TRACKED BY FATE,

Cromwell Argus, Volume XLI, Issue 2202, 4 July 1910, Page 2

TRACKED BY FATE,

O R THE FANSHAWES OF HAVILLANDS.

(All Higtits Keservea.r

BY MAURICE SCOTT,

Author of “The Pride of the Morays," “The Mark of the Broad Arrow," “Broken Bonds,” etc. etc. SEVENTH INSTALMENT. CHAPTER XII. A BITTER RENUNCIATION. Spring was in the air. Joyous spring ! The birds proclaimed it loudly, the new-born leaves whispered • the news softly as they sprang into being, the forest-murmurs told of new life awakening after the long, dreary reign of gloom hud been banished by the warm rays, now generating myriads of busy insects out of the palpitating bosom of Mother Earth. On all sides life, and with life surely comes love ? The thought throbbed madly through Dorothy’s young veins as with spring’s influences strong upon her she roamed through the forest one glorious morning when Nature seemed arising out of a deep sleep, and all her marvellous works were uniting in a mighty hymn of praise to the Giver of all good. And Dorothy joined in the hymn. She hardly knew why save that she was young, and it was good to be alive. » For her enemies—so had she grown to regard Clarence and his father — had gone to London for a short stay, and with their departure a blessed sense of relief had entered her soul. Love had quickened her perceptions ; already she realized that Mrs. Fanshawe was but a tool in her husband’s hands, and while sorrowfully admitting that her misfortunes in Brick-street must of necessity prove a bar to even friendship with a king amongst men such as Dr. Trevedyn, she still contemplated the possibility of escape from the projected union with Clarence. Though how to set about it she did not know. To return to the life of the street with Ju and Maggie, supposing them willing to receive her, was now impossible. Even the intuitive knowledge that Ernest Trevedyn had thought her worthy of his love made her shrink from what to prejudiced eyes could only appear as a calling of a low and degrading nature. She knew it was not so truly, but to persons moving in higher walks of life —especially to those who judged from external observation only—no other opinion could possibly be formulated. Her gratitude, her sympathy towards her two friends had in no way diminished ; but the dawn of love had evolved her on to another plane. In a few short months she had reached a new state of being, in which Brick-street was left far behind. And for once she was alone, and her heart vibrated with a sense of freedom conveyed 4 by the unusual solitude. For under the continual guardianship of Mrs. Fanshawe she had silently chafed, well knowing the motive inspiring such a check on her liberty. c But this morning Mrs. Fanshawe was prostrate with a severe headache, and had offered no opposition to her projected ramble. For since her one wild outburst Dorothy had made no further protest or appeal. Moreover, she had appeared to I shrink from going in the direction of j the village, or to any of the more frequented parts of the estate, as if anxious to avoid a meeting with Dr.

Trevedyn. Evidently she had taken the suggestion as to how he would look on her connection with the , street-singers verj seriously to heart, thought Mrs. Fanshawe. And Dorothy’s pride would constitute an effectual barrier should an accidental meeting occur. To these considerations the girl owed her freedom on this glorious morning, when youth apd health asserted their claims right vigorously, and —temporarily, at least —triumphed over difficulties which at other times weighed on her soul until it cried out in helpless, hopeless misery. But under spring’s beneficent dom-

ination hope rekindled in her breast. The sun smiled down upon her ; she inhaled deep draughts of the sweet monning air with a sense of exhilaration produced by a glass of generous wine ; and mysterious influences seemed to exhale from the surrounding woods, whispering that the day would of necessity be eventful in its progress. At first the sense of liberty was overpowering. Why not avail herself of the opportunity to escape, to turn her back on Havillands, rid herself for ever of her persecutors. But where could she go ? She had no money with which to travel, nor to procure food and lodging. Her simple tweed frock and Tam-o’-Shan-ter would prove but insufficient protection did she attempt to walk long distances or brave tempestuous weather, nor would her dainty tan shoes carry her far. Also her struggles to obtain employment prior to her mother’s death had opened her eyes to the difficulty of finding steady work in London, and the country might prove equally impossible. Even could she walk to London —find her former friends — could she throw herself a burden on their charity ? And then she had promised Mrs. P’anshawe to return in time for luncheon. No, there was no way out—at least in sight. But all at once, as, tired between physical exercise and mental activity she had thrown herself on a hillock commanding a widespread view of wood and moorland, she saw a tall, athletic figure striding vigorously across the moor, apparently coming in her direction, though unaware of her presence. Dr. Trevedyn ! How wildly her heart began to beat ; how every pulse beat in unison with the palpitating life so strongly evidenced in Nature's handiwork on all sides and around her ! *' Should she escape meeting him ? He had not seen her yet. Should she

