On she went, until the three miles were covered, and she drew rein before a tiny brown cottage, where dwelt their kind friends, the Rogerses. Dismounting, she rapped loudly at the outer door. Her summons aroused the inmates, and in a few moments her sad story was told. Both Mr. and Mrs. Rogers hastily prepared themselves to return with Beatrix to the desolate home of the Lynnes; and so in the course of an hour they entered the weather-beaten old house upon whose portals death had left its dreadful sign.
Once inside, and satisfied that Mrs. Lynne would be relieved from further cares, Beatrix made her way slowly, falteringly, up to her own chamber, and once there, fainted quietly away for the first time in her life. The natural reaction to all the excitement of the day had come, and the girl's strength could endure no more. A little later, Serena, passing the open door, saw Beatrix lying upon the floor where she had fallen. She came swiftly to her side and gazed into the pale little face with eyes full of hatred.
"I wish she was dead!" hissed the woman, bleakly. "I wish to Heaven she would never recover from this swoon, never open her eyes to the world again. I hate her. I can not help it. She will steal him from me—the only man for whom I shall ever care. Keith might have learned to love me in time; but, of course, a face like hers is certain to win the prize. I am plain—I know it—and I can not deny that Beatrix is lovely. But I would have been a good wife to Keith; I would lay my life down for him; I would be willing to be his slave if only he would love me. Oh, Keith! Keith! Heart of my heart, soul of my soul!" She turned away, wringing her hands frantically. "If I can not win you, it would be better for me to die!"
She left the unconscious girl alone, and calling Mrs. Rogers, sent her to Beatrix's assistance. It was hours before the poor girl was fully restored. She looked like a snow-wreath as she moved silently about the house, in the plain black gown which had been provided for her. She was pale and wan, and her great dark eyes looked unnaturally bright, and shone like stars.
Two days later the funeral took place, and Frederick Lynne was buried away out of sight in the bare, bleak little grave-yard, over which the first snow lay soft and warm like a blanket. The day after the funeral, Mr. Rogers, driving over from the post-office (the bridge having been repaired), paused at the dreary home of the Lynnes with a registered letter addressed to its late master.
"I took the liberty of signing for it," he said, as he placed the letter in Mrs. Lynne's outstretched hand. And then, with a kindly inquiry for Keith Kenyon, and a cheerful good-morning, he took his departure. Without a moment's delay, Mrs. Lynne tore open the letter with eager haste. A crisp five-hundred dollar bill dropped from between the folded pages. She picked it up with a gasp of delight, and just at that moment Beatrix entered the room. There was no help for it. Mrs. Lynne knew that the letter and its inclosure must be at once turned over to the girl. She placed it in her hand.
"There! That is yours, I suppose," she said, ungraciously.
With dilated eyes Beatrix read the words addressed to Frederick Lynne:
"Doctor Lynne," so ran the letter,—"I send inclosed five hundred dollars per registered mail, the most convenient way of forwarding remittances, since you are residing in a place destitute of banks and other conveniences. Send Beatrix Dane to New Orleans immediately—to No. —— St. Charles Avenue, and oblige,
"Yours respectfully,
"Bernard Dane."
Beatrix lifted her eyes, and they met the cold gaze of Mrs. Lynne.