"Gardiner!"

The name fairly took Bernardine's breath away, for it was the name bestowed upon her by the young man who had wedded and deserted her within an hour.

The very sight of it made her heart grow sick and faint. Still, it held a strange fascination for her. She turned to look at it again—to study it closely, to see how it appeared in print, when, to her amazement, she caught the name "Jay Gardiner" in a column immediately adjoining it.

She glanced up at the head-lines, and as she did so, the very breath seemed to leave her body.

It was a sketch of life at Newport by a special correspondent, telling of the gayety that was going on among the people there, particularly at the Ocean House. Nearly, half a column was given to extolling the beauty of young Mrs. Gardiner, née Sally Pendleton, the bride of Doctor Jay Gardiner, her diamonds, her magnificent costumes, and smart turn-outs.

The paper fell from Bernardine's hands. She did not faint, or cry out, or utter any moan; she sat there quite still, like an image carved in stone. Jay Gardiner was at Newport with his bride!

The words seemed to have scorched their way down to the very depths of her soul and seared themselves there. Jay Gardiner was at Newport with his bride!

What, then, in Heaven's name was she?

Poor Bernardine! It seemed to her in that moment that she was dying.

Had he played a practical joke upon her? Was the marriage which she had believed in so fully no marriage at all?

She had no certificate.

It was scarcely an hour from the time the matron had left her until she returned; but when she did so, she cried out in alarm, for Bernardine's face was of an ashen pallor, her dark eyes were like coals of fire, and her hands were cold as death. The matron went up to her in great alarm, and gently touched the bowed head.

"Bernardine," she murmured, gently—"Bernardine, my poor child, are you ill? What has happened?"

After some little correspondence back and forth, Bernardine was accepted by the lady, and in a fortnight more she was able to make the journey.

The matron went down to the depot with her, to see her off, and prayed that the girl would not change her mind ere she reached her destination.

The train moved off, and she waved her handkerchief to the sweet, sad, tear-stained face pressed close to the window-pane until a curve in the road hid it from her sight; then she turned away with a sigh.

Bernardine fell back in her seat, not caring whether or not she lived to reach her destination.

It was almost dusk when the train reached the lovely little village of Lee, nestling like a bird's nest amid the sloping green hills.

Bernardine stepped from the car, then stood quite still on the platform, and looked in bewilderment around her.

Mrs. Gardiner had written that she would send a conveyance to the station to meet her; but Bernardine saw none.

While she was deliberating as to whether she should inquire the way to the Gardiner place of the station agent, that individual suddenly turned out the lights in the waiting-room, and in an instant had jumped on a bicycle and dashed away, leaving Bernardine alone in a strange place.

At that moment, a man stepped briskly beneath the swinging light. One glance, and she almost swooned from horror.

The man was Jasper Wilde!

CHAPTER XLIII.

As he uttered the words, he wheeled about, hurried down the platform, and stepped into the darkness, the sound of his quick tread plainly dying away in the distance.

It seemed to Bernardine that her escape from the clutches of Jasper Wilde was little short of miraculous. Trembling in every limb, she stepped out from behind the large pillar which shielded her.

He had not come by the same train; he did not know she was here. But what caused him to come to this place to look for Jay Gardiner and his bride? Perhaps it was because he had learned in some way that a family named Gardiner resided here, and he had come out of his way only to discover that they were not one and the same.

While Bernardine was ruminating over this, she saw the short, thick-set figure of a man approaching.

Should she advance or retreat? She felt sure he had seen her. He stopped quite short and looked at her.

"Surely you can't be Miss Moore?" he inquired, incredulously.

"Yes," replied Bernardine in a voice in which he detected tears.

The man muttered something under his breath which she did not quite catch.

"If you please, Miss, where is your luggage?"

"I—I have only this hand-bag," she faltered.

"Come this way, miss," he said; and Bernardine followed him, not without some misgiving, to the end of the platform from which Jasper Wilde had so recently disappeared.

Here she saw a coach in waiting, though she had not heard the sound of the horses' hoofs when they arrived there.

Then came a long ride over a level stretch of country. It was a great relief to Bernardine to see the moon come forth at last from a great bank of black clouds; it was a relief to see the surrounding country, the meadows, and the farm-houses lying here and there on either side of the steep road up which they went.

"Would the lady like her or be displeased with her?" she asked herself.

She determined to throw herself heart and soul into her work and try to forget the past—what might have been had her lover proved true, instead of being so cruelly false. Her red lips quivered piteously at the thought.

Her musings were brought to an end by the lumbering coach turning in at a large gate-way flanked by huge stone pillars, and proceeding leisurely up a wide road that led through a densely wooded park.

Very soon Bernardine beheld the house—a granite structure with no end of gables and dormer-windows—half hidden by climbing vines, which gave to the granite pile a very picturesque appearance just now, for the vines were literally covered with sweet-scented honeysuckles in full bloom.

Mrs. King, the housekeeper, received Bernardine.

"I hope you will like it here," she said, earnestly; "but it is a dull place for one who is young, and longs, as girls do, for gayety and life. You are too tired to see Mrs. Gardiner to-night after your long journey. I will show you to your room after you have had some tea."

The housekeeper was right in her surmise. It did look like an inexpressibly dreary place when Bernardine looked about at the great arched hall.

Grand old paintings, a century old, judging by their antiquated look, hung upon the walls. A huge clock stood in one corner, and on either side of it there were huge elk heads, with spreading antlers tipped with solid gold.

To add to the strangeness of the place, a bright log fire burned in a huge open fire-place, which furnished both light and heat to the main corridor.

"This fire is never allowed to burn out, either in summer or winter," the housekeeper explained, "because the great hall is so cold and gloomy without it."

While Bernardine was drinking her tea, a message came to her that Mrs. Gardiner would see her in her boudoir.

The housekeeper led the way through a long corridor, and when she reached the further end of it, she turned toward the right, and drawing aside the heavy crimson velvet portières, Bernardine was ushered into a magnificent apartment.

The windows were of stained glass, ornamented with rare pictures, revealed by the light shining through them from an inner room; the chandeliers, with their crimson globes, gave a deep red glow to the handsome furnishings and costly bric-a-brac. There was something about the room that reminded Bernardine of the pictures her imagination had drawn of Oriental boudoirs.

Her musings were interrupted by the sound of a haughty voice saying:

"Are you Miss Bernardine Moore?"

By this time Bernardine's eyes had become accustomed to the dim, uncertain light. Turning her head in the direction whence the sound proceeded, she saw a very grand lady, dressed in stiff, shining brocade satin, with rare lace and sparkling diamonds on her breast and fair hands, sitting in a crimson velvet arm-chair—a grand old lady, cold, haughty, and unbending.

"Yes, madame," replied Bernardine, in a sweet, low voice, "I am Miss Moore."

"You are a very much younger person than I supposed you to be from your letter, Miss Moore. Scarcely more than a child, I should say," she added, as she motioned Bernardine to a seat with a wave of the hand. "I will speak plainly," she went on, slowly. "I am disappointed. I imagined you to be a young lady of uncertain age—say, thirty or thirty-five. When a woman reaches that age, and has found no one to marry her, there is a chance of her becoming reconciled to her fate. I want a companion with whom I can feel secure. I do not want any trouble with love or lovers, above all. I would not like to get used to a companion, and have her leave me for some man. In fine, you see, I want one who will put all thought of love or marriage from her."

Bernardine held out her clasped hands.

"You need have no fear on that score, dear madame," she replied in a trembling tone. "I shall never love—I shall never marry. I—I never want to behold the face of a man. Please believe me and trust me."

"Since you are here, I may as well take you on trial," replied the grand old lady, resignedly. "Now you may go to your room, Miss Moore. You will come to me here at nine to-morrow morning," she said, dismissing Bernardine with a haughty nod.

The housekeeper had said she would find the room that had been prepared for her at the extreme end of the same corridor, and in groping her way to it in the dim, rose-colored light which pervaded the outer hall, she unconsciously turned in the wrong direction, and went to the right instead of the left.

The door stood ajar, and thinking the housekeeper had left it in this way for her, Bernardine pushed it open.

To her great astonishment, she found herself in a beautifully furnished sleeping apartment, upholstered in white and gold of the costliest description, and flooded by a radiance of brilliant light from a grand chandelier overhead.

But it was not the magnificent hangings, or the long mirrors, in their heavy gilt frames, that caught and held the girl's startled gaze.

It was a full-length portrait hanging over the marble mantle, and it startled her so that she uttered a low cry, and clasped her little hands together as children do when uttering a prayer.

Her reverie lasted only for a moment. Then she drifted back to the present. She was in this strange house as a companion, and the first thing she came across was the portrait, as natural as life itself, of—Jay Gardiner!

A mad desire came over her to kneel before the picture and—die!

CHAPTER XLIV.

Bernardine was about to turn away with a few words of apology, but the housekeeper laid a detaining hand on her arm.

"Do not say that you found your way into this apartment, Miss Moore," she said, "or it might cause me considerable trouble. This is the only room in the house that is opened but once a year, and only then to air it.

"This is young master's room," went on the housekeeper, confidentially, "and when he left home, after quite a bitter scene with his mother, the key was turned in the lock, and we were all forbidden to open it. That is young master's portrait, and an excellent likeness it is of him, too.

"The whole house was recently thrown into consternation by a letter being received from him, saying that he was about to bring home his bride. His mother and sister took his marriage very much to heart. The bride is beautiful, we hear; but, as is quite natural, I suppose his mother thinks a queen on her throne would have been none too good for her handsome son.

"My lady has had very little to say since learning that he would be here on the 20th—that is to-morrow night; and his sister, Miss Margaret, is equally as silent.

"I think it will be better to give you another room than the one I had at first intended," said Mrs. King. "Please follow me, and I will conduct you to it."

Bernardine complied, though the desire was strong upon her to fly precipitately from the house, and out into the darkness of the night—-anywhere—anywhere, so that she might escape meeting Jay Gardiner and his bride.

Up several flights of carpeted polished stairs, through draughty passages, along a broad corridor, down another passage, then into a huge, gloomy room, Bernardine followed her, a war of conflicting emotions surging through her heart at every step.

"You have plenty of room, you see," said the housekeeper, lighting the one gas-jet the apartment contained.

"Plenty!" echoed Bernardine, aghast, glancing about her in dismay at the huge, dark, four-poster bed in a far-off corner, the dark dresser, which seemed to melt into the shadows, and the three darkly outlined windows, with their heavy draperies closely drawn, that frowned down upon her.

"You must not be frightened if you hear odd noises in the night. It's only mice. This is the old part of the mansion," said the housekeeper, turning to go.

"Am I near any one else?" asked Bernardine, her heart sinking with a strange foreboding which she could not shake off.

"Not very near," answered the housekeeper.

"Would no one hear me if I screamed?" whispered Bernardine, drawing closer to her companion, as though she would detain her, her frightened eyes burning like two great coals of fire.

"I hope you will not make the experiment, Miss Moore," returned the housekeeper, impatiently. "Good-night," and with that she is gone, and Bernardine is left—alone.

The girl stands quite still where the housekeeper has left her long after the echo of her footsteps has died away.

She is in his home, and he is coming here with his bride! Great God! what irony of fate led her here?

Her bonnet and cloak are over her arm.

"Shall I don them, and fly from this place?" she asks herself over and over again.

But her tired limbs begin to ache, every nerve in her body begins to twitch, and she realizes that her tired nature has endured all it can. She must stay here, for the night at least.

Despite the fatigue of the previous night, Bernardine awoke early the next morning, and when the housekeeper came to call her, she found her already dressed.

"You are an early riser, Miss Moore," she said. "That is certainly a virtue which will commend itself to my mistress, who rises early herself. You will come at once to her boudoir. Follow me, Miss Moore."

She reached Mrs. Gardiner's boudoir before she was aware of it, so intent were her thoughts. That lady was sitting at a small marble table, sipping a cup of very fragrant coffee. A small, very odorous broiled bird lay on a square of browned toast on a silver plate before her. She pushed it aside as Bernardine entered.

"Good-morning, Miss Moore," she said, showing a trifle more kindliness than she had exhibited on the previous evening; "I hope you rested well last night. Sit down."

Bernardine complied; but before she could answer these commonplace, courteous remarks, an inner door opened, and a lady, neither very young nor very old, entered the room.

"Good-morning, mamma," she said; and by that remark Bernardine knew that this was Jay's sister.

She almost devoured her with eager eyes, trying to trace a resemblance in her features to her handsome brother.

"Margaret, this is my new companion, Miss Moore," said Mrs. Gardiner, languidly.

Bernardine blushed to the roots of her dark hair, as two dark-blue eyes, so like Jay's, looked into her own.

"Welcome to Gardiner Castle, Miss Moore," replied Margaret Gardiner.

She did not hold out her hand, but she looked into the startled young face with a kindly smile and a nod. Whatever her thoughts were in regard to her mother's companion, they were not expressed in her face.

A score of times during the half hour that followed, Bernardine tried to find courage to tell Mrs. Gardiner that she must go away; that she could not live under that roof and meet the man she loved, and who was to bring home a bride.

But each time the words died away on her lips. Then suddenly, she could not tell how or when the feeling entered her heart, the longing came to her to look upon the face of the young girl who had gained the love she would have given her very life—ay, her hope of heaven—to have retained.

CHAPTER XLV.

Poor, hapless Bernardine could have cried aloud as she listened. What would that proud lady-mother and that haughty sister say if they but knew how he had tricked her into a sham marriage, and abandoned her then and there? Oh, would they feel pity for her, or contempt?

The servants, in livery, had taken their posts; everything was in readiness now to welcome the five hundred guests that were to arrive in advance of the bridal pair.

In her boudoir, the grand old lady-mother, resplendent in ivory-satin, rare old point lace and diamonds, was viewing herself critically in the long pier-glass that reached from ceiling to floor. Her daughter Margaret stood near her, arrayed in satin and tulle, with pearls white as moonbeams lying on her breast, clasping her white throat and arms, and twined among the meshes of her dark hair.

The contrast made poor Bernardine look strangely out of place in her plain gray cashmere dress, with its somber dark ribbons.

"You look quite tired, Miss Moore. I would suggest that you go into the grounds for a breath of fresh air before the guests arrive. Then I shall want you here," said Miss Gardiner, noticing how very white and drawn the girl's face looked.

Oh, how thankful she was to get away from them—away from the sight of the pomp and the splendor—to cry her heart out, all alone, for a few moments! With a grateful murmured "Thank you," she stepped from the long French window out on to the porch and down the private stair-way into the grounds.

Margaret Gardiner stepped to the window, drew aside the heavy lace curtains, and watched the dark, slim figure until it was lost to sight among the grand old oak-trees.

It seemed to Bernardine that she had escaped just in time, for in another instant she would have cried out with the pain at her heart, with the awful agony that had taken possession of her.

One by one grand coaches began to roll up the long white road, turn in at the great stone gate-way, and rattle smartly up the serpentine drive to the broad porch.

Then they commenced to arrive scores at a time, and the air was filled with the ringing hoofs of hundreds of horses, the voices of coachmen and grooms, and the gay sound of laughter.

The din was so great no one heard the solitary little figure among the trees crying out to Heaven that she had counted beyond her strength in remaining there to witness the home-coming of the man she loved and his bride.

Suddenly she heard the sound of her own name.

"Miss Moore! Miss Moore! Where are you?" called one of the maids. "My lady is asking for you!"

"Tell your mistress I shall be there directly."

"Dear me! what an odd creature that Miss Moore is!" thought the maid, as she flew back to the house. "Instead of being in the house, enjoying the music and the grand toilets of the aristocracy that's here to-night, she's out in the loneliest part of the grounds. But, dear me! what an amazing goose I am to be sure. She must have a lover with her, and in that case the grove's a paradise. Too bad my lady was so imperative. I would have pretended that I couldn't find her—just yet."

Bernardine stooped down, and wetting her handkerchief in the brook, laved her face with it.

She dared not approach the grand old lady with her face swollen with tears, as she was sure it must be.

Bernardine found her quite beside herself with excitement.

"I heard the whistle of the incoming train some fifteen minutes ago, Miss Moore," she said. "My son has reached the station by this time. I have sent our fastest team down to meet him. He will be here at any moment. Ah! that is his step I hear now in the corridor! I am trembling so with excitement that I can hardly stand. Do not leave, Miss Moore. I may need you in case this meeting is too much for me and I should faint away in his strong arms."

The footsteps that Bernardine remembered so well came nearer.

She pressed her hand tightly over her heart to still its wild beating.

Bernardine could have cried aloud in her agony; but her white lips uttered no moan, no sound, even when the door was flung open and a tall, handsome form sprung over the threshold.

"Where are you, mother?" cried Jay Gardiner. "The room is so dark that I can not see where you are!"

The next moment the proud, stately old lady was sobbing on the breast of the son she idolized.

She forgot that in the shadow of the alcove stood her companion; she forgot the existence of every one save her darling boy, whom she clasped so joyfully.

Bernardine watched him herself, unseen, her whole heart in her eyes, like one turned into stone.

His handsome face was pale, even haggard; the dark hair, that waved back from the broad brow, was the same; but his eyes—those bonny, sunny, laughing blue eyes—were sadly changed. There was an unhappy look in them, a restless expression, deepening almost into despair. There was a story of some kind in his face, a repressed passion and fire, a something Bernardine could not understand.

"I am not alone, you must remember, mother, dear," he said in his deep, musical voice. "I have brought some one else for you to welcome. Look up and greet my wife, mother."

Slowly the grand old lady unwound her arms from about the neck of her handsome, stalwart son, and turned rather fearfully toward the slender figure by her side.

At that moment young Mrs. Gardiner took a step forward, which brought her in the full glow of the lamp, and as Bernardine gazed, her heart sunk within her.

She saw, as the lovely young stranger threw back her gray silk traveling-cloak, a slim, beautiful creature, with golden hair, round, dimpled face, flushed cheeks and lips, and the brightest of blue, sparkling eyes—a girl who looked like some dazzling picture painted by some old master, and who had just stepped out of a gilded frame. Her face was so lovely, that, as Bernardine gazed, her heart grew so heavy and strained with pain, that she thought it must surely break. She was the same girl who had visited her at her humble home.

The grand old lady took the haughty young beauty in her arms, calling her "daughter," and bidding her welcome to Gardiner Castle, her future home.

"Ah! no wonder the man I loved deserted me for this beautiful being all life, all sparkle, all fire," was the thought that rushed through Bernardine's breaking heart.

Then suddenly the old lady remembered her, and turned to her quickly, saying:

"Come forward, my dear girl. I wish to present my new companion to my son and his bride."

CHAPTER XLVI.

She had expected that Jay Gardiner would cry out in wonder or in anger when he saw her; that he would recognize her with some show of emotion. But he only looked at her, and then turned as carelessly away as any stranger might have done. And in that moment, as she stood there, the very bitterness of death passed over her.

Mrs. Gardiner's next remark called their attention completely away from her, for which she was most thankful.

"Dear me, how very selfish I am!" exclaimed the grand old lady, in dismay. "I had forgotten how time is flying. The guests will be wondering why you and your bride tarry so long, my dear boy. A servant will show you to your suite of rooms. Your luggage must have been already taken there. You will want to make your toilets. When you are ready to go down to the reception-room, let me know.

"Do not forget to wear all the Gardiner diamonds to-night, my dear," were the lady-mother's parting words. "Every one is expecting to see them on you. They are famous. You will create a sensation in them; you will bewilder, dazzle, and astonish these country folk."

Bernardine did not hear the young wife's reply. She would have given all she possessed to throw herself on her knees on the spot his feet had pressed and wept her very life out.

Ah! why had he wooed her in that never-to-be-forgotten past, made her love him, taken her heart from her, only to break it?

A moment later, Miss Margaret glided into the room and went straight up to her mother's side.

"I have just greeted and welcomed Jay and his bride, mamma," she said, speaking before her mother's companion quite as though she had not been present. But she paused abruptly as though she thought it best to cut the sentence short.

"Well," replied her mother, eagerly, "do you like Jay's bride, Margaret? You always form an opinion when you first meet a person, which usually proves to be correct."

"My brother does not look quite happy," replied Miss Margaret, slowly. "His bride is most beautiful—indeed, I have never met a young woman so strangely fascinating—but there is something about her that repels even while it draws me toward her."

"I experienced the same feeling, Margaret," returned Mrs. Gardiner. "But it seems to me only natural that we should experience such a sensation when looking upon the face of the woman who has taken first place in the heart of my only boy and your only brother. As to Jay not being quite happy, I think that is purely your imagination, Margaret. Theirs was a love match, and they are in the height of their honey-moon. Why should he not be happy, I ask you!"

"And I reply, mamma, that I do not know," replied Miss Margaret, thoughtfully. "It is simply the way the expression of his face and his manners struck me. But I must hurry down to our guests again. Will you accompany me, mamma, that we may both be together to receive them in the drawing-room and present them?"

The young wife stood before the long French mirror, scarcely glancing at the superb picture she presented, as Antoinette, her maid, deftly put the finishing touches to her toilet.

"There is only one thing needed to make my lady fairly radiant to-night," declared Antoinette, in her low, purring voice, "and that is the diamonds. You will let me get them all and deck you with them—twine them about that superb white neck, those perfect arms and——"

"Hush!" exclaimed Sally, impatiently. "Didn't you hear me say I shouldn't wear the diamonds to-night."

Jay Gardiner, entering his wife's boudoir unexpectedly at that moment, could not help overhearing her remark.

His brow darkened, and a gleam of anger shot into his blue eyes. He stepped quickly to his wife's side.

"You will wear the diamonds!" he said in the most authoritative tone he had yet used to her. "You heard my mother express the wish that you should do so. Moreover, it has been the custom in our family for generations for brides to wear them at a reception given in honor of their home-coming."

With these words, he strode into his own room—an inner apartment—and closed the door after him with a bang.

Looking up into her young mistress's face, the shrewd Antoinette saw that she was greatly agitated, and pale as death. But she pretended not to notice it.

"Shall I not get the diamonds from your little hand-bag, my lady?" she asked, eagerly.

"No; you can not get them," cried Sally, hoarsely, her teeth chattering, her eyes fairly dilating with fright; "they are not there!"

CHAPTER XLVII.

"That is easier said than done, Antoinette," declared her mistress, beginning to pace excitedly up and down the room, the color burning in two bright red spots on her cheeks.

Antoinette crossed over to the window, and stood looking out thoughtfully into the darkness. Her brain was busy with the numerous schemes that were flitting through it.

At that, moment fate pointed out an unexpected way to her. She heard footsteps in the corridor, and just then it flashed upon Antoinette that she had heard her master giving orders to his valet to bring him a glass of brandy. The man was returning with it.

Quick as a flash, Antoinette crossed the room and flung open the door.

"Andrew," she whispered to the man who was passing, "I want you to do a favor for me."

"A hundred if you like," replied the man, good-humoredly. "But I haven't time to listen to you now. I'll take master this brandy—which, by the way, is the best of its kind. I wish he'd take a notion to leave half of it in the glass, for it's fairly nectar—then I'll be back in a trice, and you can consider me at your service for the rest of the evening."

"But it's now I want you, Andrew—this very minute!" cried Antoinette. "Set your glass right down here; nobody will see it; I'll keep guard over it. My errand won't take you more than a minute. Master won't miss his brandy for that short time. He'll enjoy it all the more when he gets it."

Andrew hesitated an instant, and we all know what happens to the man who hesitates—he is lost.

"Well, what is it you want, Antoinette?" he replied, good-humoredly. "If it only takes me a minute, as you say, I don't mind accommodating you."

"I lost my little gold cross in the lower hall a few moments ago. I heard something drop as I was hurrying along, but did not miss it until just now, and I can't leave my lady to go and get it. Some one may come along and find it, and I'd never get it again. For goodness' sake, go quick, Andrew, and look for it. Not an instant's to be lost."

Suspecting nothing, the good fellow hurriedly set down the glass, and hastened away to do her bidding.

His back was scarcely turned ere Antoinette flew to her own apartments, which adjoined her mistress's, and took from a trunk, which she unlocked with a very strange-looking key, a small vial. A few grains of the contents she emptied into the palm of her hand, and in less time than it takes to write it, they were transferred to the glass of brandy and dissolved at once with its amber contents.

She had scarcely accomplished this ere Andrew returned, quite flushed from hurrying.

"I am sorry to bring you bad news, Antoinette," he said; "but some one has been there before me and picked up your cross. I met the butler, and we both searched for it. He has promised to make strict inquiries concerning it, and get it back for you if it be possible."

"You are very good to take so much trouble upon yourself," declared Antoinette, with a well-enacted sigh. "I suppose I shall survive the loss of it. It is a trinket that isn't of much value only as a keep-sake. But I won't keep you standing there talking any longer, Andrew; your master will be waiting for the brandy."

"I'll see you later, Antoinette," he said, nodding as he picked up his glass.

The next moment he had disappeared within his master's apartments.

When she returned to her mistress she found Mrs. Gardiner in a state of nervousness.

"The time is almost up, and you have devised no plan as yet, Antoinette," she cried, wringing her hands. "See! the ten minutes have almost elapsed. Oh—oh! what shall I do?"

"Monsieur will not come in ten minutes' time, my lady," replied the maid, with a knowing nod; "nor will he go to the reception. There was but one way out of it," declared Antoinette. "If he came after you to go down to the reception, the diamonds would have to be produced, so I said to myself he must not come, he must be prevented at all hazards. I knew of but one way, and acted upon the thought that came to me. Monsieur had ordered some brandy; I intercepted the valet, sent him off on a fool's errand, holding the glass until he returned, and while he was gone I put a heavy sleeping potion, which I often take for the toothache, in monsieur's glass of brandy. After taking it, he will fall into a deep sleep, from which no one will be able to awake him. The consequence is, he will not come for my lady to take her down to the reception to-night, and she is free to suit herself as to whether she will wear diamonds or not. No other occasion for wearing them may take place for some time. I will think of something else by that time."

"You have saved me, Antoinette!" cried the guilty woman, sinking down upon the nearest chair and trembling with excitement. "Oh, how can I ever thank you!"

"If my lady would do something in the way of raising my pay, I would be much obliged," replied the girl, her black eyes glittering.

She knew the trembling woman before her was in her power. The game had been commenced, the first trump had been played, and Antoinette meant to win all in the end.

"I shall be only too glad to do so," returned Sally, realizing for the first time the unpleasantness of being dictated to by her maid.

"And if madame would make me a present of some money to-night, I could make excellent use of it."

"I haven't any ready money just now," returned Sally, a dull red flush creeping over the whiteness of her face. "I have spent all last month's allowance, and it's only the middle of the month now."

"I would take the gold chain in the jewel-case which madame never wears," replied the girl, boldly.

"Antoinette, you are a fiend!" cried Sally Gardiner, starting to her feet in a rage. "How dare you expect that I would give you my gold chain, girl?"

"Madame could not afford to refuse my request," answered the girl. "If she wants me to keep her secret, she must pay well. The service I have rendered to-night is worth what I ask."

"Take the chain," said young Mrs. Gardiner, with a short gasp. "I—I shall not need your services after to-night. Take the chain, and—go!"

"So, so, madame!" cried the girl. "That is the way you would repay me for what I have done, for you? Discharge Antoinette, eh? Oh, no, my lady; you will think better of those hasty words, especially as I have a suspicion of where madame's diamonds have gone."

"I lost them at the ball that night in Newport," cried Sally, springing hastily to her feet, and facing the girl, her temper at a white heat.

"Monsieur Victor Lamont was with my lady when she lost them," returned Antoinette, softly. "She wore them when she entered the carriage on the beach that night, and she returned at day-break without them. You would not like monsieur to know of that romantic little episode, eh?"

"I repeat, you are a fiend incarnate!" gasped Sally, trembling like an aspen leaf.

"My lady sees it would be better to temporize with Antoinette than to make an enemy of her. She will think better of discharging one whose assistance may prove valuable to her. I will say no more. They are coming to see what detains madame and her husband, little dreaming what is in store for them."

CHAPTER XLVIII.

Her quiet tone brought the valet to his senses more quickly than anything else could have done.

"Yes, I'll tell you, Miss Margaret," he answered, hoarsely; "and though master turns me off to-morrow for it, I swear to you earnestly that it was all a terrible mistake."

"What has happened?" repeated Miss Margaret, sternly. "Get to the point at once, Andrew."

"It was this way, Miss Margaret," he cried. "Master sent me for a glass of brandy. I brought it to him. He always likes a few drops of cordial put in it, and I went to his dresser, where I had placed the cordial a few minutes before, took up the bottle hurriedly, and shook in a generous quantity. Now it happened that I had also taken out a bottle of drops—quieting drops which master had been taking for the last two nights for a violent toothache—it is a powerful narcotic—to make him sleep and forget his pain, he told me. I—I—don't know how I could have done it; I—I was not conscious of doing it; but somehow I must have put the drops instead of the cordial into his brandy, for he has fallen into a deep sleep, from which I am unable to awaken him."

"Thank Heaven, it is no worse!" sobbed Miss Margaret. "I—I was afraid some terrible accident had happened."

While he was speaking, Sally had run into the corridor and made the pretense of listening to the valet's dilemma, while Antoinette stood back in the shadow laughing to herself at the strange way fate or fortune or luck, or whatever it was, had played into her clever hands.

This was, indeed, an unexpected dilemma. Following the valet into her brother's apartments, she found Andrew's statement indeed true—her brother was in a sound sleep, from which all their efforts were futile to awake him.

"There is nothing else to be done but to go down without him," she said at length in despair, turning to Sally. "The effect of the potion ought to wear off in an hour or so, then he can join the guests."

The entrance of Miss Margaret and the bride created quite a sensation; but when the former explained the ludicrous mistake which caused the doctor's temporary absence from them, their mirth burst all bounds, and the very roof of the grand old mansion shook with peal after peal of hearty laughter.

So the fun and merriment went on until he should join them, and the happy, dazzling, beautiful young bride was the petted queen of the hour.

Old Mrs. Gardiner was greatly disappointed because her beautiful daughter-in-law did not wear the famous family diamonds, but when Sally slipped up to her and whispered that she had forgotten, in her excitement over Jay's mishap, to don them, the old lady was mollified.

The evening ran its length, and ended at last. Midnight had come, giving place to a new moon, and in the wee sma' hours the festive guests had taken their departure, each wishing with a jolly little laugh, to be remembered to their host when he should awake. The lights were out in the magnificent drawing-room and in the corridor.

Young Mrs. Gardiner was at last in her own boudoir, in the hands of Antoinette.

It was generally late in the morning when those pretty blue eyes opened. But it was little more than daylight when Antoinette came to her couch, grasped hurriedly the pink-and-white arm that lay on the lace coverlet, saying, hoarsely:

"You are wanted, my lady. You must come at once. Master is worse; that is, he is sleeping more heavily than ever. Miss Margaret did not leave his side all night, Andrew tells me, and she says the nearest doctor must be sent for. I thought it would look better if you were at his bedside, too, when the doctor came."

"You did quite right to awaken me, Antoinette," replied young Mrs. Gardiner. "Get me my morning robe, and slippers to match, at once, and take my hair out of these curl-papers. One can not appear before one's husband's relatives without making a careful toilet and looking one's best, for their Argus eyes are sure to take in any defects. I hope my husband will not have a long sickness or anything like that. I can not endure a sick-room. I think I should go mad. Hurry, Antoinette! Arrange my toilet as quickly as possible. I shall go into the grounds for a breath of fresh air before I venture into the heated atmosphere of that room, in which no doubt the lamps are still burning."

"I would advise you not to go into the grounds, my lady," replied Antoinette, quietly.

"Why, I should like to know?" asked young Mrs. Gardiner, very sharply.

"I have a reason for what I say," returned Antoinette; "but it is best not to tell you—just now."

"I demand to know!" declared her mistress.

"If you must know, I suppose I may as well tell you now as at any other time, my lady," replied Antoinette; "though the news I have to tell may make you a trifle nervous, I fear. I was just out in the grounds gathering roses for your vase, when, to my astonishment, I heard my name called softly, but very distinctly, from the direction of a little brook which runs through the grounds scarcely more than a hundred feet from the hedge where the roses grew that I was gathering. I turned quickly in that direction. At first I saw no one, and I was about to turn away, believing my ears must have deceived me, when suddenly the tall alder-bushes parted, and a man stepped forth, beckoning to me, and that man, my lady, was—Mr. Victor Lamont!"

CHAPTER XLIX.

As soon as she found herself alone, young Mrs. Gardiner turned the key in the lock, and flew at once to her writing-desk. Antoinette had laid several letters upon it. The letters—the writing upon two of which seemed rather familiar to her—were from the gentlemen who had loaned her the money a short time before at Newport. One stated that he should be in that vicinity at the end of the week, asking if she could find it convenient to pay part of the loan he had made to her when he called upon her. The other letter stated that the writer would be obliged if she could pay the money to his daughter when it became due. "She is a great friend of Miss Margaret Gardiner's," he went on to state, "and has decided to accept an invitation to spend a fortnight at the mansion, and would arrive there the following week."

Sally Gardiner tore both letters into shreds, and cast them from her with a laugh that was terrible to hear.

"I shall trust my wit to see me safely through this affair," she muttered. "I do not know just how it is to be done, but I shall accomplish it somehow."

There was a tap at the door. Thrusting the letters quickly in her desk, she closed the lid, securely locked it, and put the key in the pocket of her dress.

She was about to say "Come in," when she suddenly remembered that she had fastened the door. When she opened it, she found Andrew, her husband's valet, standing there with a very white, troubled face.

"I am sorry to hurry you, my lady," he said in a tremulous voice; "but master seems so much worse we are sore afraid for him. Miss Margaret bids me summon you without a moment's delay."

"I shall be there directly," replied the young wife; and the valet wondered greatly at the cool way in which she took the news of her husband's serious condition.

"Those pretty society young women have no hearts," he thought, indignantly. "She married my poor young master for his money, not for love; that is quite evident to me."

Young Mrs. Gardiner was just about to leave her boudoir, when Antoinette returned.

"You saw him and delivered my message?" said Sally, anxiously.

"Oh, yes, my lady," returned the girl.

"Well," said Sally, expectantly, "what did he say?"

"He was raving angry, my lady," laughed Antoinette. "He swore as I told him all; but at length he cooled down, seeing that his rage did not mend matters. 'Take this to your mistress, my good girl,' he said, tearing a leaf from his memorandum-book, and scribbling hastily, upon it. Here it is, my lady."

As she spoke, she thrust a crumpled bit of paper into young Mrs. Gardiner's trembling hand.

There was no date; the note contained but a few lines, and read as follows: