A DOUBLE LIFE.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXV, Issue 9082, 16 June 1888, Page 4 (Supplement)

A DOUBLE LIFE.

BY HELEN CRAMPTON DALE.

CHAPTER IV.— (Continued.)

«< THERE COMES A LADDIE HKRE TO WOO." •• It is no use," the stranger said, impatiently. " Perhaps lam hurt more than I thought. I certainly cannot stand, much less walk, and my head seems all in a whirl."

" And I'm to blame for it. It's just al the fault of my horrid temper!" bewailec

Ploy. "Oh, dear, I don't know what you will do, for your horse is gone, and—and I'm quite tmre I'd never be able to carry you, you're eo awful big and heavy. Have you got far to go ? Couldn't I run on ahead and get somebody to come after you with a waggon or a horse or something? Couldn't I!"

"It would be acceptable, certainly!" responded the stranger; " but, really, I don't know how far oft" my destination may lie. 1 have never been there, and I depend upon recognising the place from a description, Miss—"

"My name's Floy—short for Florence, vou know — Florence Remington, only everybody calls mo Floy."

"Floy?" responded the stranger. "It's n pretty name, and it just suits you, I think. My name is Neil—" "Neil! Pshaw, what a horrid name! Why, it's just the same as Miss Prue'a cook, only she spells it with an 0' before it —I know, because she gets me to read all the letters her sweetheart writes her. Mr. Neil ! 1 don't, like it a bit. I made sure your name was Montague or Romaino or Vere de Vere or something else that was prand and—and stylish. But Neil—why, that's an Irish name, and— Goodness! vou're not Irish, are you? Yon look more like a Dutchman. Are you a Dutchman, Mr. Neil?"

"Not that I have heard, Miss Floy," ho responded with a smile, thinking all the time what an artless, innocent child she was. "1 am stranded in a strange country now that the horse is gone, and"—suddenly — " is there not some plr.ee near by where I can find shelter for a, time? My—my head begins to trouble me considerably, and—l am ashamed to say it, but the pain in my unkle is excruciating. Of course, it is out of nil reason to think of continuing my journey now, and if you only knew of some place near by, where I could ,s;et rest and shelter until to-morrow morning—" " There'.-; Cottrell's cottage," "cut in Floy, quickly ; then, with sudden recollection : '• But no. That Jim would just drive you crazy, the nasty little wretch, he's never still a moment, so it won't do to take you there if you want rest. Now —let—me— £(.<■. Cottrell's won't, do, and Blake's is a mile further on—that's too far ; then there i?— Oh, yes! 1 never thought of it. There's the old toll-house at the fork of the roads—that is, it used to be a toll-house, but it isn't now, and there's people living in it, for 1 remember I saw an old woman hanging up clothe," when I went past this afternoon. I don't know who they are, but 1 <ruess you could get them to take you in, and perhaps if I tried I could get someone to fetch a waggon for you. It isn't far, and if you don't, mind waiting here until I come back—"

He thanked her with n glance—even Flo} - could see that he was Siiti'ering too much to ppeak— :uid realising that matters were far mere desperate than either of them had imagined, she murmured a few hasty word? ul parting, and then was off like a deer. "Oh, how brave of him to lie there and talk—and all the while I thought he was getting better because ho didn't groan !" she muttered, as she flew along. " If it hail been me, I'd have yelled from the moment I paw the blood coming. Oh, dear ! I wonder if he'll bleed to death, and I wonder if I can pet those people in the old toll-house to come back after him? Oh, I hope they will—l just hope they will! But, glory ! suppose they haven't got a waggon, and there's nobody there but. that old woman— u hat .shall I do ?"

But there was a waggon, and there was Fomebody else there besides the old woman. There were her husband and son—two stout, sturdy-looking Germans —and Floy had no sooner told of the accident than the farm waggon was brought, out, the horse hitched, the two men scrambled in. and as expeditiously as possible the '"relief party" Wttf: clattering back to the scene of the accident.

" There he is—there he is !" exclaimed Floy, excitedly, as they came in sight of a dark heap lying near the centre of the road. Then, rising from her seat: " Here we are, Mr. Neil !" she shouted. " I got the waggon, and—Mr. Neil, can"t vou hear ? Mis— ter—Neil ! Mr.—"

Her voice broke, and died out in a faint, low cry of terror, for something unnoticed before had been seen at last. He wa.s no longer sitting in the road ; he lay now—lay in a tumbled heap, with his face in the dust, and one arm buried beneath him. "Drive fast—oh, please drive fast!' , gulped Floy, in a voice of awful terror, and then she fell back in her seat, and sat there, helpless with fright, as the waggon rattled up and halted beside that motionless figure. No need to t-ell what had happened during her absence, no need to tell how serious his injuries reAlly had been, as the four stout wme lifted him from the dust, and his head fell limply back, all smeared and dabbled with blood.

Floy knew that his senses had left him, and, with a big terrified sob, she clapped her hands over her face and burst into tears.

Very tenderly the two men lifted him into the waggon, and laid him on the crisp, eweet-smelling hay with which they had filled it, and then, while Floy slipped down beside him, and softly brushed back his matted hair—never again to be quite the Biime childish little Floy he had found cobbing on the roadside to-day—the vehicle rolled gently down the drive, and on through the fast-falling twilight to the old toll-house at the cross roads, and the tragedy that was to darken so many lives begau then and there. CHAPTER Y. A WEEK. I. ATK R. '" A week —a whole week—and still no newg ! Nob so much as a letter or a word, and— Oh, Mrs. Remington ! oh, Madame lienvarde ! I am so terrified !" " Terrified, my darling ? terrified atwhat?" "I don't know—l can't tell !" murmured Norma, laying her head upon Mrs. Remington's shoulder, and bursting into sudden tt-ars. " I am afraid that something has happened to him. Surely, if all were well, he would send me some word. When he left Madame Benvarde, after seeing her aboard the cars, he told her that he would only be detained a few houts, and now it is a whole week, a whole dreary week, and there is still no sign of him." " But who can tell what beesness he may have had, Mees Norma?" soothed Madame Benvarde, anxious herself, but trying to conceal it. " Who can tell if it will not detain him much longer than he thought at tirst ?"

"Then why has he not written? He tnuat know that I am anxioue."

Madame shrugged her shoulders, and forced a smile.

"Perhaps no opportunity did present, Mees Norma," she suggested. " Who Khali any how mooch busy he have been ? See! that ia it. He is far too busy to write."

She had meant the words well—meant them to soothe, but they miwed their mark, and the next instant she would have given worlds to recall them, for the dark, pained face lifted suddenly from Margaret Remington'e shoulder, and two solemn, frightened eyes looked straight into madame's own. " Too busy to writ* to me !" she said, her lips quivering and a note of pain wavering through her voice. " Oh, madame, too busy to write to me, and I am to be his wife ! Too busy to— Oh, Neil must have changed sadly if such a thing as that is possible. It is two years since I saw him, two long weary years. Time enough for such a thing, but— Do you think he has changed, Madame Benvarde ? Do you ?" " Ah, no, no, no ! Most certainle not," responded madame, eager to undo what she had done. "It is something of which we know not that have caused the delay, but •t will all come right— oui, out! all come r ight! Mamzelle mu3t be of brave heart, must she not, Madame Remington ? By-and-by Meester Dane come. Joost be so i*utierit and wait, Meea Norma —all come to lim that wait!" Norma glanced toward the road and then turned away with a weary sigh. " }■ shall wait only until to-night!" she said, plaintively. "If lie does not come then, I ehall go home co Darkendale in the morn-

Madame elevated her brows and opened her mouth with astonishment. • 'Mafoi! Mamzelle, you will never do that?" she gasped. "Go home to Darkendale and mope and pine there alone until Meester Dane shall come back ? Ah, no, no, no ! Better stay here where you have Madame Remingtone and Mees Floy to comfort you. Mooch better—madame is so glad to be with you, too." I shall go to-morrow," responded Norma, firmly. " I cannot stay here—l think I should <jo mad if I did—and as for Floy and Mrs. Remington"—she turned to her as she spoke, and held out both hands. " Come home with me,"she said, plaintively. "Oh, you don't know how hateful this place has grown to me throusrh this weary watching. I stay, and I shall be so lonely, so lonely, if I go back to Darkendale alone, Mrs. Remington. Please come homo with me—you and Floy—please do, for my sake."

A wavering pallor crossed Mrs. Remington's face, her eyes closed suddenly, her lips tightened, and then, very faintly : "My child, you don'b know what you ask!" she said, huskily. "Go to Darkendale? Go— Ah, no, no, no ! I have delayed my departure 100 long as it is, and Floy and I must soon begin our travels. We should only distress you, dear, if we did as you suggest, and—and indeed I cannot, Norma, I cannot!" " But why can you not?" " Oh, there are a thousand reasons, dear. Besides, when one is worried one does nob want company. And perhaps your father would prefer to have you to himself after so long n separation." " But papa isn't home—he won't be home, cither, for live weeks yet, will he, madame? Ah, please come home with me—if you only stay a few days—please, please do. Then there is dear old Nurse jSichette—madame's mother—who lives in a little house back in the Darkemlalo woods, and who hne so often wished that she might see you when I told her of your goodness to mo. She was my own dead mother's nurse, Mrs. Remington, and she would like to thank you in poor mamma's name for being good to her motherless child. Won't you come to gratify her ? to please mo ?" '•Oh, hush, child, hush ! You must not ask it, for indeed lam weak and— That is, I mean I—l have no right to intrude during your father's absence, my darling'—with a nervous glance at Madame Benvarde—"l had bettor put off my visit until another time, had I not, madame? Do you think it. wise—that is, do you think it polite for me to visit Darkendale while its master is absent ?"

Fifine understood her drift, and a faint flush wavered across her face as she stooped and examined a flower to avoid the scrutiny of Norma's eyes. "I—l think—that is, my mother would be very pleased to see you, Madamo Remington," she stammered, "and perhaps if you could spare a few days from your travels, Meester Treesilliong would not think it impolite to gratify his daughter. He certainly will not be back for five weeks, and Mees Norma is vair anxious, you see, and then my mother— Ah, no, I see no harm, madame, if you would like."

" Like, madame—like !" cried Mr?. Remington, her face lighting with a glory that made it more than beautiful. " All my life I have prayed that I might accept Miss Norma 'a invitation ; but—but one

thing or another arose to prevent it. But now— Oh, Madame Benvarde, do you think Floy and I would not be in the way? I—l believe 1 could manage to defer our travels for a week, if you think we had better gratify Miss Tressylian. There ! we will leave it to madame, my darling. She shall say whether we may go home with you or not It is all in her hands. I want her to say what she thinks, and I shall not bo offended if she tells me we will only be in the way. Speak, madame, which is it to be? Go or not ?"

Fifine lifted her eyes, and glanced from the tlower to the speaker. " Madame will certainly be welcome," she said, in a husky voice. " I think she may venture to say ' yes, , and spend a week at least at Darkendale !"

" Then 'yes , be it !" exclaimed Mrs. Remington, catching Norma to her bosom, and passionately kissing her beautiful dusk face. "We will go, my darling —come what may, we will spend a week at Darkendale with you and tiiis ' Nurse Nichette !' '"Oh, I am so thankful!" murmured Norma, with a smile. "If only Neil would come now I would have nothing more to ask. Let me go and tind Floy—she will be so glad when 1 tell her."

Mrs. Remington opened her arms and let her flutter away. " There ! I can spare you now,' , she smiled, "for we shall have a whole week apart from all the world. Go and tell Floy, as you suggest, dear. I think she will he glad to leave the seminary, for of late she has taken to rambling otT in the woods and being gone all day, as though tired of lingering- here." And so she had. But she was no longer lonely, she no longer moped and pined when Norma and her mother strayed off together and left her, for the little forlorn heart was full of " something" else now— "something" that lay tossing on a bed of illness in a darkened room in old Gretchen's cottage, and the childish life was being gloritied by a new, sweet happiness that was all her own, the childish feet were unconsciously straying down the path of sunshine and roses to the brink of that wondrous stream where girlhood and womanhood meet, and each day she was at the old tollhouse by the cross-roads with flowers and fruit, happy if old Gretchen would only let her steal a peep at the man who spoke her name so often in his delirium, but who did not know her when she bent above his couch.

Confident in her own prowess, old Gretchen had discouraged Floy's intention to send for a doctor until it was too late, and as a result, fever had set in, delirium had followed, and, although the doctor came twice a day now, and a week had passed since the accident, Mr. Neil tossed on his. pillow and talked of " little Floy with her bright, yellow hair, :! and laughed over "a deuced good shot, by Jovo," and something " that was too rich for anything, you know/' to the infinite wonder of Gretchen and the infinite delight of Floy. " He remembers me even while ho is oufc of his head ! He remembers mo when he don't seem to know anything else, and I'm ho glad ; 'cause I like him ever so much. I just didn't think a man could be sonice !"

That wa.s the burden of her thoughts night and day—aa it was the burden of her life ever after—and as a result, she read the " Ugly Duckling" more than ever, and she longed for the coming of afternoon—when she could steal away to the cross-roads and stay until twilight—as she had never longed for anything before. It didn't matter if ho could not recognise her when she came—it didn't matter if he never noticed the flowers nor ate tho fruit she brought; to be near him was s.ll she α-sked, and so it fell out that when Norma went to seek and tell her that they wero nil to go to Darkendale to-morrow, instead of a boon fhe bore a sort of death-warrant that whitened the childish ln.ee, and made her drop the big bouquet she was gathering. "Go away from the seminary—go to Darkendale to-morrow!" she said, with a big, sorrowful " catch" in her voice. "Oh, Nummie ! why don't you wait longer ? Your 1 beau' is bound to come soon, snd —and— Oh, I have found such a lovely place in the woods ! Couldn't you wait, Numtnie ? —just another week—couldn't you ?" " No," she answered, sorrowfully. " Even if I did your mother means to take you away travelling, Floy, jusb as soon as I leave (she said so), and surely you will bo happier at Barkondale with me than if among strangers ?"

"Yes, I'd sooner go with you if I musb go," responded Floy, her lips quivering, and her eyes growing full " But I—l never thought I'd have to say ' good-bye' so soon. I just never stopped to think about saying it at all, and ' —with a conscious flush— "Ellen Cottrell will be so surprised, you know. I've only just come back from visiting her, and— Oh, Nummie !ifwego in the morning I can't even run over to say good-bye at all I Why, it's growing night now!"

" Yes, it is growing nighfc now," echoed Norma, with a sigh, thinking of one who should have been here many nights ago, but not thinking what a prophecy slic was uttering , " it is growing nignb, as you say, Floy, and it will soon be very dark." And as though the shadow of that coming " darkness " fell aboub them even then, as though they felt already the shadow that was so soon to usher in a tragedy and spoil their bright young lives, they looked up at bhe deepening duak of the midsummer sky, and creeping into each other's arms, clung together in silence and tears. •' If I could stay only another day just to say good-bye to Gretcken and ium 1"

thought one. "If he would only come !" thought the other. "If Neil would only come, I would ask no more of Heaven !"

But neither wish was gratified ; Neil Dane did not come, and they did not stay another day, for when the morning came and brought no word from the missing man, a message was sent over to the Cottrell eot«*,'e, old Joe came in response with his lumbering omnibus and wheezing horses, two large school trunks were carried out and strapped on behind, good-byes were exchanged with the few remaining scholars, and when the noon-bells were ringing out through the drowsy summer stillness the stage-coach rattled away, and the journey to Darkendale was begun. It lay far off on the rugged New England coast, in sight and sound of Buzzard's Bay ; a large, roomy mansion with bay-windows and "L's" and wide piazzas cropping out everywhere; great woods clustered behind it, a winding road leading down from the gates to the little village of Bayinouth, two miles distant, the hills close, the sea afar ; a low wall bounding all its wealth of lawn and grove and gardens, greenhouses flashing back the sunlight, clustering vines trailing over porch and pillar, wide windows looking out on wood and wave—a veritable fairy palace oM Floy thought, when after two days of travel they turned the bend of the road mid came in sight of it. " Oh, Nummie ! isn't it just grand ? Oh, Nummic—oh, Madame Benvarde, isn't it just heaven itself?" " I think it very lovely, and I am proud of it," murmured Norma, with a smile. " I am glad you like it, Floy ; but, what do you think of it, Mrs. Remington? You have said nothing ; doesn't Darkendale please you ?" Mrs. Remington turned slowly, a smile on her white face, a mist in her blue eyes. " Like it ?" she murmured, huskily. " Ah, I think it the dearest, loveliest spot the round world holds. If I could only live there with you, my darling : if I, too, could call Darkendale 'home!' Oh, God! what else could I ask ? What else does the world hold ?"

" There is Meestor Dane's home off there," exclaimed Madame Benvarde, pointing to a cupola rising above the trees far beyond ; but no one heard and no ono followed her hand save Norma, and in silence the carriage rolled through the gates up to the broad stone steps, and after sixteen years of exile, Rose Tressylian stood under her husbands' roof at hist. CHAPTER VI. "OTI, THK PITY OF IT, lACO !" " Oh, what has happened ? whab can have happened, Filine? It is six days since we left the institute, four since wo came here, and still no news of Mr. Dane. Thrice poor Norma has sent over to his home to learn if they have heard from him, but they are a.s ignorant as we of his whereabouts. Poor child ! her heart, is breaking, and oh, the sight of her misery is torture to me ! Look at her, Fitinc. She how white and anxious her face has grown of late. She how tirelesslj - she watches the road, how constantly she stands there in that one spot. Oh, my darling, my darling ! if mother could only drive that look from your face, that hopeless light from your sweet eyes ! Look at her, Fifine ; can we do nothing to cheer her up or distract her thoughts?" Madame Benvarde glanced in the direction indicated, and the picture she saw then came back to her years after. The sun was going down over the sea in an oriflammo of rose and gold and purple, the lingering light was on the water, on the bluffs, on the great great stone gateway, and drenching in crimson splendour the figure that stood beneath it, one curved hand shading her eyes, her soft, white dress fluttering m the breeze, her face turned toward the bend of the road, and above and about her tangles of honeysuckles and gleams of sunset light. She was watching as she always watched now—for the messenger who never came, for the letter that was not written—and thero was something so forlorn, so unspeakably sorrowful in the picture, that Mr?. Remington rose from her seat with a sharp, shuddering cry. "I cannot watch her, Fifine !" she said, huskily. " The sight is torture, and I cannot. If anything has happened to that man, it will kill her, and— Oh, I must go away where I cannot soe that look on her face !

Geb your hat and come with me. A walk through tlie woods as far as Nichette's cottage will, perhaps, relieve me. (jet your hat and come.' .

" 1 have a few orders to give the servants before I can leave," responded Fitinc. "If madame can wait—"

"You will find me in the path through the woods. I cannot stay here longer, tor the sight of her misery is torture, ' replied Mrs. Remington, drawing her mantle over her shoulders and turning away ; then, as Madameßenvarde hurried back to the house, she cast a last look at Norma and went slowly down the shadowed walk that led to a little gate opening oufc into the great Darkendale woods.

The sun had dipped its red rim below the sea and left only the golden after-glow as she reached the little wicket, twilight, shadows were brooding in the woods a deep, sweet peace seemed over all the world, and pausing a moment, she laid her hand upon the latch of the gate and looked piteousty back.

"And to think it might all have been mine—all have been mine but for one man's

treachery !" she said, in a faint, pain-wrung whisper. "But it is lost now, lost!— husband, home, children, friends—all gone, and, oh, Hod, for what?"

The faint wavering voice died away slowly, her head drooped wearily until it rested on the gate-post, there was a moment of utter silence, a moment of soundless weeping, and then something curled up in the shadow just outside the gate, rose to a standing posture, a shuffling footstep stirred the fallen leaves, a seedy figure stepped to the gate, a grimy hand reached over the bars, and :

"Charity, good lady," whined a husky, rum-sodden voice. "Help a poor wretch without money or a home, help—" Bub there and then the sentence ended, for as he spoke the drooping figure before him straightened with a sudden shock, a wild white face lifted to his, there was a sudden scream of awful recognition, and then :

" Rose !" roared out the rum-sodden voice again. "By Heaven! it is Rose, and— Stop ! If you run away I will follow you. Stop !do you hear ? I want to speak with you." She had fallen back from the sight of his face and turned to fly, but as that command floated after her she stopped suddenly and pub both hand? to her head. " Don't come in—tor the lovo of God, don't come in !" she panted, as she saw him lift the latch and swing back the gate. "Don't come in, and don't come near me, Archer Blake, if you would not have your victim drop dead at your feet! Leave- me, oh, leave me—you have done enough already, and — Oh, Father in heaven, shield my children now. What have I done—what havo they done —that this new horror must fall?"

" Good news—good news. Here's a tele* gram, Nummie—a, telegram at last. Hooray !" And Floy—of course you know it is Floy —sends up a shout that makoe the echoes reel and ring aa she dashes up the steps with the telegram in hor hand and dives into the music-room where Norma sits, softly touching bhe strings of a harp and plaintively singing a Bweebly sorrowful eong. It is the night following that meeting at the woodland wickot. Outeidc, the moon hangs tenderly over " the earth and the waters beyond," inside the lights burn low and all is still, for Mrs. Remington "was eoiwd with a wretched headache lost night, and haa been compelled to remain in her own room ever since," so said Madame Benvarde; madame herself is in close attendance upon her, and the two girls are quite alone. " A telegram—oh, Floy, did you say a telegram?" gasped Norma, springing up and overturning her harp in her eagerness. "Yes, it's a telegram; the man just drove up from Baymouth with it, and he said it was for Miss Norma Tressylian !" cried Floy, thrusting the yellow envelope into the trembling nand outstretchod to receive it, and then beginning to dance up and down with little oh' 3 and ah's of delight. " It's a telegram, Nummie, and I bet a dollar it's from your beau. Open it —open it quick. I'm just dying to hear." With a quick, sharp movement, Norma turned to the neaest lamp, and sinking on her knees beside the table where it stood, breathlessly and nervously tore off the yellow wrapper and glanced at the written message. There was a cry—oh, such a joyful cry —and then the telegram was pressed passionately to her lips.

"Hβ is coming at last, Floy, my darling is coming at last!" she laughed, springing to her feet, her cheeks flushed, her eyes brimming with happy tears. "He telegraphed me that an accident has delayed him; but he is now on his way. Oh, Floy ! oh, Floy ! I am so happy, so happy !" "So'm I," blubbered Floy, in the most doleful voice imaginable. " I think it must be just lovely to nave some one you think a lot of write to you, and—and— Oh, I am so happy—l'm awfully happy, Nummie !" And then the little arms closed about Norma ; both faces were buried, and both hearts outpoured in tears. "I'm real glad he's coming, 'cause I want to see him. You know, Nummie," said Floy at length, "Madame Benvardo says he's awfully handsome, too, and—and — Say, Nummie, if I were you I'd—l'd get him to raise whiskers. You said he hadn't any, you know; but —but if I were you, I'd make him raise 'em right off. I hate men without whiskers; it just seems as though there was something missing to me !"

" Why, Floy ! you little turn-coat. Not a fortnight ago you abominated the very thing you are praising now." "I know it, but—but— Well, I guess I've changed my mind since then, and— What are you laughing for? What are you looking at? Is there .anything on my face ?" * " Only a blush, dear," smiled Norma, as she drew her closer ; '' and when I combine that with the radical change of sentiment, why, I wonder if a gentleman with whiskers has not crossed my little sister's path !" "Oh, get out!" Hashed Floy, growing red as a poppy. '' You think because you're in love that everybody else is. Come on, let's go out in the moonlight, and walk up and down the porch, will you ?" • For all answer Norma put her arm about the little, childish figure, and led her out through the long French windows. " Oh, what a night—what a glorious night, Floy !" she murmured, glancing out where the sea lay—a sheen of silver under the twinkling stars. "lam so happy, so happy, dear, that my heart seems bursting !" " So does mine !" responded Floy, wondering if lie was well yet, and if he watched this same moon from the window of old Gretchen's cottage ; and then after a pause : "Say, Nummie," she added, suddenly, I wish you'd sing me that song about the light of the whole life dying—you know, the one you said your beau liked so much. Will you ?" "Certainly, dear," responded Norma, sinking down on the stops, and then, while Floy leaned against the vine-wreathed pillar beside her and looked mournfully out at the .silver sea, she lifted up her voice and sang :

"The night has a, thousand eyes, The clay hut one ; But the light of the whole world dies With the set ting sun. The mind has a thousand eyes, The heart but one ; Yet (ho light of the whole life dies When lovo is done." « Softly and sweetly it rolled out through the gemmed and flower-scented darkness. Floy leaned and listened, a solemn look on her childish face ; then, all of a sudden : " Hark !" she cried, putting up her hand. " Hark !"' there's somebody coming up the walk. Don't you hear the footsteps, Nummio?" Norma leaned forward and listened, not able to see the gates, from where she sat for a big clump of tulip trees that stood at the bend. "Yes," she said, presently, "you are right, Floy. Some one is coming, and it is a man's footstep." " A man !" echoed Floy, glancing down, and then, a*s the same thought came to both : " Perhaps the telegram was delayed, and—oh, Nummie, what if it should be Mr. Dane ?" " Wait! wait!" gasped Norma, her eyes sparkling, and her whole face bathed in a happy light as she sprung up and stood watching. " Oh, Floy, if it should be—if it could oe—" And then her voice died out and a silence fell. Nearer and clearer came the advancing steps, and both faces were turned to the path, both pairs of eyes were directed to the clump of tulip trees where ho would first come into sight. Still silence, still breathless watching, then the footsteps reached the bend, passed it, a man's figure came in sight, the moonlight struck down upon it, and then : "Papa!" cried Norma, bounding down the steps and rushing to him. " Oh, Flo 3', Floy ! it is papa come home again !" (To be continued.]