dart bacK Into the forest from which she had but now emerged, and conceal herself among its giant oaks until he had passed by ? Yet., why should she do so? Had she not longed during her illness for an opportunity of speaking to him alone, of telling him she was not of her own free will the affianced bride of Clarence Fanshawe ? Yes, that was so ; but at that time she had forgotten she had ever been a streetsinger—a mendicant. It was well, perhaps, Mrs. Fanshawe reminded her of her disgrace ; otherwise she might not have remembered it until too late —too late. It were better to avoid him, know- ' ing what she knew —better for her own peace of mind, and — Yet her limbs were chained to the knoll as by a nightmare ; she could not move. And then he lifted his head and saw the little grey figure under the tree, and in an inexpressibly short space of time was by her side, her hands grasped within his own. The sudden pallor, following the crimson dye rushing over her cheeks and brow, recalled the man to his | self-possession, also to the remembrance that . she was presumably engaged to Clarence Fanshawe. “I have been hoping to see you in the village, Miss Bllicott,” he said. “ It has not been kind of you to so effectually conceal from me the result of my labours. And you are looking so well that you can scarcely plead distance as an excuse for the limitation of your daily outing.” ” I—l—Mrs. Fanshawe—l —But Bllicott is not my name, Dr. Trevedyn,” blundered Dorothy, thankful for any topic of conversation that would enable her to conceal her actual reason for purposely avoiding him. "I beg your pardon,” he answered, with a look of surprise ; “is it not ? Mr. Fanshawe is my authority. See, I have it copied into my visiting book as he gave it me.” “You misunderstood him, Dr. Trevedyn. My name is Dorothy Eliot.” ” Eliot ? Strange, I am not often so inaccurate. Then—if you wHI pardon the question, and not regard it as a form of impertinent curiosity—l presume you are distantly related to the Fanshawce ? ” It was now Dorothy’s turn to look surprised, and Trevedyn hesitated for a moment before contiajiing : “ Your name gave me that impression, Miss Eliot. Is it spelt thus ? ” ” Yes, with one * t ’ only,” replied Dorothy, watching his well-shaped hand as he manipulated a pencil in firm, telling characters. ” Well, then,” he continued, “ ray assumption is at least warranted by coincidence. The owners of Havillands have for generations backi been baptized Eliot Fanshawe. You are looking pale, Miss Dorothy ; is it possible that my information comes to you by way of news ? ” ” Are you sure of what you say ? ” asked Dorothy, in a strangely emotional way. ” Perfectly. It was ray painful, or rather, pleasing duty, to chastise the present heir at .Eton for an act of valdalism in cutting ‘ Clarence Eliot Fanshawe ’ on a superb piece of wood carving in the study hall. And the parish church register shows the name Eliot to have been faithfully preserved and handed on from father to son in each succeeding generation. You—pardon me if I transgress—you did not know such was the case ? ” ” No. I did not know. I—l am not related to the family. I was born in Quebec, Dr. Trevedyn.” How strange a tone her voice had taken ! And now there was a look of inquiry in her eyes, though they were directed far away over the

moorland. “ Then the similarity of names is merely a strange coincidence,” he went on cheerfully, though his quick perception and keen intellect was by no means convinced such was the case. ” Miss Dorothy, Clarence Fanshawe is a fortunate man “Oh, don’t, please !” she cried, faintly, trying hard to retain her self-control under the new and bewildering possibilities suggested to her by what she had just heard. Also the magnetism of Ernest Trevedyn’s presence was vigorously asserting its right to supremacy. He had, with a gesture of apology, seated himself on the knoll beside her, and now she was in deadly fear lest, try as she would, he rpight discover her secret love for him, despite all she could do to conceal it. “ Miss Dorothy,” he said, suddenly, ” only a short time ago you and I were spiritually united in a prolonged

j battle with the ruthless enemy of man. Had you not unconsciously responded to my sympathy, had you not assisted my efforts by an understanding will, we must have been worsted in the fight, for at one time our chances were small indeed.” ” You were more than good,” she faltered. ” I feel —I know I owe you my life.” ” I think you owe me the right to be your friend,” he replied, drawing her eyes to his, though she strove to keep them fixed away over the moors. “Will you not grant me that privilege ? Your—your—the man to whom you have given your promise was ray schoolfellow, if not my friend in the truest acceptation of the word.” “ I have given no promise ” The words were wrung from her involuntarily. She regretted them the instant they passed her lips, and she saw the gleam in Ernest Trevedyn’s eyes. ” But you are to marry Clarence,” he said. ” Tell me, I implore jou, is it your wish ? ” “ It is Mr. Panshawe’s wish.” "Is he forcing you against your— Ah, I beg of you to pardon me if I am presumptuous, but something in your eyes told me, after the fever had gone out of them, that love had sprung into life, born out of your suffering, but its raison d’etre was other than Clarence Fanshawe. Dorothy, little friend, look at me. Was I wrong ? " He was holding her hands now, and bending his handsome head to catch the faintly-whispered “ No.” “ You do not love Clarence with the love a man is entitled to receive

i from the woman who becomes his wife ? ” “ No.” The t*ne was still faint, but conveyed no doubt. ” Then vou cannot wish to marry ' him 7 ” I “I do not wish it. I would rather ! die ! ” I “It was ®ut at last. No use to ! draw back. Oh why, why had she not escaped into the forest while there was still time ? For Ernest Trevedyn’s bold arms were round her now, holding her as he had held her wasted form while fever racked her brain —as he had carried her through the snowdrifts, when she wished she could rest within those sheltering arms throughout the whole of life's weary journey. “ Dorothy,” he said, very tenderly, ” do you remember the night of your arrival at HaTillaads ? ” Remember ! Could she ever forget ? “ When T pulled you out of the snowdrift into which you had been thrown by the overturning of the carriage. It was a dark night, and by the light of the disabled lamps I could see nothing hut a mass of fluffy hair and a girlish form. I lifted it in my arms, hardly knowing whether the; held a child or a woman ; and then, my own trap conveying Mr. and Mrs. Fanshawe to Havillands, I carried you thither on foot, and as I walked over the snow my heart told me I held in my embrace the woman who should one day be my wife. Dorothy, dearest, when I saw your face I knew I loved you ; and then Mr. Fanshawe’s announcement was as a knife plunged into my heart.” ” And no less in mine,” was Dorothy’s low response. “ Then came your illness, and though your feverish utterances gave me an idea that Mr. Fanshawe was acting on his own responsibility, my tongue was tied in all honour until I heard from your own lips that Clarence had no claim on your affections. Why are you looking so alarmed, little one ? Dorothy, give me the right to ” “ Wait ! ” She put out her hands in almost an agony of fear. You must not ask me that. It is impossible. It could never be—never ! ” ” It shall be,” replied Ernest, in a masterful tone, conveying an exquisite sense of joy and misery in combination to the ears of the unhappy Dorothy. “By what right does Mr. Fanshawe seek to direct your life into unsympathetic channels ? To what end ?” ” That I cannot tell you now,” she said, with an effort at self-control. ” Tell me something, please. When I had fever did I talk—in delirium, I mean ? ” "Yes,” he smiled. “You chattered ‘considerably,’ as the Americans say, at times.” “And you heard what I said ?” “ I could not avoid that, Miss Dorothy. But I was your only confidant, for your utterances were mostly in habitant French —a tongue quite unknown to either Mrs. Fanshawe or the nurse, and only slightly understood by myself. But I have read much that is interesting about Old Quebec and inferred your mind had gone back to the scenes of your childhood.” “ But did I talk of nothing else?” “ You expressed sentiments betokening anything but a fitting appreciation of the prospect of marriage with the heir of Havillands.” His tone was light, almost bantering. Could he have fathomed her fears, and be trying to evade them ? “But did I not talk of more recent events —of London, of what I did there ? ” ” Not in my hearing,” he answered, seriously, divining the anxiety in her tone. “Dorothy, I know nothing of you more than Mr. Fanshawe chose to tell me—that you were his ward ; but I know you are the one woman in all the world whom I can love, whom I ardently desire to make ray wife. Your eyes tell me what your lips deny. Let me go to Mr. Fanshawe ; let me tell him we love each other—insist that he releases you from this unwarranted engagement he has dared to announce, and ” ” No, no ; you must not ; I forbid you to do so ! ” she cried, tears starting to her eyes, despair tugging at her heartstrings. For Mr. Fanshawe would tell her lover that she was a vagrant, whom he had taken out of the streets—whom he had picked up singing outside a theatre, and sheltered out of | charity ! Oh, the shame, the horror I of it all ! Was she mad when she j put herself in such a position ? Was | there nothing to tell her that one day Ernest Trevedyn would come in-

to her life, and that by that one ' miserable experience she must put | him away out of her heart ? “ You mean that I am mistaken— j that you cannot love me ? ” he said. He had released her now, and was standing before her—for Dorothy had risen from the hillock, also—with j pale, set face. “ I—l cannot love you ! ” “I am lying ! I ara_ lying !” j i her soul cried out in its agony, i “ Why cannot you see that, to save | you from marrying a wife at whom { i could be pointed the finger of dis- I grace. I am lying, and the lie is t i worse than death ! ” i 1 “I can only apologise,” he said, j ( quietly. “ But, if at any time I can ; i be of service, will you remember you | ] have a friend ? ” Their hands met for an instant, | ; and then he seized her within his ' arms, holding her to his breast with < an intensity almost savage, while ( hi's lips sought her own, and heart ( spoke to heart. i j “ You love me, yet you send me j ] away from you ? ” he whispered pas- ; 1 sionately. j i “ Yes—l love you. But I can I never be your wife.” | c “ For what reason ? Tell me ; I: 1 have a right to know.” It 11 I cannot. You must believe me, ' and never see me again. Ah ! can f you think I would willingly thrust \ away the joy your presence has g brought into my life ? Dr. Trev * “ Ernest,” he commanded. t ” Ernest ’’—she was clinging to 1 him closely now, her heart aching as though embracing one doomed short- f ly to die—” some day, in the future, t

I I should like you to know what now 1 I cannot explain. I can never be j your wife —the fates have so decreed — but at least, loving you, I will be 1 wife to no man else.” “ Dear one, jou are In some trouble. Your fears distress you more probably than the occasion merits. Confide in me. Here is a strong arm ready to remove all obstacles—a loving heart desirous of shielding you from all care. Tell me the trouble, darling. Let me judge if it be sufficient to separate us.” For a moment she was tempted, then pride overcame love. Per what could an honourable man do under such conditions ? He would make light of the matter, and then Mr. Fanshawe, out of revenge, might give as suggested by hie wife, an ” exaggerated” account of her experiences in Brick-street, and Ernest, reluctant to wound her, would perhaps regret. No ; because she loved him more than life itself she must be strong. She must send him away, though her heart broke in the doing of it. ‘‘There is nothing I can tell you,” she said, ” but there is an impassable barrier between you and me which can never be broken down. Do not seek to overstep it if you are wise. Have pity on me and go.” '■ You me to do that knowing I love you more than life itself—more than” ‘‘ ’Sh ! Because you love me I ask you to leave me,” came in faint utterances from Dorothy’s pale lips. “ Let our love be a sacred memory because of the necessity for its abnegation. Let it be a helpful influence in our future lives, however difficult may be the paths we have to tread. We can never forget that we have met and loved ” The man gave vent to a fierce exclamation of pain as he again pressed her to his heart. There was a solemnity in her utterance before which he had to give way. None the less did he vow, mentally, to try to protect her, even from a distance, as she would not permit him to do so by her side. ‘‘And now, good-bye !” Her heart was breaking ; her eyes expressed as much. And in Ernest Trevedyn’s face she read a determination not to give her up. ”It must be,” she said. “It is best. Good-bye.” One long, earnest look into each other’s eyes, one passionate kiss — during which Dorothy’s soul seemed to pass out of her keeping into the possession of the man who held her almost • savagely to his heart—and then Trevedyn was again striding over the moorland, while the girl sat watching him in dumb, tearless anguish.

. CHAPTER XIII. The young doctor was not the man to he daunted by a difficulty, nor i turned back from a path on which ht had once planted his feet. There was a mystery round Dorothy ■ one of which he more than suspected the girl herself was scarcely cognizant. The curious circumstance ol her name being identical with that borne by the Fanshawes, and her ignorance of the fact, was in itself strange, even inexplicable. To Treredyn it passed the limits of coincidence. She could not know the family very intimately, and yet she was resident at Havillands—destined to become its mistress ! Also, in his own mind, he was posi- ! tive Mr. Fanshawe had given him “ Elicott ” as the name of his patient. Could the master of Havillands have any motive for putting him on a false scent ? Could the girl really be a connection if not a relative, and Lemuel Fanshawe anxious to conceal the knowledge even from Dorothy herself ? Puzzling over the matter, his memory took him back to his housekeepj er’s story of the heir who had died in i “furrin parts.” Dorothy had told him she was born in Quebec. Her pretty prattle of childish events—the remembrance of which now wrung his heart—conveyed as much. And her name was Eliot. Yet she was unaware of any relationship to I the Fanshawes of Havillands. j What was it Mrs. Bembridge j had said ? “ Folks were bound to 1 assume the death of the heir, seeing that Mr. Lemuel had got hold of everything.” Something very much like that. Got hold of everything ! Trevedyn hardly dared formulate the thoughts almost amounting to a I suspicion which presented themselves Ito his mind. It now seemed patent j to him that some pressure had been j brought to bear upon Dorothy to in- | fluence her rejection of his love ; the : same influence had kept her away J from the village or any likely place

where they nftist have met each other long ere now. ] But in Trevedyn’s deep fervid nature lurked an element of mysticism born out of the Norsemen from whom his ancestors had descended, fostered by long years of identification with the Cornish Celts among whom in bygone days his forbears had taken root. And that instinct told him Dorothy was to be his wife ; that occult influences had overturned the carriage within hail of Woodbine Cottage ; that the same influences had directed his steps over the moorland by way of a constitutional on that bright spring morning, bringing him thither purposely to meet the woman he loved, despite all the attempts of the Fanshawcs to keep them apart. And his faith in the power of a resolute will to accomplish any desired

end that was just and lawful still clung to him. As long as Dorothy and he occupied the same external plane he would never give up the hope, the belief, that she would one day become his wife. But faith and endeavour being s>nonymous in Ernest Trevedyn’s creed, he resolved to keep a close watch on the doings at Havillands. And Dorothy had returned from the forest full of suppressed emotion, which, fortunately for her, Mrs. Fanshawe was too unwell to perceive. For she was sufficiently intelligent to grasp the possibilities opened out by the discovery that her own name was identical with one borne by the family who now demanded of her that she should now become one of

its members, erven against her will. I Why had all mention of the Faa- ■ j shawes having continuously borne the name of Bliot been so scrupulously aI voided In her presence ? And then she remembered she had very rarely been called Miss Bliot, and then only when no third person had been present. Mrs. Fanshawe had taken up Cclestine’s “Ma’a’selle Dorothee ” and the sobriquet had been universally adopted. Mrs. Fanshavre even introduced her to Ernest as Mademoiselle Dorothy. Her surname would appear to have been purposely avoided. Why ? Then, like Trevedyn, she hardly dared allow full play to her thoughts which forced themselves to her mind. Mrs. Fanshawe’s supposed “whim” in offering to take her to Rutland Gate as her companion ? What if it had not been a whim ? What if, as Ernest had suggested, she were really related to the Fanshawes; that they were aware of the fact, and for reasons of their own had chosen to thus bring her into the house under false pretences ? Again why ? And then, thought following thought, a ray of faint hope flashed into her mind. Were she in reality a descendant of an honourable race ; were the mystery surrounding her father’s disappearance cleared away — with no blot or stain to be found upon his cscutsheon —might it not be possible that the story of her connection with the street-singers would assume a different aspect in the eyes of Ernest Trevedj n ? Knowing the truth, would he not understand the abnormally difficult circumstances in which she' had been placed ? Would he ? would he ? Even if not, she must bow put love aside and think only of duty. It was her duty to discover why her father had not returned to Quebec, to find him, if living ; his grave, if dead. Her darling mother bad fallen in the early days of the campaign, and then Ddrothy herself, only for her lover’s assiduous care, most have followed her loved one into the Unseen World. But she had been spared and the duty now devolved upon her; she must accept it as a solemn trust. And if intuition were to be trusted, she must commence her investigations at Havillands. The mansion was a huge, rambling place, originally a long, low building of the “ Grange ” order, built on and added to by various owners according to their individual tastes, until its proportions far outgrew its necessities. Then, as neither the old squire nor his son Lemuel had cared to keep up the necessary army of servants to cope with its requirements, one-half of the f.ne rooms were Lept closed, even when the family was in residence. Dorothy had heard of the picture gallery, but as since her convalescence the influences of spring had drawn her out of doors into the sweet fresh air, she had never seen the long line of Fanshawes by eminent painters of which Havillands somewhat boasted. Approached on the subject, Mrs. Fanshawe—still a victim to indisposition and inclined to wish she had never heard of Havillands, nor of its owners—referred Dorothy to the housekeeper. “ Mrs. Marsh will take you through { the house if you are sure you really want to go,” she said ; “ but it’s horribly tiring, I warn you, and I find such expeditions boring to a degree.” “ In such an interesting old place — and your own ! ” ventured Dorotny, i feeling some reply was required of I her. “ Well, my dear, I sincerely hope you’ll find it interesting. There are people who take great delight in the j British Museum which I always found i inexpressibly dull. And dull things 1 are hot rendered brighter by being j one’s own, Dorothy ; rather more so, jas a rule. But ran along, there’s a j good child ; my head is on the rack.” j Thankful for the permission, Dori othy sought the garrulous Mrs. I March, who, together with the rei mainder of the servants, had only | been installed at Havillands on the I incoming of the present squire—he ! had summarily dismissed the old re-

t.ainers —and who consequently, knowing little, or nothing of the history of the mansion over which she reigned, drew largely on her imagination to atone for her deficiency as to facts. From her Dorothy learned the story—gathered by the housekeeper at second-hand through the media of village gossip—of Gilbert Fanshawe’s renunciation of home and kiindred on account of the lady who was now the squire’s wife. Also dark hints as to the squire’s parentage, which Mrs. Marsh could not resist the temptation of telling, but which she begged Ma’m’selle Dorothy never to repeat. "Is there a portrait of Mr. Gilbert ? ” asked Dorothy.

“ No, miss ; leastways, now I come to think of it, there is ; but as a child, not as a man.” Mrs. Marsh led the way along the spacious gallery—from the walls of i which dead and gone Fanshawes of generations long passed away stared blanhly into space, until the onlooker pitied them, and thought how glad they would be could they but close their eyes and rest—stopping at length before a portrait in oils of a boy with long, fair hair and broad lace collar. There appeared nothing distinctive in his features, but as Dorothy gazed into the childish eyes —apparent!} fixed in a stare of won- j derment on the doings of "the man i with the brush ” the blood left her cheeks as the knowledge dawned on her that she was looking into eyes of which her own were a counterpart. Or was it not some trick of the ' imagination instigated by the coin- ' ; cidence respecting the name ? Coin- ■ cidence ! Was it a coincidence ? She believed Ernest implicitly ; he conld not make such an assertion without knowledge of its truth. Then what—what if this Gilbert Panshawe had been her own dear father—the father whom her beloved mother had so deeply mourned, and to find whom that mother had sacrificed her life, far from the country she loved, and in which aba had scent bar haJmiaat

days ? W&aid that not explain the Faoshawes' otherwise strange and unaccountable interest in herself ? But then could that be possible ? Her father, Gilbert Fanshawe, was rightful heir of Havillands ! Her brain almost reeled under the terrible propositions suggesting themselves. Her fatuer Pad come to England, she knew that ; and then —then ? But she must keep herself under control. Mrs. Marsh must not suspect. “ What a sweet boy ! ” she said, with an effort. “There was evidently I no resemblance between the brothers.” ‘‘So I’ve heal’d, miss,” replied the housekeeper. “ ’Tis said Mr. Gilbert j were a Fanshawe out an’ ont, while ■ Squire Lemuel do favvur his mother.” ‘‘ Mr. Gilbert died abroad, I think I you said, Mrs. Marsh ? ” ‘‘ Tis said so, miss, though not ; rightly known as to perticlers.” ‘‘You never saw him ? ” ‘‘No, miss, I was never in this part of the country until Mr. Lemuel ! got th’ estate.” Stranger still. Why dismiss ail the old faithful servants ? Dorothy had already heard something of this from !one of the gardeners, j Fearing to arouse Mrs. Marsh’s . wonderment, she tore herself away I from the childish eyes which riveted : her own and withdrew to her room j to think things out. i First it had to be admitted that portraits—especially those of children —were often inaccurate and misleading. The exact eye-colouring was often impossible to reproduce ; and then, again, how common an occurrence it was for two or more persons to, individually, see totally opposite effects to those which the artist had endeavoured to portray ! And again, why should Gilbert Fanshawo call himself Braude Eliot ? How, how could she- ascertain the truth ? How could one penniless, helpless, friendless girl pit herself against a bold, determined man such as Lemuel Fanshawe, who—were she right in her suspicion—would not scruple at taking forcible measures to the secret he had hitherto chosen to keep from her knowledge ? Wait ! (To be Continued.)