She left the room and went down-stairs straight to the library. The door was closed. She rapped lightly upon it.
"Come in!" called Keith's voice; and she turned the knob and entered the room.
It was nearly sunset; the slant rays of gold which marked the road taken by the departing god of day streamed in at the open window and across the bowed head of the young man seated at the desk, his eyes fixed upon the western sky with a hopeless look in their depths. At sight of Serena he started up and his face grew paler than before.
"Any news?" he asked, swiftly. "Serena, have you heard anything of—of Beatrix? Have you come to tell me that she is found?"
Serena stopped short, suppressing an exclamation of disgust. Always Beatrix—always Beatrix! Never any thought of her—and there never would be. She drew a little nearer the desk where he was sitting, and turned her face away, that he might not be able to read its expression.
"No,"—trying in vain to keep the harshness out of her voice—"I have no news of Beatrix. She has probably taken her own life; and if that be true, would it not be better, Keith?"
He started to his feet, then sank back wearily once more.
"No, no!" he panted, fiercely; "it would not! Nothing can ever make up to me for her loss—nothing! She is gone, and the light of my life has gone with her. I shall never be happy again. I am utterly and forever alone!"
Serena laid her hand upon his arm and lifted her white, set face to his.
"Whose fault is it that you are all alone?" she demanded, madly. "I would have died to make you happy, Keith; but you would not. You scorned me—scorned my love, and I—I have given up all hope of ever winning a kindly feeling from you; so I have done the best for myself that I can. Keith, are you listening? I come here this evening—I have intruded upon your solitude to tell you a piece of news which concerns me alone, but in which you may be interested. Keith, I am going to be married."