BERTHA CLAY LIBRARY No. 370

In Love’s Hands

BY
BERTHA
M.
CLAY

STREET & SMITH, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK.

A Familiar Sight The World Over

Enough “Bull” Durham is sold in a year to make approximately 12 BILLION cigarettes—as many as all brands of ready-made cigarettes in this country combined—and the sales are steadily growing.

GENUINE
“Bull” Durham
SMOKING TOBACCO

(Enough for forty hand-made cigarettes in each 5c sack)

“Bull” Durham is distinguished from all other tobaccos by a wonderful, sweet, mellow flavor, produced by a generations-old process known only to the manufacturers of “Bull” Durham.

Get a sack of “Bull” to-day and “roll your own” for complete healthful enjoyment and lasting satisfaction.

Ask for FREE book of “papers” with each 5c sack.

THE AMERICAN TOBACCO CO.

BERTHA CLAY LIBRARY

ISSUED SEMI-MONTHLY.

The only complete line of Bertha M. Clay’s stories. Many of these titles are copyrighted and cannot be found in any other edition.

ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT

TO THE PUBLIC:—These books are sold by news dealers everywhere. If your dealer does not keep them, and will not get them for you, send direct to the publishers, in which case four cents must be added to the price per copy to cover postage.

1—A Bitter Atonement.
2—Dora Thorne.
3—A Golden Heart.
4—Lord Lisle’s Daughter.
5—The Mystery of Colde Fell; or, “Not Proven.”
6—Diana’s Discipline; or, Sunshine and Roses.
7—A Dark Marriage Morn.
8—Hilda’s Lover; or, The False Vow; or, Lady Hutton’s Ward.
9—Her Mother’s Sin; or, A Bright Wedding Day.
10—One Against Many.
11—For Another’s Sin; or, A Struggle for Love.
12—At War With Herself.
13—Evelyn’s Folly.
14—A Haunted Life.
15—Lady Damer’s Secret.
16—His Wife’s Judgment.
17—Lady Castlemaine’s Divorce; or, Put Asunder.
19—Two Fair Women; or, Which Loved Him Best?
21—Wife in Name Only.
22—The Sin of a Lifetime.
23—The World Between Them.
24—Prince Charlie’s Daughter.
25—A Thorn in Her Heart.
26—A Struggle for a Ring.
27—The Shadow of a Sin.
28—A Rose in Thorns.
29—A Woman’s Love Story.
30—The Romance of a Black Veil.
31—Redeemed by Love; or, Love’s Conflict; or, Love Works Wonders.
32—Lord Lynne’s Choice.
33—Set in Diamonds.
34—The Romance of a Young Girl; or, The Heiress of Hill-drop.
35—A Woman’s War.
36—On Her Wedding Morn, and Her Only Sin.
37—Weaker Than a Woman.
38—Love’s Warfare.
40—A Nameless Sin.
41—A Mad Love.
42—Hilary’s Folly; or, Her Marriage Vow.
43—Madolin’s Lover.
44—The Belle of Lynn; or, The Miller’s Daughter.
45—Lover and Husband.
46—Beauty’s Marriage, and Between Two Sins.
47—The Duke’s Secret.
48—Her Second Love.
49—Addie’s Husband, and Arnold’s Promise.
50—A True Magdalen; or, One False Step.
51—For a Woman’s Honor.
52—Claribel’s Love Story; or, Love’s Hidden Depths.
53—A Fiery Ordeal.
54—The Gipsy’s Daughter.
55—Golden Gates.
56—The Squire’s Darling, and Walter’s Wooing.
57—Violet Lisle.
58—Griselda.
59—One False Step.
60—A Heart’s Idol.
61—The Earl’s Error, and Letty Leigh.
63—Another Woman’s Husband.
64—Wedded and Parted, and Fair But False.
65—His Perfect Trust.
66—Gladys Greye.
67—In Love’s Crucible.
68—’Twixt Love and Hate.
69—Fair But Faithless.
70—A Heart’s Bitterness.
71—Marjorie Deane.
72—Between Two Hearts.
73—Her Martyrdom.
74—Thorns and Orange Blossoms.
75—A Bitter Bondage.
76—A Guiding Star.
77—A Fair Mystery.
78—Another Man’s Wife.
79—An Ideal Love.
80—The Earl’s Atonement.
81—Between Two Loves.
82—A Dead Heart, and Love for a Day.
83—A Fatal Dower.
84—Lady Latimer’s Escape, and Other Stories.
85—A Woman’s Error.
86—Guelda.
87—Beyond Pardon.
88—If Love Be Love.
89—A Coquette’s Conquest.
90—In Cupid’s Net, and So Near and Yet So Far.
91—Under a Shadow.
92—At Any Cost, and A Modern Cinderella.
94—Margery Daw.
95—A Woman’s Temptation.
96—The Actor’s Ward.
97—Repented at Leisure.
98—James Gordon’s Wife.
99—For Life and Love, and More Bitter Than Death.
100—In Shallow Waters.
101—A Broken Wedding Ring.
102—Dream Faces.
103—Two Kisses, and The Fatal Lilies.
105—A Hidden Terror.
106—Wedded Hands.
107—From Out the Gloom.
108—Her First Love.
109—A Bitter Reckoning.
110—Thrown on the World.
111—Irene’s Vow.
112—His Wedded Wife.
113—Lord Elesmere’s Wife.
114—A Woman’s Vengeance.
115—A Queen Amongst Women and An Unnatural Bondage.
116—The Queen of the County.
117—A Struggle for the Right.
118—The Paths of Love.
119—Blossom and Fruit.
120—The Story of an Error.
121—The White Witch.
123—Lady Muriel’s Secret.
124—The Hidden Sin.
125—For a Dream’s Sake.
126—The Gambler’s Wife.
127—A Great Mistake.
128—Society’s Verdict.
129—Lady Gwendoline’s Dream.
130—The Rival Heiresses.
131—A Bride from the Sea, and Other Stories.
132—A Woman’s Trust.
133—A Dream of Love.
134—The Sins of the Father.
135—For Love of Her.
136—A Loving Maid.
137—A Heart of Gold.
138—The Price of a Bride.
139—Love in a Mask.
140—A Woman’s Witchery.
141—The Burden of a Secret.
142—One Woman’s Sin.
143—How Will It End?
144—The Hand Without a Wedding Ring.
145—A Sinful Secret.
146—Lady Marchmont’s Widowhood.
147—The Broken Trust.
148—Lady Ethel’s Whim.
149—A Wife’s Peril.
150—The Tragedy of Lime Hall.
151—Lady Ona’s Sin.
152—A Bitter Courtship.
153—A Tragedy of Love and Hate.
154—A Stolen Heart.
155—Every Inch a Queen.
156—A Maid’s Misery.
157—Love’s Redemption.
158—The Sunshine of His Life.
159—The Lost Lady of Haddon.
160—The Love of Lady Aurelia.
161—His Great Temptation.
162—An Evil Heart.
163—Gladys’ Wedding Day.
164—Lost for Love.
165—On With the New Love.
168—A Fateful Passion.
169—A Captive Heart.
170—A Deceptive Lover.
171—An Untold Passion.
172—A Purchased Love.
173—The Queen of His Soul.
174—A Pilgrim of Love.
175—The Girl of His Heart.
176—A Wife’s Devotion.
177—The Price of Love.
178—When Love and Hate Conflict.
180—A Misguided Love.
181—The Chains of Jealousy.
182—A Loveless Engagement.
183—A Heart’s Worship.
184—A Queen Triumphant.
185—Between Love and Ambition.
186—True Love’s Reward.
187—A Poisoned Heart.
188—What It Cost Her.
189—Paying the Penalty.
190—The Old Love or the New?
191—Her Honored Name.
192—A Coquette’s Victim.
193—An Ocean of Love.
194—Sweeter Than Life.
195—For Her Heart’s Sake.
196—Her Beautiful Foe.
197—A Soul Ensnared.
198—A Heart Forlorn.
199—Strong in Her Love.
200—Fair as a Lily.
205—Her Bitter Sorrow.
210—Hester’s Husband.
215—An Artful Plotter.
228—A Vixen’s Love.
232—The Dawn of Love.
236—Love’s Coronet.
237—The Unbroken Vow.
238—Her Heart’s Hero.
239—An Exacting Love.
240—A Wild Rose.
241—In Defiance of Fate.
242—For Lack of Gold.
244—Two True Hearts.
245—Baffled by Fate.
246—Two Men and a Maid.
247—A Cruel Revenge.
248—The Flower of Love.
249—Mistress of Her Fate.
250—The Wooing of a Maid.
251—A Blighted Blossom.
252—Loved Forevermore.
253—For Old Love’s Sake.
254—Love’s Debt.
255—A Happy Conquest.
256—Tender and True.
257—The Love He Spurned.
258—Withered Flowers.
259—When Woman Wills.
260—Love’s Twilight.
261—True to His First Love.
262—Suffered in Silence.
263—A Modest Passion.
264—Beyond All Dreams.
265—Loved and Lost.
266—The Bride of the Manor.
267—Love, the Avenger.
268—Wedded at Dawn.
269—A Shattered Romance.
270—With Love at the Helm.
271—Humbled Pride.
272—Love Finds a Way.
273—An Ardent Wooing.
274—Love Grown Cold.
275—Love Hath Wings.
276—When Hot Tears Flow.
277—The Wages of Deceit.
278—Love and the World.
279—Love’s Sweet Hour.
280—Faithful and True.
281—Sunshine and Shadow.
282—For Love or Wealth?
283—A Crown of Faith.
284—The Harvest of Sin.
285—A Secret Sorrow.
286—In Quest of Love.
287—Beyond Atonement.
288—A Girl’s Awakening.
289—The Hero of Her Dreams.
290—Love’s Burden.
291—Only a Flirt.
292—When Love is Kind.
293—An Elusive Lover.
294—The Hour of Temptation.
295—Where Love Leads.
296—Her Struggle With Love.
297—In Spite of Fate.
298—Can This Be Love?
299—The Love of His Youth.
300—Enchained by Passion.
301—The New Love or the Old?
302—At Her Heart’s Command.
303—Cast Upon His Care.
304—All Else Forgot.
305—Sinner or Victim?
307—Answered in Jest.
308—Her Heart’s Problem.
309—Rich in His Love.
310—For Better, For Worse.
311—Love’s Caprice.
312—When Hearts Are Young.
314—In the Golden City.
315—A Love Victorious.
316—Her Heart’s Delight.
317—The Heart of His Heart.
318—Even This Sacrifice.
319—Love’s Crown Jewel.
320—Suffered in Vain.
321—In Love’s Bondage.
322—Lady Viola’s Secret.
323—Adrift on Love’s Tide.
324—The Quest of His Heart.
325—Under Cupid’s Seal.
326—Earlescourt’s Love.
327—Dearer Than Life.
328—Toward Love’s Goal.
329—Her Heart’s Surrender.
330—Tempted to Forget.
331—The Love That Blinds.
332—A Daughter of Misfortune.
333—When False Tongues Speak.
334—A Tempting Offer.
335—With Love’s Strong Bonds.
336—That Plain Little Girl.
337—And This is Love!
338—The Secret of Estcourt.
339—For His Love’s Sake.
340—Outside Love’s Door.
341—At Love’s Fountain.
342—A Lucky Girl.
343—A Dream Come True.
344—By Love’s Order.
345—Fettered for Life.
346—Beyond the Shadow.
347—The Love That Won.
348—Fair to Look Upon.
349—A Daughter of Eve.
350—When Cupid Frowns.
351—The Wiles of Love.
352—What the World Said.
353—Mabel and May.
354—Her Love and His.
355—A Captive Fairy.
356—Her Sacred Trust.
357—A Child of Caprice.
358—He Dared to Love.
359—While the World Scoffed.
360—On Love’s Highway.
361—One of Love’s Slaves.
362—The Lure of the Flame.
363—A Love in the Balance.
364—A Woman of Whims.
365—In a Siren’s Web.
366—The Tie That Binds.
367—Love’s Harsh Mandate.
368—Love’s Carnival.
369—With Heart and Voice.
370—In Love’s Hands.
371—Hearts of Oak.
372—A Garland of Love.
373—Among Love’s Briers.
374—Love Never Fails.
375—The Other Man’s Choice.
376—A Lady of Quality.
377—On Love’s Demand.
378—A Fugitive from Love.
379—His Sweetheart’s Promise.
380—The Schoolgirl Bride.
381—Her One Ambition.
382—Love for Love.
383—His Fault or Hers?
384—New Loves for Old.
385—Her Proudest Possession.
386—Cupid Always Wins.
387—Love is Life Indeed.
388—When Scorn Greets Love.
389—Love’s Potent Charm.
390—By Love Alone.
391—When Love Conspires.
392—No Thought of Harm.
393—Cupid’s Prank.
394—A Sad Awakening.
395—What Could She Do?
396—Sharing His Burden.
397—Steadfast in Her Love.
398—A Love Despised.
399—One Life, One Love.
400—When Hope is Lost.
401—A Heart Unclaimed.
402—His Dearest Wish.
403—Her Cup of Sorrow.
404—When Love is Curbed.
405—A Pitiful Mistake.
406—A Love Profound.
407—A Bitter Sacrifice.
408—What Love is Worth.
409—When Life’s Roses Bloom.
410—Her Only Choice.
411—Forged on Love’s Anvil.
412—She Hated Him!
413—When Love’s Charm is Broken.
414—Led by Destiny.
415—When Others Sneered.
416—Golden Fetters.
417—The Love That Prospered.
418—The Song of the Siren.
419—Love’s Gentle Whisper.
420—The Girl Who Won.
421—The Love That Was Stifled.
422—The Love of a Lifetime.
423—Her One Mistake.
424—At War With Fate.
425—When Love Lures.
426—’Twixt Wealth and Want.
427—Love’s Pleasant Dreams.
428—Sir John’s Heiress.
429—A Terrible Mistake.
430—The Eyes of Jealousy.
431—The Romance of a Business Girl.
432—Was He the Man?
433—The Master of Tredcroft.
434—The Deverell Heritage.
435—The Swoop of the Vulture.
436—A Phantom of the Past.
437—A Fleet of Dreams.
438—Love and Reason.
Published during January, 1914.
439—Held in Bondage.
440—As the Ivy Loves the Oak.
Published during February, 1914.
441—Love Against Hate.
442—His Cross of Honor.
Published during March, 1914.
443—Love Everlasting.
444—Let the Heart Decide.
Published during April, 1914.
445—Love Beyond Price.
446—An Uncounted Cost.
Published during May, 1914.
447—Behind Love’s Veil.
448—Fate and the Girl.
Published during June, 1914.
449—Love Rules the World.
450—Her Sad Blessing.
Published during July, 1914.
451—Love’s Charity.

In order that there may be no confusion, we desire to say that the books listed above will be issued, during the respective months, in New York City and vicinity. They may not reach the readers, at a distance, promptly, on account of delays in transportation.

IN LOVE’S HANDS;

OR,

FOR HER HEART’S SAKE

BY
BERTHA M. CLAY

The only complete list of whose work, both copyrighted and not, is contained in the Bertha Clay Library, published by Street & Smith.

NEW YORK
STREET & SMITH, Publishers
79-89 Seventh Avenue

HAND BOOKS

We have a line of the best and cleanest hand books ever published. They are known as DIAMOND HAND BOOKS. Each one was written by a man or woman thoroughly conversant with the subject he or she treated. The facts are presented in an especially attractive manner so that every one who can read, can understand.

HERE ARE THE TITLES

Price 10 cents per copy. If sent by mail, 3 cents must be added to the cost of each book to cover postage.

STREET & SMITH, 79 Seventh Avenue, NEW YORK

Twenty Books Every Woman Should Read

Complete List of S. & S. Novels sent anywhere upon request

STREET & SMITH, Publishers, NEW YORK

IN LOVE’S HANDS.

CONTENTS

[CHAPTER I. IN DEADLY PERIL.]
[CHAPTER II. SHADOWS.]
[CHAPTER III. THE LEGACY.]
[CHAPTER IV. THE GOVERNESSES.]
[CHAPTER V. AN UNPLEASANT ERRAND.]
[CHAPTER VI. SHATTERED HOPES.]
[CHAPTER VII. DESERTED.]
[CHAPTER VIII. A NEW HOME.]
[CHAPTER IX. ALONE IN THE WORLD.]
[CHAPTER X. MRS. WILSON.]
[CHAPTER XI. THE STRANGER FROM INDIA.]
[CHAPTER XII. FLORENCE’S PUPILS.]
[CHAPTER XIII. THE DISCOVERY.]
[CHAPTER XIV. TOO LATE!]
[CHAPTER XV. THE STORM.]
[CHAPTER XVI. A MAN OF MYSTERY.]
[CHAPTER XVII. THE NEWSPAPER PARAGRAPH.]
[CHAPTER XVIII. SUSPENSE.]
[CHAPTER XIX. STILL A MYSTERY.]
[CHAPTER XX. NOT QUITE HAPPY.]
[CHAPTER XXI. A WHISPERED WORD.]
[CHAPTER XXII. A TARDY EXPLANATION.]
[CHAPTER XXIII. CONCLUSION.]

CHAPTER I.

IN DEADLY PERIL.

Who that knows Northumberland has not roamed delightedly beside the lovely Coquet, that tricksome little river which sometimes murmurs softly along its rocky bed, and anon—swollen and turbid—fiercely dashes against its steep banks, rushing on toward the ocean with a force and rapidity that carries everything before it.

Those who have visited this capricious stream will remember Heriton Priory, one of the fairest and finest estates through which it wanders. Surrounded on three sides by hills which protect it from the keen winds, then sloping gently toward the river, the grounds are worthy the house, which is a fine specimen of the Tudor style of architecture. The ruins of the first priory—formerly the residence of a community of monks—still exist; and, owing to the care of their owners, are almost in as good condition as when the demesne was bestowed upon a certain Ralph de Heriton by Henry VIII.

The priory had been in the same family ever since. Succeeding generations had added to and improved the estate, until at the commencement of the present reign it fell into the hands of Mr. Richard Heriton, the last of the male branch. He, too, pulled down, and rebuilt, and altered, and this at a rate which made some of his more prudent neighbors shrug their shoulders as they counted the cost.

That the alterations were made with taste no one could deny, and at the time our story opens—that sweet, fragrant season when spring insensibly glides into summer—the priory gardens were in one flush of glowing beauty. It was literally a fairy scene, concealed from prying eyes by the towering heights which guarded and sheltered its loveliness.

A young man whom Mr. Heriton had discovered pedestrianizing in the neighborhood, and on learning that they had mutual friends in London, had hospitably brought home with him, lay at full length on the greensward beneath a drooping ash tree. Frank Dormer had fixed himself in the library to have a quiet morning’s reading; but the twitter of the birds, the sunlight, and the sweet breath of the roses, drew him forth to spend an hour of half-sad, half-pleasant idleness. He had rarely looked on so fair a scene before. He might never behold it again, for he was daily expecting orders to sail for India, where he had received an appointment in the Civil Service. An orphan from an early age—looked coldly upon by his few relatives, and bandied from school to private tutor, from private tutor to college—he had never known the real meaning of the word home until these few happy weeks he had spent at the priory.

As he lay there listening to the ripple of the river, and recalling the pleasant events of each succeeding day—the rides with Mr. Heriton to every spot within reach which was worthy a visit; the calls upon the warm-hearted, free-handed Northumbrian landowners with whom his host was acquainted; the quieter drives with Mrs. Heriton, a confirmed invalid; and the walks and gay romps with Florence, the only daughter of the house—he sighed, and shaded his eyes with his hand.

The trailing branches of the tree were gently parted, an arch face peeped from between them, and the next moment the young man’s head and shoulders were covered with a shower of flower petals.

Shaking his curly head with something of the air of a good-tempered Newfoundland dog, he started up—his melancholy thoughts all put to flight—and looked around. But the owner of the pretty, saucy face had retreated, and was nowhere to be seen, though a stifled laugh proclaimed her vicinity.

“You may as well show yourself, Miss Mischief,” exclaimed Frank, “unless, indeed, you are on the wing for a broom to sweep up this mess before Johnson sees it. He had the lawn swept not two hours ago. There’ll be a complaint laid before Mr. Heriton of Miss Florence’s untidy ways. I hope you’ll be punished with half a dozen sums in practice and a long German exercise.”

Florence emerged from her hiding place to answer him. She was a slim, delicate girl of fifteen, with eyes of so deep a blue that they were almost black, and long, wavy hair of golden brown that was carelessly tied at the back of her head with a ribbon of the same color. Although under the control of a strict governess for several hours every day, in order that she might become the accomplished young lady Mr. Heriton’s heiress ought to be, her mother’s thoughtful tenderness secured her perfect freedom for as many more. Thus Florence, brought up in the healthful seclusion of the priory—never permitted to exhibit her acquirements and receive the ill-judging admiration of visitors—was still a happy, artless child, with only enough of the woman to cherish a secret thought that if she grew up and ever consented to leave dear, suffering mamma and marry, it must be for just such a man as Frank Dormer.

Secure in her extreme youth and the young man’s speedy departure, no limits had been set upon their intercourse by either of her parents. They had rambled together, sung together, and read from the same books; the pretty Florence coming to Frank with all her difficulties, and making him the confidant of all her girlish secrets; while he—thrown for the first time into feminine society—petted and protected her with a growing tenderness which no one saw or suspected except Florence’s mother.

“I wouldn’t add story-telling to all my other evil propensities if I were you,” said the girl demurely, as she came a little nearer, yet stood ready to spring away if Frank attempted to approach her. “It was not I who threw those leaves on the lawn, Mr. Dormer. I wouldn’t vex poor old Johnson for the world, especially just now that I want some of his best verbenas for my garden. It was you who made the litter by shaking them off in all directions. I should advise you to pick them up directly, sir.”

“Come and help me then, mademoiselle.”

“No, indeed, monsieur! That would be to confess myself guilty. I am going for a walk. Oh, Mr. Dormer, I saw such a lovely fern on one of the heights that overhang the river! It’s about a mile higher up, and I mean to fetch it. You’ll come, won’t you?”

Frank picked up his straw hat and followed, as with her basket in hand she danced across the lawn, singing to herself, and stopping occasionally to pick the fairest buds she passed, until she had gathered a tiny bouquet for her companion’s buttonhole.

“Miss Dodson says every flower has a meaning attached to it,” Florence remarked, as she fastened them in his summer coat. “Do you know what these signify?”

“To me their meaning is second to the fact that they are among the last blossoms I shall have from an English garden,” Frank answered. “I think I shall take them with me to India if I can dry them nicely.”

“Were you thinking of your voyage when I disturbed you?” asked Florence, coming closer to him and speaking gravely. “Why do you go? Why not stay in England?”

“Simply, my dear, because my only chance of rising in the world lies in accepting this appointment. I have no friends, no interest——” He stopped himself and smiled. “But there—why trouble that little head of yours about matters you don’t understand?”

“I can understand that you are going away for years, and that mamma is very sorry, and so am I, really! Papa must have friends and interest,” she added suddenly. “He could help you, I am sure. I’ll go and speak to him at once.”

Dropping her basket, she was speeding away, but Frank caught and detained her.

“Dear Florence—dear little girl—you must not do this. You must promise me never to ask any favors from your father for me.”

“But you don’t doubt his willingness to assist you?” asked Florence, a little warmly.

“Certainly I do not. Mr. Heriton has been most kind, most hospitable to me.”

“Then why——” she began.

He checked her with an imperious:

“Hush—say no more! My pride has been galled enough of late years. Don’t let me have to take any but pleasant memories from here.”

Florence glanced at his darkening face. She had never before heard him allude to the clouds that had shadowed his early life, and she wisely diverted his thoughts into pleasanter channels. But whether she dived into the wood they were passing through, to peep into a bird’s nest, or challenged him to races, or hid from him in some bosky dingle, she always came back to his side with a softer, sweeter smile on her lip, a more caressing gentleness in her manner, as if she sought to make him amends for having evoked such unpleasant recollections.

Her wanderings made their ramble a long one, but at last they reached the spot where the rare fern was growing which she was desirous of possessing. While Frank Dormer dug carefully around the roots she ran to the edge of the bank, or cliff, which rose here almost perpendicularly from the river to so great a height that he grew uneasy, and shouted a caution to the adventurous girl.

“Take care, Florence; you are too rash. A fall from that cliff would be almost certain death!”

The warning had scarcely passed his lips when she turned round to answer him, and disappeared. A large stone had given way, carrying her light form with it. White with horror, he rushed madly to the place, expecting to see her mangled form lying on the sharp rocks which lined the bed of the river, or whirled away by the resistless current.

But the face of Florence, ghastly as his own, looked up at him from a tuft of heather, about halfway down the cliff, to which she was clinging with the tenacity of despair. He clenched his hands; his heart almost ceased to beat. He could not reach her, and to attempt to descend would be to hurl her from her frail support. Only by making his way to the foot of the bank, which involved a detour of a quarter of a mile, could he climb to where she clung and assist her descent. But the heather was already yielding to her weight, and—frightened child that she was—would she have the courage to retain her hold until he could come to her aid?

He spoke to her sharply and firmly.

“Florence, do you hear me? Can you listen, and do precisely as I tell you?”

The dilated eyes lit up hopefully, then closed, and a sick shudder passed over her.

“I don’t know,” she answered faintly, “but I’ll try. Oh, save me, Mr. Dormer—save me!”

“I will—I can, if you obey me. But you must be brave. Do you hear, Florence?” And he spoke with greater impressiveness than before. “For your mother’s sake! Remember, any great shock would kill her! For her sake you must be brave!”

“Oh, mamma—mamma!” moaned Florence. “Yes, I hear you; I will do all you bid me,” she added, directly afterward, with an effort to assume composure.

“Look up, then; don’t look down. Keep your eyes fixed on me.” For he dreaded the dizziness which must inevitably ensue if a downward glance showed her the extent of her danger. “Lower your right hand cautiously; now your foot; there are some projecting roots just below you, which will support your weight until I come.”

For a while she feared to stir. She felt that to loosen her hold in the slightest degree would be more than she dare venture; but when, in the same sharp, imperative tones, he commanded her to make the attempt, she obeyed, and effected the change of position safely.

“Now you will stay there without moving, without looking down, until I come, which will be as quickly as I can. Give me your word for this.”

“Yes,” said Florence, in clearer tones. “I am not so frightened now. I will think of my mother till you come back.”

Taking one last glance at the pale, patient face that gazed at him so trustfully, he hurried away. He scarcely dared think of what might happen ere he could gain the foot of the bank. With torn clothes, with bleeding hands, he flung himself down the rugged declivity, as soon as descent became anything like practicable. Although but a few minutes were consumed in this, the time seemed interminable until he drew near the spot where he had left Florence. And as he passed round a jutting crag that concealed her from his view, his foot faltered. He was positively afraid to proceed, lest the dire catastrophe should have occurred which he was striving to avert.

A moment’s struggle, and he sprang desperately forward. Better to know the worst than endure such horrible suspense.

Thank Heaven, she was still there—still clinging to the friendly roots. But her head had dropped on her shoulder, her fortitude was fast failing, and she was moaning piteously. She must have fallen ere long if Frank Dormer had not climbed quickly to her side and thrown his sustaining arm around her.

He was strong, agile, and a practiced climber, but he found it no easy task to descend the slippery cliff encumbered with Florence. But she was perfectly passive in his hands, and, encouraged by his hopeful words, moved when he told her, or stepped where he directed, and in the course of a little while was safely lowered to a mossy boulder large enough to form a seat for them both.

Here he laved her face and hands with the cool water that rippled around their feet, and supported her until the color came back to her cheek. Then she looked up at the spot from which she had slipped, at the small tufts of heather which had saved her from instant destruction; and imagining to herself the fate she had escaped, as well as the anguish and horror it would have inflicted on her parents, she leaned her face against his shoulder and began to cry softly. Florence Heriton was a child no longer. She realized in that moment—although, perhaps, she would have been unable to define her feelings—something of the value and solemnity attached to the Creator’s great gifts, life and health, and of the necessity of so using them that when they are withdrawn from us we may feel that they have not been wasted.

“Mr. Dormer, I want to thank you,” she said at last; “but when I try, the words choke me, and yet I know that you saved me, and——”

“My dear little Florence,” he said hastily, “I have as much to be thankful for in your escape as you have. I should not have permitted you to go so near the edge of that precipice alone. How could I have returned to the priory if—if anything had happened to you?”

He drew her almost convulsively to his bosom. He had never guessed till now how dear this little creature was becoming to him. But, ashamed of his emotion, he quickly released her, and assisted her to rise.

“We must hasten home, or there will be some wondering at our long absence.”

“And mamma will be uneasy, Mr. Dormer. How shall I tell her what has happened?”

“Do not tell her at all until I have gone away, and you can speak of it calmly. And promise me, Florence, that you will never expose yourself to such peril again.”

The promise was given, and then both were silent until they had nearly reached the house. But the sob that broke at intervals from the young girl’s lips, and the drops that glittered on her long eyelashes, told how busily her thoughts were at work.

Clinging to Frank’s hand as he bade her adieu at a side door, she exclaimed ingenuously:

“I wish I had something to give you, Mr. Dormer—something to make you think always of this day, and what you have done for me!”

“I need no souvenir to keep you in my thoughts, Florence,” he answered, smiling down at her animated face.

“But I should like you to have a ring or something to look at when you are in India, just to remind you how mamma and I regretted your leaving us.”

“Wait till I come back,” he said hurriedly. “If you are the same Florence I leave, I will ask you for what I would sooner have than all the diamonds of Golconda.”

The ringing of the second dinner bell made Florence start away to change her dress, and try and still the trembling in her limbs, before she made her appearance in the drawing room for the evening.

CHAPTER II.

SHADOWS.

Mr. Heriton, a portly, handsome man, scarcely past the middle age, was walking about the drawing room, addressing an occasional observation to his lady, who was sitting near a window which commanded the route Frank and Florence had taken an hour previously.

She had the hectic color and fragile form of continual suffering, and every time Mr. Heriton raised his voice or pushed a chair out of his way she put her hand to her side as if to stay the quickened beating of her heart. But she answered him cheerfully, with a smile on her lip, though a close observer might have detected in her eyes an anxious scrutiny of her restless husband, who was both moody and irritable.

“Is it not time we dined?” he asked. “It seems to me that our servants do as they please with us.”

“It is my fault,” Mrs. Heriton replied. “I bade them put the dinner back for a quarter of an hour. Mr. Dormer is out; Florence has carried him off on one of her wild excursions.”

Mr. Heriton knitted his brow.

“She has too much liberty. Her manners are terribly unformed, and she is quite childish for her age.”

“She is so young!” replied the mother deprecatingly. “I thought, dear Richard, we had agreed not to bring her forward too early?”

He ahemmed, and looked slightly embarrassed.

“Yes, yes—of course! But, as Morrison of Carnbraes was remarking this morning, the heiress of the Heritons is—is, in fact—is not an ordinary person.”

Mrs. Heriton looked at him inquiringly as he walked to and fro, but was silent. She knew that he would be more likely to explain himself if she did not attempt to question him.

“A year or two will transform Florence into a lovely woman, and, with her advantages and wealth, she ought to marry well—very well. By the bye, Mrs. Morrison made a remark about your protégé—this Mr. Dormer—a remark that I thought very impertinent.”

Mrs. Heriton forbore to remind him that she had nothing to do with Mr. Dormer’s introduction to the priory, but gently observed:

“An impertinence of any description is not worthy your notice, Richard.”

“True—true. But it was annoying, very annoying, to be asked if it was not dangerous to domesticate a young adventurer with my heiress.”

Mrs. Heriton reddened slightly.

“Surely Mr. Dormer does not merit such a name as that?”

“Well, no—not in the common acceptation of the term. He is an agreeable, intelligent young fellow. But you must acknowledge, my dear, that you are permitting too close an intimacy between him and our daughter. He might be tempted to try and entangle her into an engagement or elopement. Really,” and Mr. Heriton began to look quite excited at the idea, “really, it looks very serious.”

His lady smiled.

“I have too much faith in his honor and my little Florence’s simplicity to fear such a dénouement. Yet I know and feel that you are right; and if it were not that he will soon leave us, I should, for his sake, keep Florence more closely to her studies.”

Mr. Heriton stared.

“For his sake! Well, yes, I suppose you are right. Florence will have too much good sense to throw herself away. She must not marry until she has been properly presented. She must have a season in London, and——”

“Dear Richard, is it worth while to form plans that cannot be carried out for two or three years to come?” the lady asked, wearily leaning back with closed eyes, as if the mere prospect of her merry, artless daughter being converted into a fashionable belle alarmed her.

Mr. Heriton came to her side directly with affectionate solicitude.

“Dear Emma, I have worried you, haven’t I? You’re not feeling so well. Did you have a drive to-day?”

“No, I scarcely felt equal to it.”

“Ha! That carriage is not easy enough. I saw a new patent advertised in the Times expressly adapted for invalids. I’ll have one down for you.”

“Pray don’t!” said Mrs. Heriton earnestly. “I am very well satisfied with the one I have; and, indeed, Richard, it troubles me when you go to such needless expense.”

He patted her shoulder.

“Pooh—pooh! Do I ever begrudge anything that will add to your comfort?”

“No, never. But, Richard, dear, when I think of the enormous outlay of the last few years, I will confess that it frightens me. No, don’t go away. I have wanted to say this to you for some time. Do tell me frankly—are we not exceeding our income? Is not that the cause of the secret anxiety that I am sure is preying upon you?”

She had got both his hands in hers, and was looking so eagerly in his face that he was obliged to reply:

“Nonsense, love! You are too fearful. There is nothing amiss. The improvements will pay for themselves in a little while. I am somewhat pressed for ready money—yes, I don’t mind confessing that to you. But it’s nothing—absolutely nothing. Every gentleman of enterprise has to contend with such inconveniences occasionally. And I have been embarking rather largely in a capital speculation.”

“Speculation!” Mrs. Heriton repeated, looking really alarmed.

He laughed.

“I shouldn’t have used that expression. I know what a terrible sound it has in your ears. But there is not the slightest cause for uneasiness. It is a flourishing company I have joined, and I shall more than double what I have risked. For Florence’s sake, love, you ought to be pleased. It is for our child’s interests I try to increase our fortune.”

Mrs. Heriton tried to appear satisfied, but failed so signally that her husband’s irritability returned.

“Are we not to dine at all to-day? Really, Emma, there is strange mismanagement somewhere!”

Before she could reply the signal was given, and he led her to the dining room, where they were speedily joined by Frank. His apologies for the delay somewhat appeased his host’s ill humor, and he chatted cheerfully till the removal of the cloth.

But Mrs. Heriton’s keener eye detected that the young man was not in his usual spirits, and when she returned to the drawing room her questions quickly drew from the ingenuous Florence a recital of what had occurred.

She was lying back on her couch, still quivering with grateful emotion, and caressing the beloved one who had been in such peril, when the gentlemen joined them. A servant had been sent to the nearest town for letters, and Mr. Heriton was unusually eager to examine the bag. But there was nothing in it for him except a few notes and circulars of no importance, and he sat drumming on the table, and sipping his coffee, while Frank Dormer opened the two addressed to himself.

From one of his correspondents—a college acquaintance, who was enjoying a few months of London life—he was in the habit of receiving many little bits of town gossip, which he was so accustomed to read aloud, that when he closed his letter Florence exclaimed:

“What! No news to-night, Mr. Dormer?”

“None worth repeating. In fact, Willis’ letter is filled with lamentations at his own ill fortune. He has suffered himself to be persuaded to take some shares in a new company which has suddenly collapsed. I fear from what he tells me that hundreds will be sufferers by the rascality of the few who had constituted themselves directors.”

Mr. Heriton took the cup Florence had just replenished, and carelessly observed:

“Ah, there are so many of these mushroom affairs always springing up that it behooves a man to be cautious. Your friend should not have been so easily duped. What was the company called?”

Frank referred to his letter, and read aloud the high-sounding appellation. Mr. Heriton’s cup fell from his nerveless hand, he gasped for breath, and then, dashing his hand on the table, cried fiercely:

“It is a lie, sir—a lie!”

His wife and daughter started up in such terrified surprise that it recalled him to himself. But he was fearfully pale.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Dormer—I really beg your pardon! I don’t know what possessed me. How ridiculous I am! Sit down, Emma. Why do you persist in agitating yourself about nothing? Florence, child, go to your mother. Do you hear?” And he stamped his foot at her so passionately that she shrank from him in tearful affright.

With unsteady hand he lit a candle.

“I must go to my study. I have letters here that must be answered. Will you excuse me, Mr. Dormer?”

When he had quitted the room, Mrs. Heriton, stifling her own dread, quietly said that she believed he had taken a few shares in the defunct company, and felt mortified that his name should be mixed up in a fraudulent concern.

The composure of her manner reassured her daughter and deceived Frank, who knew nothing of his host’s affairs, and was thoughtfully musing over the contents of his other missive. He was so absorbed in his musings that he did not hear Florence when she came to bid him good night.

Then he started up.

“Good night and good-by, dear little friend! I have received my summons, and shall be far away from here when you open your eyes in the morning.”

Florence looked aghast.

“So soon—so soon? Oh, mamma! Why must he go?”

“It is his duty, child,” her mother replied gravely. “Don’t distress him with vain regrets. Bid him adieu, and we will both pray for his successful career and safe return.”

Florence put out both her hands.

“Dear Mr. Dormer, good-by! And Heaven bless you! I shall greatly miss you. I shall never, never forget you!”

“You promise too much,” he answered, trying to laugh. “You will be a happy wife long before I return to England—if I ever do.”

Florence raised her eyes to his with dismay.

“If ever you come back! Do you mean that we shall not see you again? What—never? Mamma, does he mean it?”

She burst into tears, and Frank, more troubled at her distress than he dared express, led her to her mother, who was anxiously looking on.

For some few minutes the young girl could not still her passionate weeping. She had never contemplated an utter separation, and it terrified her.

“It is like death,” she murmured, “to see any one you love go away with no hope of their returning.”

“Mr. Dormer spoke too hastily, Florence,” said her mother. “If he leaves friends here whom he values, he will come back some day to them. Now say good-by once more, and run away, unless you wish to spoil my night’s rest.”

Florence instantly obeyed, but her faltering farewell and the wistful glance of her soft eyes made Frank forget himself. He put his arms around her and pressed his lips to her forehead; then turned to the fireplace and shaded his face with his hand till the closing of the door told him she had gone.

Then he went to Mrs. Heriton.

“Forgive me! If you knew all I feel and suffer at this moment—how dear Florence has become to me—to me, who may never——”

He could say no more, but she kindly answered:

“Be more hopeful. Look forward to the future with a firm trust in Providence, and remember that Florence is very young, and may still be free when you have achieved a position that warrants your asking her father for her, if you still wish it.”

His face glowed with joy.

“And would you—would Mr. Heriton ever consent? Ah, madam, you say this to encourage me; but years of patient toil would scarcely place me on a footing with your heiress!”

The lady sighed heavily, and pressed her hands to her throbbing heart.

“There are many changes in life, and Florence may not be exempt from misfortunes. I have terrible misgivings. A few years, and Heaven only knows where my child may be!”

She spoke so low that Frank bent forward to hear her; and, raising herself, she laid her clasped hands in his.

“Frank Dormer,” she said, with solemn impressiveness, “I shall have gone to my grave long ere you turn your face homeward! I have faith in you—great faith. So much, that, were Florence older, I would thankfully see her yours. But I can do nothing. I have been weak and helpless all my life. I can only strive for strength to leave my dear ones to wiser guardianship than mine. But it will comfort me to hear you promise that, under any circumstances, you will protect and befriend my child if she needs it.”

“I promise it, on my soul, Mrs. Heriton,” the young man answered, reverently bending his head.

She murmured a blessing, and, seeing that the excitement was too much for her, he rang for her maid. It was their last earthly meeting, as she had predicted; but ere Frank quitted the priory at daybreak, a sealed packet was given to him. It contained a tiny miniature of Florence and her mother, and on the paper that enveloped it was faintly traced the word “Remember!”

Mr. Heriton also left the priory that day, on pretext of a little business to attend to at Morpeth; but his lady was not surprised to hear that he had been seen at the coach office when the coach was starting for London.

The railways had not then reached Northumberland, and Mrs. Heriton prepared herself for days of suspense, to be endured with what patience she could muster, before she could expect his return, or even a letter to explain the cause of his departure.

On the evening of the second day she was reclining in her easy-chair, with Florence sitting at her feet, talking sorrowfully of the absent Frank, when a servant announced the arrival of two strangers.

“They want master, please, ma’am; and they wouldn’t be said nay when I told ’em he was out. They’re Lunnoners by the look of ’em.”

“Are they gentlemen, Mark—friends of papa’s?” asked Florence, her curiosity aroused by the man’s evident perturbation.

Before he could answer, Mrs. Heriton touched her daughter.

“Go away, my dear. And, Mark, show these persons in here.”

Florence looked dubious.

“Let me stay, mamma. You’re not fit to talk to these people, whoever they are; and I will be very reserved and dignified, as Miss Heriton ought to be.”

“No, no!” was the hurried reply. “They come on business. Pray go away!” And she reluctantly withdrew.

Mrs. Heriton knew that her worst forebodings were realized as soon as her unwelcome visitors entered. But she struggled with the sharp pain that shook her feeble frame, and calmly inquired their errand. It was soon told, though with tolerable gentleness, for the men had a little compassion for the delicate woman who questioned them.

Mr. Heriton had rendered himself responsible for the liabilities of the company he had joined, to such an extent that ruin—absolute ruin—must be the consequence. These men had been empowered to take possession of the priory, and would remain until some arrangements could be made.

She offered no useless objections, uttered no complaints, but heard them with patience, and gave the necessary orders to her servants. But when they had quitted the room, and the miserable wife and mother began to comprehend the extent of the trouble that menaced her, a bitter cry burst from her laboring heart.

“Florence, my child—my poor child!”

Her daughter, who was lingering in the next room until recalled, heard the shriek, and flew to her mother. She found her lying back in her chair, looking so strangely white that she hastily summoned assistance.

The female servants gathered around their lady, and tried every known remedy to revive her, but without success.

“A doctor!” cried the half-frantic Florence. “She has fainted. Oh, if papa were but here!”

One of the strangers, who had stolen in unchecked in the confusion, put his fingers to Mrs. Heriton’s pulse, then crept softly away.

“Heaven help that poor young creature!” he whispered to his companion. “I don’t like to be the first to tell her, but a doctor’s no use. The lady’s dead.”

CHAPTER III.

THE LEGACY.

Eight years had passed over the head of Florence Heriton since the sudden death of her beloved mother, and the gay, happy child of fifteen was transformed into the thoughtful, beautiful woman.

Florence had more than fulfilled the promise of her early girlhood. The slim figure had expanded into well-rounded proportions, and if the rosy color and arch expression of her features had departed, they were replaced by a softened sweetness and delicacy even more charming.

Mrs. Heriton’s worst misgivings had been realized. The priory had passed into other hands. By slow degrees the rest of her husband’s property had been dissipated in vain attempts to rebuild his fortunes by wild speculations. Friends had grown weary of dissuading and advising, and had given up a connection which only exposed them to urgent entreaties for loans to be repaid on the success of such and such an enterprise.

Only Florence clung more closely than ever to the father whom she loved and pitied; and, fancying that her mother’s death had been in some measure the cause of his insatiable restlessness, she tried in every conceivable way to minister to his comfort, and to wile him from those thoughts of achieving riches which tormented him.

As they grew poorer they had been compelled to economize more and more, and they were now occupying lodgings in a very quiet part of Brompton.

There was no thoroughfare through this street, which ended in a mews, so it was indeed very quiet and very dull. From her sitting-room window Florence had listlessly watched the opposite neighbors till she knew them all and was familiar with their habits—the half-pay major and his shrewish wife; the invalid lady with her large family of boisterous children, and the three old maids who were patterns of propriety and stiffness to every one in the street. But her eye always rested longest on two young females, daily governesses, who with commendable punctuality went to and fro every day. How she envied them—how she longed to take up her books, too, and toil with the proud satisfaction of knowing that her meed would be the glittering coins of which she so often felt an absolute need.

But Mr. Heriton was prouder than in the days of his prosperity. He was always dreaming of retrieving the past by some stroke of good luck, and he insisted that his heiress should do nothing that would degrade him. A hint that she was anxious to make some use of her accomplishments threw him into such a fit of passion that his frightened daughter never dared repeat it. But it was a weary life for one so young. Without a piano—a luxury she had long ago been forced to deny herself—without books, save those she had read till she wearied of them—forbidden to walk out because it was indecorous for Miss Heriton to be seen without an attendant—the days went by as slowly and sadly as Mariana’s in the moated grange.

Mr. Heriton—dressed with punctilious care—always sallied forth after he had breakfasted, and did not return until evening, when Florence was expected to be ready to receive him with smiles. He never asked how she had spent the long interval; nor did he seem to guess how often it was passed in weeping over the pages of her one great treasure—a little journal her mother had kept, and which she jealously guarded from every eye, for was not the last entry about Frank Dormer?—that dear, kind, gentle Frank, more thought of, more loved and regretted now than even in the first days of his absence. Mrs. Heriton’s feeble hand had traced these words only a few hours before she died:

“Thursday, May, 18—.—Mr. Dormer left us yesterday for India. Even as I imagined, he loves my darling, and hopes to return some day rich enough to wed her. Heaven bless and prosper him! For he is a good young man, and it comforts and strengthens me to think that there is some one in this wide world who will protect her when I am gone. Perhaps I am too romantic in hoping this, but so pure a love will surely outlast the sad changes which I am compelled to dread. My poor Richard—my poor little Florence!”

And here the writer had suddenly ceased, as if her fears overcame her. But when Florence grew very sad she would take out her mother’s journal, ponder over this last page, and, with hope lighting up her eye and a soft blush o’erspreading her delicate cheek, whisper to herself: “It will be all right when Frank comes back to me; I shall never know sorrow more when he is here!”

Still, as the years sped on and he returned not, the deferred hope became an additional sorrow. He had written to Mr. Heriton twice after the tidings of Mrs. Heriton’s death had reached him, and each time the packet had contained a voluminous inclosure for Florence. But these letters were tossed into the fire half read, with such fierce execrations at the writer’s insolence that she dared not ask the nature of their contents.

At the close of a day in November, when the evening was setting in with a misting rain, the dinner hour had almost passed without Mr. Heriton making his appearance. Florence had shaken up the pillows of his easy-chair, coaxed the fire into a bright blaze, and rectified all the omissions of the slatternly servant—who complained bitterly of the airs miss’ pa gave himself if the tablecloth wasn’t quite straight, or the knives dull—and had then gone backward and forward to the window many times to watch for his coming.

The governesses, shielded with umbrellas and waterproofs, had returned home half an hour previously, and as they stood at the door waiting to be admitted, had caught a glimpse of the pretty, anxious face peering through the opposite window. They must have surmised her fears, for their own blind was raised once or twice, and by and by one of them, with a shawl thrown over her head, tripped out of the house, picked her way across the muddy road, and, standing under the lamp-post, looked up and waved her hand to attract Florence’s attention.

She threw up the sash immediately, and a cheerful voice exclaimed:

“Pardonnez, mademoiselle, but you are uneasy—is it not so? Monsieur your papa has not returned?”

“No, he has not,” was the hurried reply. “Tell me—do you know if anything has happened to him?”

“No, he was well and safe when I passed through Pall Mall on my way home. He had just encountered an old friend, whom he was warmly greeting.”

Florence’s heart bounded. Could it be Frank Dormer? Unlikely as it was, her spirits rose, and she gratefully thanked the young lady for the information.

“Do not speak of it,” she answered. “The suggestion was Susan’s, my cousin’s. Good night—good night!” And she sped back to her own cozy fireside.

“How kind to interest themselves about me—a stranger!” murmured Florence. “How I wish papa would let me make their acquaintance! Who can he be staying with? An old friend whom he greeted warmly! Ah, we have so few friends left, it is difficult to guess who this one can be.”

Another hour had almost elapsed ere her suspense was ended. Mr. Heriton came in, rubbing his hands and complaining of the cold, but evidently in the highest possible spirits.

“What a wretched fire you keep, my love! Ring for more coals! Is dinner ready? Have I kept you waiting?”

“A little, sir. I should have been very uneasy about you if one of our neighbors had not kindly assured me of your safety.”

Mr. Heriton lifted his eyebrows.

“Rather impertinent, I think, of such people to trouble themselves about our affairs! We must get out of this miserable hole, my love, as soon as we can. It is scarcely respectable.”

He took his seat at the table without waiting for a reply, and began uncovering the dishes.

“Nothing but a sole and hashed mutton! Do you call this a dinner?”

Florence colored painfully.

“Dear papa, I reminded you a week ago that my housekeeping purse was empty, and Mrs. Jones is—is dissatisfied at the length of our bill.”

She did not add that she had sold a pair of pearl bracelets to quiet the woman with a partial payment.

Mr. Heriton frowned angrily.

“You must be a very bad manager. However, I shall engage a thorough housekeeper as soon as we leave here, and then there will be a prospect of having a meal fit to sit down to. Why are there no wineglasses here?” he asked of the girl who waited.

She answered rather saucily that it worn’t no use to put them if there worn’t no wine to drink out of them; and missus said she shouldn’t order no more till the last dozen was paid for.

“Quit the room!” Mr. Heriton exclaimed, with dignity. “And tell your mistress to send me her account in the morning. I shall seek other apartments!”

The girl, who had gone through many such scenes, and only refrained from a pert answer for Florence’s sake, flounced away, and the father and daughter finished their meal in silence.

Florence longed to know what had happened to detain him, but feared to ask, till, as he drew his chair to the fire, he put his arm lovingly across her shoulder.

“My darling, you look pale and thin, and your dresses are shabby; but I shall alter all this soon, and my pretty heiress shall take her proper place in society again. Who do you think I have seen to-day?”

“I am a miserable guesser. Pray tell me, papa.”

“Have you forgotten Lady Mason, an acquaintance of your poor mother?”

“Forgotten her! Oh, no, sir! A tall, thin, serious lady, whose grave looks used to make me dislike her, until mamma explained that they were occasioned by the bad conduct of her only son, who was a very profligate man.”

Mr. Heriton stirred the fire vigorously.

“Pooh! Nonsense! Robert Mason is no Puritan, but he’s a remarkably clever fellow; a citizen of the world, child, with a marvelous faculty for business. He is the secretary of a company that is the most prosperous and best-managed one in London.”

“Indeed, sir?” said Florence doubtfully.

“Yes,” he sharply retorted. “Why do you speak in that sneering, unladylike tone? Do you think I am an idiot to be duped by any tale I hear? Am I not old enough and experienced enough to judge for myself whether it is so? I tell you Lieutenant Mason is a clever man, and my very good friend. How dare you doubt my word!”

“Forgive me, papa; I did not mean to vex you,” pleaded Florence tearfully.

He softened as he saw her regret.

“You are a silly child. My sister Margaret has infected you with her own suspicious disposition. My pretty Floy,” he added fondly, “my only blessing—is it not for you that I strive to regain our lost wealth? Shall I ever be happy until I have restored to you your inheritance?”

Florence slid down on her knees beside him.

“Papa, don’t think of it—don’t strive for what I have freely yielded. Only love me, and let me work for you, and I ask nothing else.”

He kissed her forehead.

“Pooh, you foolish little thing! You don’t know what you are talking about. Our prospects are brightening, and ere long we shall buy back the priory, and my daughter shall keep open house there to all comers to celebrate our return.”

Florence sighed drearily. She had heard this predicted so often! But Mr. Heriton did not notice it, and went on talking in the same animated manner.

“Mason was delighted to see me. He entered warmly into my affairs, and has put me in the way of a good thing or two already. You see, my dear, I have been unfortunate hitherto in having to deal with artful persons who took no real interest in me. Now, Mason is quite a different man, and will not let me run any risks. Do you comprehend my meaning?”

“Not quite, papa; but I hope he is all you think him. Does he thoroughly understand”—and now Florence spoke hesitatingly—“that—that we have no ready money left to—to speculate with?”

Mr. Heriton frowned.

“How oddly you express yourself! Of course, I frankly told him that all my available capital is locked up in various investments. It is very unfortunate that it should be so, for I cannot buy some shares he has recommended me until I can put my hand on a few hundreds.”

Florence thought in her heart that it was quite as well as it was; but she did not venture to say so, and her father rose and paced the room for some few minutes. When he came back to his seat he said irritably:

“How it wounds me to see you so careless of our interests! Really, Florence, it is cruelly disheartening to find you so utterly indifferent.”

“But indeed, papa,” she said affectionately, “I have been listening to all you have said, and wishing it were in my power to give you back the priory.”

He drew his chair closer to hers.

“And it is in your power to assist me greatly, Florence. You can let me have the money I require. That legacy my sister Margaret’s husband left you will be ample, and I will return it ere long.”

Florence grew very pale. Mrs. Margaret Blunden—who knew and condemned her brother’s follies—had exacted from her a promise never to be tempted to touch this bequest; and her niece had freely given it, for it was their little all. She knew but too well that there was nothing else left to them, and she held it sacred, for it was her steadfast purpose when Mr. Heriton saw the hopelessness of his speculations to devote it to the purchase of an annuity for him. The more madly he launched into fresh schemes the more firmly Florence clung to this sum of money for his sake. With this, and what she could earn, her father’s old age could at least be secured from want.

She had long dreaded such a request, and now summoned up all her fortitude to refuse it.

“Dearest papa, if I had reserved Uncle Blunden’s legacy for my own uses I would willingly give it to you, but I have a special purpose for it. Don’t ask me to part with it, please, for I dare not.”

“Pooh! Florence—this is so childish! I do but ask it as a loan; a few weeks or months at the farthest, and you shall have it again, doubled.”

Florence was very pale, but her resolution was not to be shaken.

“I cannot give it you, papa—I cannot, indeed! We have nothing else left, and if this were lost, too, what would become of us?”

Mr. Heriton began to grow angry at her firmness.

“Child, it will not be lost, I tell you. Think what you are doing by your obstinacy; you are depriving me of what may be my last chance of recovering myself. With those few hundreds in my possession, I see my way to fortune.”

“But, alas, dear papa, you have thought the same thing so often.”

Mr. Heriton started up and pushed her violently from him.

“Unfeeling girl! After all I have risked on your account—the days and nights of mental anxiety I have endured—the insults I have submitted to from men who formerly were ready to humble themselves before me—after all that I have encountered and borne with for your sake—yes—all—all for you—you are the first to reproach me with my unfortunate failures.”

“Don’t mistake me so, papa; indeed, I did not mean to reproach you!” said Florence, now in tears at his harshness.

“Prove it—prove it!” he answered vehemently. “If you really repent your injustice, sign me a check on the banker with whom the money is deposited.”

She had never actually disobeyed any wish of her father until now, and it was not without a terrible pang that she repeated her refusal.

“I cannot, sir! Forgive me, but I cannot!”

Mr. Heriton struck his forehead with his hand.

“Am I a villain, that my only child refuses to trust me? Go, Florence—leave me; I can bear no more.”

But instead of quitting the room, she threw her arms around his neck, beseeching him to pardon her if she seemed unkind.

“I do not doubt you, my own dear papa. How could I? Are we not all in all to each other? Let me work for you—let me earn money for you! I should be the happiest of the happy if your little comforts were purchased by my exertions. But don’t ask me again for Uncle Blunden’s bequest; I have promised Aunt Margaret that I will not touch it, and you would despise your daughter if she broke her word.”

Mr. Heriton, quivering with passion, put her forcibly from him.

“I believe, Miss Heriton, that Mrs. Blunden has on more than one occasion expressed a wish that you should take up your residence with her. I withdraw my opposition to her request; you are perfectly at liberty to go whenever you please. You have forfeited my affection by your selfish and deceitful conduct; you have chosen to be guided by an illiberal woman, who has no sisterly affection for me. Go to her, and forget that you have a father, as I shall try to forget that I have ever had a child!”

“Papa, you cannot mean this!” she faltered. “You know that I would not leave you for Aunt Margaret or any one else.”

With freezing politeness he walked to the door and opened it for her.

“This discussion is very painful to me, Miss Heriton; I must beg that you will not prolong it. As you may depart before I rise in the morning, I will say my adieus now.”

Florence tried to answer him, but she had been feeling poorly all day with a feverish cold; and, thoroughly upset by the scene she had gone through, she dropped into a chair, half fainting.

Greatly alarmed by her pale face and closed eyes, her father rang the bell and hurried to support her.

“Look up, my darling—speak to me! Great heavens! Have I killed her—have I killed her?”

Florence made an effort to answer him, but was too ill to do more than murmur an affectionate “Dear—dear papa!” And his alarm increasing, he called loudly for assistance. The mistress of the house, who cherished a great liking for “poor, pretty Miss Heriton,” and disliked her consequential father, came bustling in and carried her off to bed, assiduously nursing her during the days that she lay in the alternate chills and delirium of a low fever.

Mr. Heriton was extremely attentive during this time, and seemed anxious to atone for the past, fussily hovering about his daughter’s bed, and entreating her to tell him if there was any delicacy she could fancy—a pineapple, for instance, or peaches, or guava jelly—till poor Florence, who knew that all these things were beyond his reach, grew worried and unhappy at his thoughtless way of talking.

Partly to put an end to it she left the room as soon as her weakened limbs would support her, and her longing for fresh air led her to wrap herself up on the first sunny day, and stroll languidly up and down the street. The bright, frosty atmosphere braced and revived her. There was even a pale tint of the rose on her cheek as she turned her steps homeward, but she was so fragile-looking that one of the governesses, coming briskly from her daily avocation, stopped, and, after a moment’s hesitation, came and spoke to her with sympathizing kindness.