Transcriber’s Note:

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

DOROTHY HARCOURT’S SECRET
Sequel to “A Deed Without a Name”

BY

MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH

Author of

“To His Fate,” “The Lost Heir,” “A Noble Lord,” “Sweet Love’s Atonement,” “Zenobia’s Suitors,” Etc.

A. L. BURT COMPANY

Publishers New York

POPULAR BOOKS

By MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH

In Handsome Cloth Binding

Price per volume, 60 Cents

Beautiful Fiend, A

Brandon Coyle’s Wife

Sequel to A Skeleton in the Closet

Bride’s Fate, The

Sequel to The Changed Brides

Bride’s Ordeal, The

Capitola’s Peril

Sequel to The Hidden Hand

Changed Brides, The

Cruel as the Grave

David Lindsay

Sequel to Gloria

Deed Without a Name, A

Dorothy Harcourt’s Secret

Sequel to A Deed Without a Name

“Em”

Em’s Husband

Sequel to “Em”

Fair Play

For Whose Sake

Sequel to Why Did He Wed Her?

For Woman’s Love

Fulfilling Her Destiny

Sequel to When Love Commands

Gloria

Her Love or Her Life

Sequel to The Bride’s Ordeal

Her Mother’s Secret

Hidden Hand, The

How He Won Her

Sequel to Fair Play

Ishmael

Leap in the Dark, A

Lilith

Sequel to The Unloved Wife

Little Nea’s Engagement

Sequel to Nearest and Dearest

Lost Heir, The

Lost Lady of Lone, The

Love’s Bitterest Cup

Sequel to Her Mother’s Secret

Mysterious Marriage, The

Sequel to A Leap in the Dark

Nearest and Dearest

Noble Lord, A

Sequel to The Lost Heir

Self-Raised

Sequel to Ishmael

Skeleton in the Closet, A

Struggle of a Soul, The

Sequel to The Lost Lady of Lone

Sweet Love’s Atonement

Test of Love, The

Sequel to A Tortured Heart

To His Fate

Sequel to Dorothy Harcourt’s Secret

Tortured Heart, A

Sequel to The Trail of the Serpent

Trail of the Serpent, The

Tried for Her Life

Sequel to Cruel as the Grave

Unloved Wife, The

Unrequited Love, An

Sequel to For Woman’s Love

Victor’s Triumph

Sequel to A Beautiful Fiend

When Love Commands

When Shadows Die

Sequel to Love’s Bitterest Cup

Why Did He Wed Her?

Zenobia’s Suitors

Sequel to Sweet Love’s Atonement

For Sale by all Booksellers or will be sent postpaid on receipt of price.

A. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS

Copyright 1885, 1886.

BY ROBERT BONNER.

Renewal granted Mrs. Charlotte Southworth Lawrence for 28 years from Dec. 16, 1913.

DOROTHY HARCOURT’S SECRET.

Dorothy Harcourt’s Secret

CHAPTER I
EARLY IN THE MORNING

It was one o’clock on Christmas morning when the Christmas sleigh returned to the Wesleyan Flats, bringing Santa Claus and his two aides.

As soon as the three alighted, a man from the livery stable, who had been engaged to meet them at that hour, mounted the box to take the conveyance home; but not before he had received a liberal gift.

The house was all ablaze with light.

There had been Christmas Eve festivals in almost every suit of apartments in it.

Mr. Merritt lifted little Owlet—so tired and so sleepy, yet so divinely happy—and bore her into the house.

’Pollyon Syphax was on duty in the hall, and stared at the three figures in the black waterproofs that covered their disguises from head to foot.

They went upon the elevator, reached Roma’s parlor and found her reclining in her armchair by the center table, reading the “Golden Legend” by the light of a shaded lamp.

Madame Nouvellini lay fast asleep in her invalid chair, nor did she wake up on the entrance of the party.

“What sort of a time did you have?” inquired Roma, as the weary Santa Claus sat down on the sofa with the sleeping child across his knees.

“A very fine time. The ground, or rather the snow, was so hard and smooth, and the horses so fresh, that I am sure they got over the ground with more than steam-engine express speed! Guided by our policeman, I think we visited every poor neighborhood, and even every criminal locality in the ten miles’ square.”

“That was right; for there are innocent children everywhere, even in the guiltiest haunts. Ah, poor children! If I have lost Will Harcourt, I must devote my life and all it holds to them! What am I saying? Whether I have lost him or not, I will devote all that I may of my life to the rescue of the lost children?”

“What!” inquired the lawyer. “Is your stout heart failing that you talk of the possibility of losing Will Harcourt?”

“Oh, no! I do hope—but ‘hope deferred maketh the heart sick.’ No news comes,” sighed Roma.

“The young man may have been smuggled on board some outbound ship—may be across the ocean by this time!”

“What makes you think so?”

“I do not exactly think so. I only throw out the idea on speculation, as a possible explanation of the failure of all our plans to discover him! Well, my dear, I must be going now! It is twenty minutes past one. I suppose the people in this house mean to keep it up all night. To-morrow I shall come and give you a report of to-night’s work—‘To-morrow?’ It is to-morrow now!—Christmas is more than an hour old!” said the lawyer, as he arose and carefully laid the sleeping child on the sofa.

“We made a great many people happy to-night, but the happiest of all was little Owlet! There are children’s parties in the mansions of the rich everywhere, but I doubt if any among them enjoyed themselves as little Owlet did to-night. She has gone to sleep, tired out with a surfeit of happiness. Good-evening, my dear,” he said, warmly pressing Roma’s hand. “Come, boy!” he added, shaking up the dozing Tom, who, Virginia negro fashion, had dropped himself down on the floor and gone to sleep.

When the two had left the room, Roma knelt down by the sofa, and began to undress the child softly and deftly, so as not to awaken her if it were possible to avoid doing so.

Mr. Merritt had already taken off her mask, and the removal of her other disguises was comparatively easy.

But as Roma rolled her gently over, stealing, as it were, her clothing off her, the child partly awoke, and murmured in her sleep:

“Oh, you dear little baby—here’s—a dolly for you, and—candy and——” She dropped into deeper sleep with the words on her lips.

Roma put the child in her own bed. Then she looked at Marguerite, and saw that she was sleeping well, with ice water, milk and all else within reach that she might want during the remainder of the night.

Then at length Roma herself went to bed and to sleep, and slept soundly, notwithstanding the loud revelry that was going on over her head and under her feet, and on the opposite side of the hall.

Late as was the hour when she retired, she awoke quite refreshed at her usual time—seven o’clock in the morning. Her little bedfellow was still sound asleep, living over in dreams the happiest ride and night she had ever had in her little life.

Roma covered the sleeping face with a thin handkerchief, and then opened the windows to air the room and passed into the parlor.

Her protégée, Marguerite Nouvellini, was not only awake, but sitting up in her adjustable chair, with a breakfast tray before her.

“I was so hungry when I woke up that I wheeled myself in reach of the bell, and rang and ordered breakfast. Did you care?” she inquired, seeing Roma’s surprised look.

“Oh, no, my dear,” Roma hastened to say; “though if you had touched the timbre on your stand, you would have waked me, and I could have done it all for you and saved you the fatigue of pushing yourself about the room.”

“Oh, it did not tire me—not at all. Oh, this chair! I don’t believe that even you, who bought it for me, know half its merits. I said it was bed and chair and carriage to me. It is more than that. It is legs! I can go where I please about the room with just the lightest little push on this little knob. See!”

And the invalid wheeled herself around the room and back again to her stand.

“I see,” said Roma; “it works easily, and you are so much stronger.”

“Oh, ever so much stronger and better. I shall soon get well now. Thanks to you, dear friend. But I should never have got better if you had not brought me out of that miserable room, where the only choice I had was between sitting in the bitter cold or having a smoking fire in the wretched little iron stove, and I think the smoke was worse than the cold. And then that straight-backed little chair! And the diet of bread and tea, that was always cold before it reached me! Ah, I was dying of discomfort more than of a cough when you found and rescued me. And now, in this lovely room, in this lovely chair, and with the clean, soft steam heat, and all the good things you give me to eat day and night, and, above all, you yourself! You are always breathing the breath of life over me—if it is not a sin to say it. And I shall soon be well and strong. And, oh! may the Lord open some way for me to show my love and gratitude to you! I have not talked so much as this since the day I was taken down sick,” she concluded, with a smile.

“No, dear, you have not, nor do I think it wise in you to tax your strength in doing so now,” said Roma.

But the invalid was in a talking mood.

“When I woke up this morning, the first thing I saw was Owlet’s mask and dress, and I knew she had got home safe,” she said.

“Oh, yes! and she was in bed long before several other children of the house who were dancing; and Mr. Merritt thinks she was happier than them all,” said Roma.

While they talked together, little Owlet suddenly appeared before them, ready dressed for breakfast. She had risen in her quiet way and made her simple toilet silently.

Then Roma produced her Christmas presents, a lovely wadded silk dressing gown for Madame Marguerite, and a workbox, completely fitted, for Owlet. Both were delighted, and declared—what all people declare to the giver of Christmas gifts—that the present was just exactly what the receiver most wanted.

“I am glad you didn’t give me a doll,” said Owlet.

“Why?” inquired Roma, with a smile.

“I don’t like dolls.”

“But why?”

“Because they are not alive.”

“Oh! But neither are workboxes alive,” said Roma, smiling.

“But workboxes don’t look as if they are alive, and dolls do. Besides, workboxes are so useful, and dolls are of no use on the face of the earth.”

“Not to play with?”

“No. Who wants to play with a thing that looks like it ought to be alive, and ain’t?” inquired this solemn little monster.

“Why, all the little girls I ever saw loved to play with dolls,” said Roma, much amused by the oddity of the “type” before her.

“Then if they do, I think they are not possessed of common sense.”

“You are certainly a fairy changeling. You can’t be a human child,” said Roma.

“I don’t know about that. I don’t remember what I was at first. I only remember being Madame Marguerite’s little girl. And now I am going upstairs to go to the bottom of mamma’s big trunk and get my Christmas present for you,” said Owlet; and away she sped.

Her mother called her back, and said:

“Bring the little red morocco case down with you, too.”

“With papa’s picture?”

“Yes, with papa’s picture.”

The child flew away, and after a little space returned with the miniature case in one hand and a small casket in the other. She thrust the case into her mother’s hand and then ran eagerly to Roma, opened the little casket, and displayed a simple little necklace of turquoise beads.

“This is for you. Oh! try it around your throat. Please do. It will look so lovely on your white throat.”

Roma kissed the child, took the necklace, and clasped it around her neck.

“There! It just suits you! Don’t it? It is blue, like your eyes. But your eyes are darker. Mamma said I might give you this,” said Owlet in delight.

Meanwhile, Madame Marguerite was opening the little case.

“Here,” she said, “I want you to look at the picture of my husband. See how handsome he was!”

Roma took the miniature, which was in the form of a locket, and set around with a circle of pearls of the purest quality.

But as soon as her eyes fell upon the pictured face it took all her great self-control to keep still.

“Is he not handsome?” inquired Madame Marguerite.

“Many people might think so,” answered Roma.

“Don’t you think so?” asked the widow, with a little tone of disappointment.

“I am a blonde, which is, perhaps, the reason why I do not much admire fair men.”

“Oh! I see.”

“This was your husband, you say?”

“Yes, of course.”

“What was his name?”

“Guilliaume Nouvellini.”

“A Frenchman?”

“Yes. There’s where I got my French name, for I am not a French woman, though I did dance at the Theatre Française and the Gaieté.”

“How long ago did he marry you?” inquired Roma, with consummate self-command.

“Six years ago this New Year. And we were very happy for about another year. Then he died, when little Owlet was but three months old. Well, all that is past and gone these five years ago. One must not dwell on one’s past sorrows if one means to live and work in this world.”

“Pardon me for asking so many questions, but I feel very deeply interested in this matter,” said Roma, as she gazed on the miniature. “But—was your husband with you when he died?”

“Ah, me! No. I was in Paris with my young babe. He had to go to San Francisco on some very pressing business, I know not what, and there he was taken ill of some fatal fever. He wrote me several letters while he was on his sick bed. Then at last came a letter from his physician, announcing his death, and a newspaper with his obituary in it. Ah, me! It was a great sorrow, but one must not dwell on their own sorrows if they want to be of any use in this world. I did not have that locket brought down here merely to show you my poor husband’s handsome face, but to do this. Please let me have the locket again.”

Roma put it in her hand.

She touched a little spring, took the miniature out of the jeweled locket, and put the latter in Roma’s hand, saying:

“I want you to have these pearls, dear. You see, they are very fine, else I would not offer them. Do take them, dear. They are all I have to give you. Get them reset in a brooch, and wear it sometimes for my sake.”

Roma took the pearls, and kissed the forehead of the donor with tears in her own eyes.

But Madame Marguerite was pressing the dis-set picture to her lips and to her heart.

“Are we going to have any breakfast to-day, ma’am? You and I, I mean. My stomach has gone to my backbone,” said Owlet.

“Come, my dear; we will go down,” replied Roma, who, since she had had an invalid domiciled in her parlor, and a little companion to accompany her to the restaurant, always went there for meals.

“Now we will see what they will give us for a Christmas breakfast,” said Owlet as she entered the elevator.

“What would you like?” inquired Roma.

“Milk, real milk, not milk and water; cake and preserved strawberries.”

“A rather bilious bill of fare, Owlet.”

“Well, then, I won’t eat it; and mind you don’t, either! A person ought not to eat anything to make them sick; any person who does that is not possessed of common sense,” said Owlet authoritatively.

“I think you are quite right, ma’am,” said Roma, smiling.

“What makes you always call me ma’am? I’m not a married woman.”

“Oh, you are not!”

“Why, of course not. I’m not even engaged. You know I’m not. So what makes you call me ma’am?” demanded Owlet.

“Well,” said Roma, slowly and thoughtfully, “in high courtesy, ladies of distinction, married or unmarried, are, or used to be, always addressed as ‘madam’ or ‘ma’am.’ Now I think a young personage like yourself, who is too wise to hear a fairy tale because you say it is not true—though it may be, for aught you know—or to play with a doll because it is not alive—though they may also be in some sense—ought certainly to be honored with the title of madam.”

Owlet gazed at the lady in solemn and sorrowful wonder and disapprobation, and then she gave utterance to her feelings:

“If anybody else in this world but you was to talk like that I know what I should think.”

“Well, what?” inquired the amused lady.

“They were not possessed of common sense,” said Owlet gloomily.

“Very few people are so happily endowed according to your standard.”

The elevator came down, with a little jar, to the basement floor, and Roma led her small friend out into the hall and through to the restaurant.

“We are not mad with each other, are we?” inquired Owlet as they seated themselves at one of the remote corner tables.

“Why, certainly not! We are the best of friends always.”

“I’m glad of that, because I only told the truth, and it was for your good, too; because I do love you, really.”

The breakfast bill of fare laid before them by the obsequious waiter arrested attention and stopped the conversation; and after the meal was served Owlet was too much engaged with her milk, bread and eggs to favor Roma with any more “wisdom in solid chunks.”

When they returned to the parlor upstairs they found Mr. Merritt there, waiting for Roma.

“Any news of Will Harcourt?” she inquired as she shook hands with him.

“None whatever. We must do now what we should have done in the beginning—advertise for him,” replied the lawyer.

“You mean in the personal columns of the daily papers and by initials and guarded hints?”

“No. I mean by a straightforward advertisement in the advertising columns for information respecting the whereabouts of William Everard Harcourt, late of Lone Lodge, West Virginia, who left his home on the Isle of Storms, coast of Maryland, on the fifteenth of last November, and has not been heard from since, and offering a large reward for intelligence that shall lead to the discovery of his fate.”

“That will be making his mysterious disappearance very public.”

“Yes; but it is absolutely the only hope left of finding him.”

“But if this advertisement should come to the knowledge of his poor mother?”

“My dear lady, Dorothy Harcourt, by all accounts, is not in a mental condition to appreciate it. She thinks her son is at his college. She has forgotten all recent events—that is, if we may credit the report of Miss Wynthrop.”

“Yes, I know. Well, since it is so absolutely necessary you may insert the advertisement in all the papers.”

“Now, my dear child, there is another matter on which I wish to speak to you. You, who were a very queen of society, why do you seclude yourself from the world here in the midst of Washington City in the height of the fashionable season? Why do you not send your cards to your friends who are present here, and would be so glad to invite you to their parties.”

“Oh, Mr. Merritt, how can I, under present circumstances? I have no wish to go out. Although I have done no wrong, I feel as if I were a social pariah.”

“That is morbid—very morbid! The story of your wrongs is not known at all beyond the precincts of the judicial chambers; and even if it were known, it would only invest you with a deeper interest, that would hold much admiration and no censure whatever.”

“I could not tolerate such a personal interest, Mr. Merritt,” replied Roma.

“Then, my dear, if you will make a hermit of yourself, would not your country house be a more attractive abode than a suit of apartments in a crowded flat?”

“Ah! you are anxious to get rid of me, Mr. Merritt,” said Roma archly.

“You know better than that; but the truth is, I am off for San Francisco, on sudden and imperative business, and must go by the early train to-morrow morning, and I hate to leave you here alone. If you will not go out I would much rather know that you were with your old neighbors at Goblin Hall.”

Roma glanced at Madame Marguerite, whose chair had been wheeled to one of the back windows, through which she was looking out upon the little piece of woods left standing at some little distance from the house. She seemed absorbed in thought, and gazing rather on vacancy than on the limited landscape before her.

“Ah! I see—I see,” sighed the lawyer. “You are making yourself a martyr to that poor little soul! Why not send her to the Providence Hospital?” he inquired, lowering his voice to a tone inaudible to any ears beyond Roma’s.

“Because it would break her heart. Besides, when I ‘introspect’—to use your own words, Mr. Merritt—I find that it gives me so much happiness to make her comfortable that there is no merit at all in my serving her; and, of course, not the least suggestion of self-sacrifice,” replied Roma in the same low key.

“Well, well, my dear, as you will. I am going to church at St. John’s for the Christmas service. You, I suppose, cannot leave your invalid. Good-morning. Shall see you again before I leave.”

Roma’s dream for her protégée was to take her to Goblin Hall as soon as the spring should open, if the invalid should be well enough to bear the journey.

The daily improvement warranted the hope. So did the words and manners of the attending physician. It is the religion of the medical doctor to inspire hope in his patient and his patient’s friends, whether there be any reasonable grounds for it or not. It is one of his methods of cure.

Marguerite grew so much better that she could walk from room to room.

This improvement continued for weeks, and the invalid, who never had lost her spirits, even in her worst days, grew buoyant with anticipation of her summer holiday in the country.

“I shall like your Goblin Hall,” she said; “and I know it must be haunted. I dote on a haunted house, though I never was in one in my life. I do believe in ghosts, and I don’t believe one word about the name being rightly Goeberlin Hall. I believe it is really and truly Goblin Hall, so called on account of its ghost.”

“Oh, it has a ghost and a haunted room,” said Roma very gravely.

“There, I said so!” exclaimed Marguerite.

“And you shall occupy it, if you wish to do so,” added Roma.

“Oh, no, thank you. I don’t want to do that. I only want to feel that there is such a room in the old colonial house, and, when other people are with me in the evening, to hear the ghostly footsteps and voices in the distance. But I don’t want to be near them and away from everybody else. Oh, no,” said Marguerite, laughing and shaking her head.

Owlet looked and listened in solemn disapproval.

“What do you think about it, ma’am?” inquired Roma, to draw the child out.

“I don’t like to say,” she answered.

“Oh, but I insist.”

“Well, then, if Tom had talked that way I should think Tom was not possessed of common sense.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Roma.

“Don’t mind her,” pleaded Marguerite. “She don’t know any better. She is such a strange child. Her mind is not right. I do think she is half an idiot.”

“Oh, no, indeed, she is not. But where did she pick up that phrase she is so often repeating?”

“The Lord knows. I don’t. She has had such a strange life for a child. She has never had any other children to play with—never! nor any permanent nurse; but has been changed from hand to hand as I have traveled from country to country. Don’t mind the poor little devil—I beg pardon. But she is half an idiot.”

Owlet fixed the speaker with her large, solemn brown eyes, but made no remark, nor did Roma; for at that instant Mr. Merritt was announced. He had just returned from his Californian trip, and his first call was upon Roma.

“Well, my dear, have you had any news?” he inquired after he had shaken hands with all in the room and had taken a seat, and Marguerite had been wheeled into the adjoining chamber.

“Not one word. I begin to credit a suggestion that you once made me—that Will Harcourt has crossed the ocean,” Roma replied.

“Then I will cause advertisements to be inserted in all the leading papers in the capital cities of Europe.”

“I have already done so, and am waiting results. I have another source of anxiety. I have not heard from Mrs. Harcourt since you left, and you know the reason why I cannot write to inquire.”

“Yes; I will do so to-day. Hanson has not shown up in any way, I suppose?”

“No. I have seen no notice of him or his yacht since that one we both read late in November. Pray, dear friend, never mention the creature’s name in my presence again. I wish to forget his existence.”

“His sister, your old schoolmate and bosom friend. She was a fine girl. What of her?”

“She was not his sister, nor even his half-sister, thank heaven! He was only the stepson of her stepfather by a former marriage. Reba is traveling in Europe, and our correspondence happily suspended without any painful explanations.”

“That is well. And now, my dear, I must leave you, as I have a very busy day before me,” said the lawyer as he shook hands with her and withdrew.

Four days later he brought a letter from Miss Wynthrop, saying that Mrs. Harcourt’s condition was unchanged, and that her mind was principally occupied with anticipations of seeing her dear son, who, as she told everybody, was pursuing his law studies in the University of Virginia, but would come and spend his Easter holidays with her.

“Evidently she has forgotten all about the marriage at which she was present, and apparently all about my existence. That may be well. But if she had only forgotten the marriage, and not forgotten me, I might still write to her, still comfort her, as the betrothed of her son,” said Roma with a sigh.

“I wrote another letter by the same mail by which I wrote to Miss Wynthrop. The second letter was to Dr. Wall, the Logwood practitioner, who is attending Mrs. Harcourt, to inquire into her condition. In reply, he informs me that she is affected with softening of the brain, that there is no hope of her recovery, though she may live for many years. It is very sad! Sadder than death!”

“Yes,” sighed Roma. “Oh, if I could only go to her, or have her with me! Ah! Where is her son?”

The lawyer sighed, and shook his head in hopeless helplessness, and soon after rose and took leave.

The early days of the New Year were very fine, but toward the middle of January the weather changed. A cold wave swept over the city, bringing fierce snowstorms.

Madame Marguerite felt the change, and began to cough, and complain of oppression on her chest, with fever. Her attendant physician treated her for these symptoms, and Roma nursed her tenderly.

But, as if the severe weather was not sufficiently injurious, something went wrong with the great furnace, or the pipes, it was difficult to tell which, and the rooms were imperfectly heated.

Marguerite shivered and flushed or broke into heavy perspirations.

She was too ill to be removed from the house, but Roma did all that was possible to make her comfortable. She wheeled her reclining chair up against the steam pipes on the wall and stretched a screen around it.

One morning a crisis came. Marguerite was seized with a severe fit of coughing, which resulted in hemorrhage.

Roma held the bowl and supported the fragile form until the flow ceased. Then she laid the sufferer back on the reclining chair.

“Oh—that—was—good,” murmured Marguerite, very faintly; “that—was—relief.”

And though she was very weak, weak almost unto death, she seemed to suffer less from oppression and difficulty of breathing.

Roma administered a restorative, and told her not to speak or move again for some time.

Then Roma looked at Owlet, who was sitting very still on the other side of the chair, holding her mother’s hand and looking up into Roma’s face with large, solemn eyes.

“Do not be distressed, my dear. It is over now,” the lady said.

“Oh, I’m not. It does her good. She says it does. She had it once before, and it did her good. She said it did. Only she is so weak after it,” the child replied.

It required all Roma’s self-command to keep up a cheerful countenance. She knew better than the child, of course, and even better than the child’s mother, what these hemorrhages meant, and what the relief they brought suggested.

From this time forward she was, if possible, even more careful, more attentive and more tender to the sufferer than ever before.

Marguerite was extremely weak in body, but not the least depressed in mind. She talked only of recovery and of going to the country.

“I feel so light,” she said, “since I got relieved of all that bad blood that oppressed my chest. I shall get well now. This is only the last of January, and I shall have plenty of time to get well and strong before the first of April. And, oh, my little idiot will see the flowers burst into bloom! Do you know she was never in the country in her life, and never saw a growing rosebush, except in a pot?” So she would talk.

And as a season of mild weather ensued, she grew better, and under skillful medical treatment and tender nursing and good feeding continued to improve every day until the severe cold and high winds of early March came. Then she took cold again, no one knew how; began to cough and complain of oppression, suffocation and fever. Yet her spirits never flagged, nor did she once think of death.

“It is only another cold,” she said to Roma, “but when this month is past then will come the lovely spring, and I shall be well, and go to the country. You are going on the first of April, are you not?”

“Yes, dear, if you should be well enough.”

“Oh, I shall be well enough, never fear.”

One day, when the doctor had made his usual morning visit, he made a slight sign to Roma that he wished to speak to her alone.

So when he had taken leave of his patient Roma followed him into the hall.

“It is my duty to tell you,” he said, “that our poor young patient will not probably live out this month. If she has any friends or relatives, they should be informed of her condition. Try to ascertain the facts without alarming her.”

“Yes, I will,” replied Roma.

And after the doctor had left her she stood revolving in her mind how she should proceed. She soon made up her mind, and re-entered the room.

Marguerite herself led the way up to the subject.

“It is a lovely day for the middle of March,” she said faintly, as she usually now spoke.

“Yes, a very lovely day.”

“If the weather keeps on like this we might soon go to Goblin Hall.”

“Yes, dear. And the Hall is such a great, roomy house that I wish I could fill it up with visitors.”

“Oh, no; only you and me and my poor little fool.”

“I did not mean strangers, dear, but friends. Now, have you no friends or relations that you would like to have with you? I could easily invite them to come and visit you there; and it would be so pleasant, not only for you and for them, but, most of all, for me.”

“How good you are! Oh! you are an angel! But, no, I have no one in the whole world belonging to me, that I know of, except my grandmother, old Madam Arbuthnot, of Arbuthnot, in Scotland; and she never saw me, nor I her. She must be over seventy years old now.”

“How is it that you never saw her?”

“Oh, she cast my mother off for marrying an actor. My mother was her only child, and she cast her off for marrying my father, who was a play actor, because, you see, she was not only of a very high family, and very proud of her descent, but she was a member of the Church of Scotland, and very strict in her religion.”

“Ah!” said Roma, revolving some curious questions in her own mind, but giving them no utterance.

“My father and mother both fell into poverty, somehow or other, I never knew how, and from the time I was seven years old, and learned to dance on the stage, supported them until they died, when I was sixteen; then I went to Paris, and danced for myself until I married.”

“There, do not talk any more just at present. You are tired,” said Roma; and she went and brought the invalid a glass of milk punch, which the latter drank with the avidity with which she took all nourishment.

A few days later Roma obtained from her protégée the full address of Madam Arbuthnot, to be used in case of necessity.

It was:

“Madame Griselda Margaret Arbuthnot, Arbuthnot Castle, Killharrt, Caithness, Scotland.”

Another severely cold spell, with high winds and driving snow.

Marguerite grew much worse. She could no longer lie down, or even recline, but sat straight up in her chair, propped and supported on all sides.

She suffered extremely from oppression, fever and suffocation, but still her spirits never fell. She never thought of death. She spoke, when she was able to speak, only of getting well and of going to the country.

One bright morning, near the end of March, she had her chair wheeled to the windows, where she could look out and see the piece of woods behind the house, and watch the first softening and swelling of the twigs of the trees before they began to burst into leaflets.

“Oh, how I shall enjoy the country!” she said, and then a terrible fit of coughing seized her. Roma hurried to her side, and not a minute too soon. The red stream of blood burst from her lips and poured into the bowl that the lady held, until the pale sufferer sank back again on her chair, murmuring faintly: