope to Lynde.

"Have I your permission?" asked Pyne, glancing from Leonie to Mr. Pryor, as he held the message in his hand.

Receiving their permission, he tore the end off and read hastily. A frown contracted his brow; then, with the ghastliness of death covering his face, he read it aloud:

"Dear Pyne,—A message just came for you from the Tombs to the effect that a terrible thing has happened there, and your presence is desired at once. From all accounts you need not distress yourself further about bail for your fair client. I send this to Mr. Pryor's in the hope that it may find you.

"Yours in haste,

"Downing."

Neither of the distressed listeners spoke until he had reached the door to answer the imperative call. Then, with a bound, Leonie was beside him.

"If anything has happened you will let me know, will you not?" she asked, her voice not more than a whisper. "You know what I mean. I should like to see her before——"

"Let us hope that it is nothing of that kind!" returned Lynde, his throat seeming to close over the words. "Surely God will give her time for repentance!"

CHAPTER XXXVI.

The drive from the residence of Andrew Pryor to the Tombs was a long one, and almost an hour had elapsed from the time of his leaving there until Lynde Pyne arrived at the big, gloomy prison.

He went at once to the official there, and told of the summons that had been sent him.

Then it was that he heard the story of what had happened.

Miss Chandler had stuck a knife through her throat!

Where she had procured it, no one was able to say, but certain it was that the deed had been done, and that she had been removed to the prison hospital.

With set face and anxious heart, Lynde made his way to that quarter that he had visited more than once in his practice, a visit that had always been attended with horror, but now a thousand times more than ever.

He was shown to the cot whereon the once famous beauty rested, her drawn face now whiter than the drapery of her cot.

The eyes were closed, the sheet pulled up so that none of the disfiguring bandages about the shapely throat could be seen.

"Is she sleeping?" he asked of the physician who stood beside him.

"One can never tell. She lies like that all the time, and will answer no questions that are put to her."

"Will she—live?"

"Oh, yes! There is no reason why she should not! At first I was very positive it would be a fatal case, but we succeeded in stanching the blood sooner than I hoped for. She has lost a great deal however, and could not have stood much more. We have to watch her all the time, however, for fear she will attempt it again, and another opening of the artery would certainly prove fatal."

"Have I your permission to speak to her if she will answer me?"

"Certainly, only you must be careful that she does not exert herself in the very least. Keep her in exactly the position that she now is, and if the slightest thing should happen, I will be within call. If she should take it into her head to talk to you, do not allow her to utter more than a few words at a time and those very softly; you understand?"

"I think so."

"I shall be only out of earshot."

He walked away as he finished speaking, and Lynde took the chair beside Evelyn's bed. Her eyes opened almost at once.

"He said that I should not die," she said slowly, and with great difficulty of articulation, "but he lied! I will die. When a woman is determined upon a thing like that, there are not men enough in the world to prevent it."

"You must not say that, dear," exclaimed Lynde, gently. "He only wants to save your life for your own good. I think I have succeeded in securing bail for you, and you must get well now in order that we can determine what is best to do for you."

"From whom did you get it?" she stammered, faintly.

"From—your sister, whose deepest sympathy you have."

"Leonie?"

The word was a gasp, the expression of the countenance set with horror.

"Yes," he answered.

"Never!" she cried, as vehemently as the circumstances would allow. "Do you think I would owe my liberty to her? Not if I died like a dog, as I shall! You have all forsaken me and lied to me. You who pretended that you would protect me above every one upon earth. Do you think I did not know that you were not trying to get bail for me? You thought that you could deceive me until you succeeded in having me sentenced to the penitentiary, and then you would do as you liked. You would leave me and marry her. Well, I decided that I would not go there. I knew that there was but one way to save myself from it, and I took that means. That old fool told you just now that I should get well. I tell you that I shall not, and you and my dear sister"—with a disfiguring sneer—"may look upon yourselves as my murderers! Why did she not come here with you? I want to tell her before I die the price that she has paid for her husband."

"Evelyn, for God's sake think what you are saying! You know that Leonie is not guilty of your horrible charge!"

"She is guilty of that and more. But for her I should have been at home and happy now, but she thought that I was the fortunate one, and she thrust herself upon me, determining that she would rob me of everything that made life a joy. She has succeeded. Go and bring her here! I want her to see the result of it all! I want to see her glory in her own work here before my eyes before I die! I want her to see what a thing she has made of her sister, and I want her to know that my blood rests upon her head."

"If you do not cease this, I shall call the physician and leave you!" Lynde exclaimed almost angrily.

"Will you bring her here?"

"No! I most emphatically will not!"

"Then I shall ask the doctor."

"It would be useless, for I should decline to allow her to come!"

He was unprepared for what followed his speech.

Before he could catch her, or in any way stay the mad act, she had leaped from her cot upon the opposite side from him, and had torn the bandages from her throat, then catching her finger in the stitches that held the long wound together, she ripped them open.

Only insanity could have given her the courage to have accomplished an act so deliberate in its atrocity.

Pyne uttered a gasp of horror and sat still as though paralyzed. The doctor, from the other side of the room, saw the act.

Like a flash he sprung up and rushed desperately after her; but she eluded him, a laugh like the fiendish yell of an infuriated animal sounding upon the stillness of the room. It seemed to arouse Lynde.

He leaped to his feet, and together they succeeded in catching her and forcing her down upon the cot, where she was bound; but it required their united strength to do it, and then only when the floor and bed-clothing were saturated with blood.

"She is a raving maniac!" the doctor ejaculated, pausing to wipe the perspiration from his brow.

Bound as she was, the hideous laughter continued to fall from her rapidly paling lips.

"Quick!" he exclaimed to Lynde. "Go for assistance. Tell some one to bring my surgical instruments. There is not a moment to lose!"

But the moment had already passed.

The horrible laughter grew fainter and fainter, and at last ceased altogether.

The struggling grew weaker, and she lay very quietly when they leaned over her again.

She had fainted, but it was a swoon from which she never recovered.

They sat there beside her, doing what mortal men could do to restore her, but to no purpose.

The end came without a return to consciousness something like half an hour later.

"It is much better that it should have been so," the physician said consolingly. "She very likely would never have recovered her mental faculties, and even had she, the horror of an awakening would have been worse than death. She was too frail of constitution ever to have endured the tortures of prison life."

"But to die like that without a prayer for mercy!" murmured Lynde, shudderingly.

"It would never have been different. If you grieve, my dear boy, you are very foolish. The kindest act God ever performed for her was in allowing her to die."

"Can it be kept from the papers?" asked Lynde, after a long pause.

"I am afraid not. Her last words you alone heard, consequently they rest with you, but the manner of her death must of course be reported, and the papers will naturally want the conclusion of so startling a story. I suspected that it would be something like this, for I believed the act to be that of a lunatic in the beginning. My belief is that she has been insane for years, though that, and the manner of her obtaining the knife with which the deed was done, must forever remain a mystery."

"It is more charitable to believe it so."

"God help her, it is her one chance in eternity. I hope that it may have been so."

Deep in his heart Lynde uttered a solemn "Amen!"

If he could not profoundly regret an occurrence that had rid his life of a contemplation that was more hideous than death, he was not to blame, for he had tried to do his duty nobly, though only he himself could have told what a frightful prospect it contained.

Very gently he told the story to Leonie, concealing in his own heart that which he knew would cause her the greatest sorrow.

He told her that her sister had died violently insane, because he believed there would be a germ of comfort in the knowledge.

She was deeply affected, not because there had ever been, or could ever have been any affection between them, but because there were no words of forgiveness, and because she blamed herself to a great extent for the untimely end and the grewsome circumstances that led to it.

"There is one thing more," she said sadly, when the subject had been talked over for some time. "Mr. and Mrs. Chandler should be told. In spite of all, I feel that the death will strike them very closely home, and either you or I must tell them, Lynde. Don't you think so?"

"Perhaps you are right. They knew of my relations with her, and Mr. Chandler is not kindly disposed toward me. It might be better for you, though I will not ask it if you had rather not."

"I will go. It should be done now, don't you think?"

"Yes. If left until to-morrow, the papers will do it for us. God bless you, Leonie."

She hurried from the room quickly, that he might not see the tears that had gathered in her eyes.

She was not altogether unhappy.

She knew so well how much that death meant to her, but she tried to put that thought from her.

It was her sister who was dead—her sister whom, if she had not loved her, was yet her mother's child.

Then, for the first time, the horrible remembrance came to her.

In the place where the mother had died, the daughter who had despised her memory followed.

She sat down half paralyzed under the fearful thought that, after all, it was the "retribution" of which the old Mosaic law has spoken.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

Leonie had returned from her visit to the Chandlers.

Her eyes showed traces of weeping, and her countenance contained the radiant glow of a saint that has received the gift of righteousness through suffering.

Mr. and Mrs. Pryor, and the Misses Pryor, together with Lynde and Edith Pyne, were in the library awaiting her, and as she entered she was warmly greeted, and a comfortable chair placed for her.

"You look tired and worn, dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Pryor, with motherly kindness. "I think it would be much better for you to go up-stairs and take a much-needed rest, than allow yourself to be tormented by these careless young people."

"I had rather remain, if you will allow me," returned Leonie, meekly. "I don't think I could rest, and I should not like to be alone. This is ever so much better, where I can feel what kind friends and true the Lord has sent me in my loneliness."

"And Leonard Chandler!" cut in Mr. Pryor, unable to curb his curiosity. "What did he say?"

"I cannot tell you how deeply he feels it all!" exclaimed Leonie, sadly. "I think, had he been her father, his grief could not have been greater. He feels that to a great extent he is blamable for what has occurred. Mrs. Chandler is almost in hysteria. She was under the care of the physician when I left. Evelyn's conduct is all the more remarkable to me, when I think of the loving tenderness that must have been hers in the home of her adoption. My heart has ached until it has seemed almost breaking. Mr. Chandler has asked my permission to have the body removed at once to his house, and buried from there."

"And you gave it?"

"Certainly; what right had I compared with theirs, even had I chosen to press my claim? They were so kind to me! Why, it seemed almost as though they were accepting me in her stead. When I was leaving Mrs. Chandler clasped her arms about my neck, and with tears streaming over her face said: 'You must fill her place, dear. Remember that I shall have no daughter now. My heart and home will both be empty. You must fill the vacancy that her death has left!' I don't know what I have done that so many friends should be given me, just at the time when I fancied myself most alone!"

"It is very nice of the Chandlers, indeed!" cried Mr. Pryor, dryly. "I don't doubt in the least but that it would be charming for them to have you take their daughter's place, but there are others who have a 'pryor' claim, eh, Lucretia?"

He smiled over his little joke, and Mrs. Pryor nodded her head approvingly.

"Do you realize, girls," she said, sweetly, "that it is less than an hour until dinner? Remember your father's horror of a cold dinner, and take yourselves away to dress at once!"

There was a general movement in obedience to the command, but as Leonie was about to follow them, she felt a hand placed very gently upon her arm.

"Won't you wait a minute, please?" Lynde asked, half timidly. "I shall detain you only a few seconds."

She tried to prevent the crimson from rushing over her face as she felt it doing, but the effort was without avail.

The others passed from the room as though they had not observed the aside.

"There were a few questions that I wanted to ask you about the—funeral," Lynde stammered, when they were alone and the door had been closed. "I thought, perhaps, you might not care to have it talked of before the others. Will Mr. and Mrs. Chandler attend to everything, or do you do it?"

"They wished it all to be just as though none of this horrible recent past had taken place. They believe with me that she has been insane for years."

"That is all, then. And, Leonie, something must be done about that will very soon. When can you give me an hour to speak of that?"

"Oh, Lynde, why do you torture me with that old question? You know that I will never have anything to do with it. But there is one thing that I wish you would do. Where is the necessity for prosecuting that poor man, Luis Kingsley? Surely losing all his fortune is punishment enough for what he has done."

He looked at her curiously a moment, and said:

"But I must do it if that will is admitted to probate. There is just one way that he can be saved, and that is for you to make your claim to the money, and prove it valid. Otherwise he must suffer."

He knew that she was not sufficiently a lawyer to know whether he was telling the truth or not, and he also knew that, under the circumstances, the point he had made was a strong one.

She gazed at him a moment; then her lips began to tremble, and her eyes filled with tears.

She turned away from him hastily, but not before he had seen, and the sight was too much for him.

A man can never endure to see a woman in tears, and most particularly not a woman whom he loves.

One quick step forward, an extension of the arms, and she was taken to his breast.

"I know that I am a criminal to tell you of my love while that poor girl lies dead in that dreadful place!" he exclaimed, contritely. "But what am I to do? The temptation has overpowered me. After all, she never loved me, and she knew that I did not love her, therefore the circumstances cannot be the same. Leonie, darling, I do not ask if you will be my wife, because I know you will! You have never endeavored to conceal from me that you love me, and through all the wretched past that has been my single consolation. Tell me that I have not been wrong, sweetheart!"

She was weeping softly, but they were tears of relief.

"Why did you wish to distress me about the will when you knew that it would be compromised in that way?" she asked, a little smile rippling through the tears. "Oh, Lynde, it has been such weary, hopeless waiting. I cannot realize that there are really no barriers between us now. There was a time when I would rather have died than have you know the shame that rested upon my mother's name, but after all the fault was not hers, and it would seem to me now that concealment meant shame upon her memory. Tell me that you do not despise me for it, dear?"

He laughed a little, holding her all the closer.

"Do I look as though I despised you for anything, or could despise you for anything under God's heaven?" he asked tenderly. "My darling, you have come to me through grief and suffering, but you are mine at last, thank Heaven, and all the more precious because of the waiting and the misery."

She lifted her face and allowed him to kiss her after the weary restraint of months.

In that kiss, they seemed to live again through the weary, hideous time that had intervened since their meeting, and it was with a thankfulness to God that neither of them could have expressed that they realized it was over and done with forever.

"If Dad could only know how happy I am in spite of all the sorrow I have known!" muttered Leonie. "Dear old Dad, if he could only have lived to see his little girl as she is now! But surely up there with God he knows it all, and the joy with my mother is as great as mine!"

She gazed up at her young, handsome lover fondly.

"I hope we will not be punished for our happiness, Lynde," she said slowly. "It seems dreadful when one thinks of——"

She hesitated, and he closed her lips with a caress.

"There can be no wrong in the love that God has given, my dearest!" he whispered. "Why should we try to conceal what our whole hearts are crying aloud?"

She made no attempt to answer him, but allowed him to comfort her, now that the long wait was ended.

She had made no move to leave when Mr. Pryor entered.

"Have you two effected your compromise yet?" he questioned dryly.

Leonie colored guiltily.

"We have, sir!" returned Lynde, with manly quiet and dignity. "Under the circumstances that exist, we wish the matter to remain our secret for the present, or rather that of the family. Perhaps we have been premature, but——"

"Nonsense. You would have been foolish not to have taken advantage of the opportunity that God made for you especially. I congratulate you both with all my heart. I have never had anything make me happier, and I am sure all the rest of the family will join me."

There is little remaining to be told.

Luis Kingsley was not prosecuted for the felonious concealment of a will. He was released from prison, and shortly after disappeared from the country. No one knew where he went, and presumably no one cared enough to inquire. He was as utterly dead to Lynde and Leonie as though the grave were between them.

Ben Mauprat was sentenced to two years in the penitentiary for assault with intent to kill, with a charge of complicity in a robbery hanging over his head upon his release. But the chances are that he will never be prosecuted upon that charge.

Leonie entered her claim to the estate simply to prove the legality of her mother's marriage, and won the case, against the man who was to become her husband shortly afterward.

It occasioned considerable merriment among Lynde's friends, but there were none of them who did not envy him the "romance of the thing," as they termed it.

They are very happy, Lynde and Leonie. They are regular visitors at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Chandler, where Leonie is petted and made much of, while the home of the Pryors will be hers until after her nuptials shall have been celebrated.

And so the story ends as does all life, with the reward of virtue and the punishment of vice.

"Every man's life is a fairy-tale written by God's fingers."

[THE END.]