LORD LISLE'S DAUGHTER.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXVII, Issue 8156, 18 January 1890, Page 3 (Supplement)

LORD LISLE'S DAUGHTER.

CHAPTER IV. rftß lovely evening, toward the end of August a young girl walked slowly down fhe lon- stretch of yellow- sand. Far out in (he distance lay the broad blue sea Tho waves rose with a gentle murmur and fell with a mimical ripple ; the sky was all aflame with gorgeous colours. But neither the beauty of colour or sound made any impression on the young girl. Never once W rc her eyes turned to the sky or the sea _ never on- did -he pause and listen to the faint music of the wind and waves. Vet that countenance should have boJoined to one capable of appreciating both. It f* -eldom that under our cold northern dkv'n face of such wondrous loveliness is noon. It belonged rather to the daughters of sunny Spain. It Mas a face that drew all eyes and charmed all hearts—so bright and glowing, fo piquant and charming. Such beauty might- have been the dowry of a queen. Nature, i" her caprice, had lavished it liium Mrs. Rivers' only child. The slender, <mi lish figure was graceful and dignitiod ; but Margaret Rivers lacked, with all her beautv, the high-bred air of refinement that characterised her sister Daisy. The two girls were as dissimilar in mind as in person Rita was proud to an inOrdinate, degree of her beauty. A vain longing for riches and grandeur consumed hr? She longed for all that wealth can procure —for rich dresses and costly jewels. Would she never attend balls and parties? All' it she were but rich !—if she could but Co among the gay and jashionablo ! There was no one in looks to compare with her. What was the use of such a lace and such a figure if she were to live always unknown at Hooks' Nest? If she could but once gain admittance into the treat world, these would soon lie at her feet! Rich noblemen often married for beauty; so, at least, romances said. Who could tell what might be in store for her? Perhaps wealth —titled honours. She might even live to be one of the queens of that gay world where she longed to shine ; All these thoughts rushed through the Tain, worldly heart of Rita as she strolled that summer evening along the sands. Margaret Kivers had tire, passion, force, and a certain kind of cleverness: but of truth an ! high principle, of true nobility of soul, she had none. !>.iv by day she "at in the little garden th.it looked down the high road, longing, -with ail the force of her vain, passionate heart, for something to happen which should enable her to gratify her wishes. People looked at the handsome, restless face ami wondered at its expression. Mrs. I'ivers did not understand her own ch:ii. She looked wistfully sometimes at the proud girl, and thought how her life v.is va-tcd in the solitude of Rooks' Nest. Hut of the dreams and aspirations—the hopes and longings that filled her daughter's heart- she knew nothing. A chance came at last for Margaret Kb or*—not love—at least, not love in its highest, holiest, sense of the word ; but. there came a break in the monotony of her ii.-;'.

On-» morning, ft? she was walking from ht-r home to (Queen's Lynne, she met a b;i:'.ti>ii;nc- young man, with one of tho few \ ".i: 1 ; girls she knew. He looked ad-n-irmg'v at Rita, to whom hi? companion i:.:::.; him. All three went to Queen's Lvn:.'' together : and, during that walk, Rita lrarned sudicient to give her a great intere.-i in nil that concerned Ralph Ashton. He was a first mate : and. although young, t'n-r-' was no one. so skilful or so trustv, >: thv a? lie. He told strange stories of f ■.Ti'li.'ri countries that lie had visited : of wei:!.'i that he might accumulate if he only :.•.:••! to flo so.

T:-n Rita looked at him. Richhe n.i.'lir be rich, if he hud any motive for r.ivi: s and miking money.

•• 1 would give," she said, firmly, "anything in this world for money. lam tired -•:' living here by the restless, noisy sea. I ' ::_' to see life*as others see it. I should ike to weir sweeping dresses and gleamHe interrupted her eagerly. •■.So you oiitht to doso you will,''he f.ii'i. " All that is fairest and brightest in tin's nnld ought, to be laid at your feet. A.'i. if it were but mine !''

Rita smiled, but the words sunk deeply into her heart. Shu met Ralph A-diton :i\>*in and npfiiiu—sometime* on the shady high road and sometime-* by the seashore. She heeded little the passionate love lie had for her, but she thought much of his future. If he was so skilful and clever,-if the secrets of deep seas were known to him, siid lie could trade upon them, it was possible that, in time he might be ricli and •rive her her heart's desire. It was t rue some people spoke strangely of him, and hinted at large cargoes run in during 1 the dead of irie'it, and prophesied that Ralph /lditou's money would never do him any good. But Rita heeded them as little as she did the fierce, passionate love that had mastered him, and brought him a slave to her feet.

Not one word did she ever say to her mother or Daisy relative to this strange lover, with his dark, handsome face and musi:a! voice. She felt instinctively that Daisy would riot, like him, and she had once heard her own mother speak of him as an adventurer. She met him, not because she liked him, but because she liked the flattery of his love. It was pleasant to sit on the .shore while he told her of the time when they should go together to bright, [■ir-oiT lands, where she would be looked upon as a queen—how he would work for tier, toil for her, slave for her until every wish of her heart was gratified. And v. hen lie, loving her with all the ?::-'.-.-i?:h of his wild nature, asked her to be aii wife, .-he did not promise at first, bub die 'iid i;ot refuse. She wanted time to consider: and as the monotonous weeks passed on and nothing happened, she began to think that marrying Ralph Ashton was the wisest thin!.' shy could do. He promised to take Her fur away from these parts. Whether he believer) himself that he could accomplish ftil li'- promised to do no one can say ; but =he believed it because she wished it.

Ralph Ashton was to be pitied. He isiiij'ht have occasionally aided in some "nulling expedition, but in his love for Kiia tie was sincere and honest. And when, -tie -'.unmer evening, after much pleading, 'he haughty lips siniled and said '"Yes," genuine tears fell from his eyes. "I will make you so happy, my darling," !•- Paid : li every wish of your heart shall be gratified. You love me, Rita, do you not?"

"Yes," she said, gently, "I love you." hut, even a- she spoke, her thoughts were b'i-y with the future, and the one haunting T-e-tioti never satisfactorily answered, Could she have done better And while Ralph [toured out his love in words that rn! i-l have touched another heart, she went cv '-i' .".gain all the old arguments and ''•ascitis that had decided her upon accepting cim.

,It was arranged between them that, noto',n" should he said at present to Mrs. ;'iwi=. The marriage could not take place ''""the nest year and a-half. In one month l»-<iph was going on a voyage —one that 'u!(l bring in plenty of money ; it was not worth while mentioning the engagement u "til that voyage was over. '•Rut you" will be true to me, Rita?" said he. " Remember, you hold my life ar soul in your hands." '' I will be true," she said, calmly. He was absent after that for three days, j-j't all Rita's misgivings were set at rest on ';>; return. He had brought her a " wed- ''\ n 'j present," he called it. How much of {"* hard earnings had been spent on it he Knew best. They met as usual on the sands, a,l lie )nit into her hands a,small morocco ' a *!-'- Rita opened it, and, with a cry of •flight, saw a pair of diamond earrings t! ' a t shone with a light that dazzled her *> es - A diamond ring lay near them, and haljih placed it on her finger. „ I'hn. is our betrothal ring," he said; a "d the time will come when you shall ***<• as many diamonds as you like. Let ffi e place these ear-drops in your ears." . Itie diamonds were not brighter or more jull of re than the dark eyes raised in route wonder and startled admiration to bis face.

, Oh, Ralph !" she said ; " how lovely, now costly ! I never thought I should have ' real diamond of my own." t . Ie was so pleased, and looked so beautit,l ,'," her joy. that Ralph Ashton would K'adly l lave parted with all he had in the wril - or such a look - The g ems had t\ ' m S» emptied his purse; still, he tb °«ght not, cared not. fice , never E ave on e thought to any sacrico!ti mi ? nt nav « made to procure so j\ tlv h present for her, or of the love that *'** actuated him; she only gloried in her

own bright, vivid beauty, and, how the jewels would increase it. Ralph Aahton had but another fortnight to remain in England; and one evening, when the tide was out and the sun setting he wont to meet Rita on the sands. As the time approached for hie departure, something liko fear and doubt took possession of his mind.

He began to wonder if Rita would be true to him during his absence. She who loved wealth and longed for grandeur— would she be true if a lover should come with gold and fortune A fierce half doubt took hold of him and blanched his dark face. For many months they had met on the sands, and he had told her of his love in words that would have burned their way to another heart; but he did nob romembor that she had ever blushed, or that her proud face had ever softened for him. " lie would see her this evening," he said to himself; " and bind her to him by a vow so solemn that she, who feared little should fear to break it." For two whole days he had not seen her. Mrs. Rivers lay ill, and her daughter could not leave house ; but to-night she had promised to come, and he knew she would keep her word.

CHAPTER V. The evening had come, and Ralph Ash ton proceeded to tho seashore to meot tho haughty beauty ho so passionately loved, and to bind her, if possible, to a vow of constancy from which she should never swerve. The tide was out, and tho sun was setting behind a red bank of cloud. Rita saw her lover approaching; she noted tho anxious, depressed look on tho face usually so bright, and hopeful. " I had great dilliculty in getting away," she said ; " my mother is still very far from well : but you wanted me, and I am here. Toil mo quickly what it is—my time must be short.

They sat down upon two largo stones, and tho waves rolled in dreamily, noiselessly at their feet. "I am nob happy, Rita," said ho. "I wish I could stay near you, you are so onchanting. Someone is sure to try and steal you from me while I am away." " There is nob much to fear," she replied, with a smile and a sigh. " Even if it should bo so," he continued, " you would bo constant to mo, would you no"t, Rita ?' There was not a quiver on the proud lips that said, calmly : "Of course 1 should, Ralph ;" and her eves, still bent on the waves, never sought Ins. '• Toll me so in another tone of voice," he cried ; " look at in© as though you loved me ! It is a terrible thing to win the whole of a man's heart, as you have won the wholo ot mine. It would bo dangerous to deceive me. Rita ; my whole life and love lie at your feet. I, who fear nothing—the wildest storm never daunted me—tremble at one word or look of yours. You are my own, and I am yours. * Deal gently with me—toll me you love me." "You know it, Ralph," she said," more gently, for the passion of his words alarmed her ; but ho listened in vain for the true ring in that musical voiceit was not there.

" 1 try to believe it," he said ; "if I were to doubt it I should go ma J. I could not live without yon, Rica ; tho world would bo a dreary blank. Were you to die, my darling, I could not survive you. If you deceived me—"

•' What should you do?" she asked. '• I would follow you through tho wide world," he said, "and when 1 found you, as truly as the sun sets, I would kill you, Rita, and thus avenge myself." In after years she remembered his words ; in the most terrible hour of her life they came back to her, and sho know he meant what he had said.

" Do not talk in that wild way, Ralph," she said ; " you alarm me." In one moment the fierce look had left his face, and he wr.s himself again. " Forgive sie, Rita," ho said, humbly ; "the very thought drives me to despair. You wiil be true to me, will you not, darling? When you are my wife 1 shall be a good man. I must do something for the Kind Heaven that gives me my treasure. It is not only my heart, but my soul, that you hold in your hands. Deal gently with me. I have staked all my life on one throw."

" When do you go ?"' she asked. His unusual seriousness dismayed her. She was there to listen to praises, not threats. "In ten days," he said, looking almost wistfully in tlr.it wondrous face, but no change, no cloud came over it; "and you have promised me, Rita, we shall be married on the first week of my return." " J have promised," she said, and " I will keep my word." He looked over the wide sea, and again to the shining sky. " Rita," he said, suddenly, "I shall bind you to me by a vow. You are mine before Heaven. Swear to me that you will never care for another, and that until you die you will be faithful to mo." She would have hesitated, but there was a look in his face that compelled her to obedience. Tho bloom faded from her countenance as aha repeated after him words so solemn her whole soul was subdued by their strength. "There," said Ralph Ashton, releasing her hands, "I am quite satisfied. Neither you nor any other woman breathing dare break such an oath as that'."

Long after Ralph Ashton left her Margaret Rivers sat dreaming by the sea—not of the fierce, true love she had won—not of the strong, passionate heart that lay in her hand—not of the soul she might help to save bub of the old, tormenting doubt : "Had she done the best she could ?" For the first time that evening she realised what she had done. Ralph Ash ton's hold upon her was for life. He would nover let her go. Had she done the best she could ? True, he made money—he would one day, perhaps, be rich in a certain kind of wayout, after all. he was not a gentleman. He ha'd given her jewels ; but common sonse and reason forbade her ever to think he could repeat the gift. All the visions and dreams he had won her with seemed unreal now. Over and over again she asked herself if, with her glorious dower of beauty, she had done her best.

No warning came in the mysterious voice of the sea, or in the music of the summer night, to tell her that on this very evening the crisis of her life had begun. She sat watching the waves until tho tide began to roll in more quickly, and the light faded in the western sky. Then Rita, rousing herself from her dreams, went slowly home. Rooks' Nest is some distance from Queen's Lynne, and the evening had grown dark before she reached home. All visions were forgotten when she stood once more in her mother's house. Mrs. Rivers had long been ailing. For some days the doctor had beon attending her, but did not say she was in any immediate danger. When Rita left her that evening to meet her lover, one of her neighbours offered to sdt with her while the young girl was out. This sumo woman met her now at the door, with a pale, scared face. "Miss Rita," she cried, "whore have you been ? Your mother has been taken so ill, I thought you would never see her again." And when Rita stood by her mother's bedside, and saw the fatal change that had come over the kindly, homely face, tears of genuine sorrow filled her eyes. *' Your mother is very ill," said the doctor, gently. "The immediate danger seems to have passed, bub she must be carefully watched all night, and if the least change takes place send for me." There were many offers of assistance, but Rita saw her mother wished to be left alone with her. In her coof, grand way, she bade " good-night" to those who would fain have lingered. She arranged the sickroom, shaded the lamp so that the light should not fall on her mother's face, prepared cooling drinks, and then took her seat by her dying mother's side. "Rita," said the faint, changed voice, " is it too late to send for Daisy ? I want to see her. I shall not live until the sun rises to-morrow. I feel death-cold at my heart, and I must see Daisy before [ die." "I will do my best," said Rita, gently ; "bub you will not die yet, mother." "I know, child," said the sick woman ; "I can feel that the end of my life has come. I shall have seen your father again before to-morrow dawns, Rita. A doctor's words signify nothing ; they cannot know. I feel ib, and I must see Daisy." But midnight had struck before a messenger could be found to go for Daisy. It was a long walk there, and Rita knew the summer morning would dawn before her sister could reach home. She told her mother so ; and Susan Rivers, turning her pallid face to the wall, moaned aloud. "Are we quite alone, Rita?".asked the sick woman, in a low, faint voice.

"Quite alono, mother," said the young girl. The moonbeams peeped in at the window, throwing long linos of silver light on the floor ; the deep, solemn hush of tho night was unbroken, save by tho murmur of the wind and the distant breaking of tho waves. Margaret Rivers never forgot that night—its solemn silence and dim light. "I have a secret, Rita," said the faint voice; " I have held it many years. I must see Daisy before I die, and tell it to her. If she does not come, 1 must toll it to you ; and you must hold it in charge, sacredly, as I have done." The long night woro on, and Daisy did not come. "Rita," said the dying woman," unlock that little box for mo, and take out tho parcel that lies there." Rita obeyed; hot- mother's trembling fingers could not unfasten the string ; she opened it—and there lay a ring of pearls, a locket with fair and dark hair entwined, the initials " M" and " A" in the contre ; with thorn lay a packet of letters, written in a fair, delicate hand. " Those are Daisy's," said Susan ; " give them to her. Bend down, Rita—lower still while I tell you the secret I have kept for fifteen years. Daisy is not my child, Rita; sho is nob your own sister, as you have always believed her to be." She paused, for Rita cried out in astonishment. " Are yon dreaming, mother ?" she said. " No," replied Mrs. Rivers ; " these things prove my story is no dream. Look in the register at St. John's, in Deepdale ; there you will find I have only ono childMargaret, my only daughter. Daisy is no child of mine." "Who is sho?" asked Rita, in utter amazement. " That is tho story I must toll you ; and you must repeat every word to her, if—if I do not see her again. "I have never spoken to you much of my early life, Rita," continued her mother ; "and my silence has been for Daisy's sake. My parents were respectable west country people, who sent mo to school, and did their best for mo. When they died, I went out to service. I nover had but ono place, and that was at Mr. Arlo's—a rich merchant who lived in Hampshire, lie had one daughter, Miss Margaret Arlo; and, although 1 was bub sixteen, tho entire charge of her was entrusted to me." Mrs. Rivers then proceeded to tell her daughter all the particulars relative to tho bankruptcy and death of Miss Aide's father ; of the young lady's marriage ; and the leaving of her child in her charge, as already unfolded to the reader. " Sho was," concluded the mother, " but a little child when we left Deepdale and came to Queen's Lynne. For my dead mistress' sake, I have kept the secret. No one ever dreams that Daisy is other than my own child—no one suspects it. I tell you now, Rita ; for I shall see her mother in another world, and she will ask mo if I have done my best." CHAPTER VI. There was silence for some minutes, and Mrs. Rivers' voice had grown faint and exhausted. Rita sat lost in bewildered surprise. "And what am I to do, mother?" she asked. "(iivo theso to Daisy," she replied; "this lockot and ring, with tho letters. Tell her the story I have told you. Tell her I have no clue to her father's name, save that he was called Captain Arthur, ami that his regiment whs in India in IS—. Perhaps he died there. If ever Daisy wins friends, they will make inquiries for her ; but if she find? the marriage was not a legal one, tell her I charge her for her dead mother's sake to let the story die, so that no taint may be upon Margaret Arlo's name. You will give her these messages faithfully, Rita ? Promise mo !" " I will not omit ono word," replied her daughter, breathlessly. "For you," said tho dying woman, "I have no fear. This little house will always be your own. You will have money sulli cient to support you. Had Heaven so willed it, I should like to have lived long enough to hold your children in my arms. 1 have been very proud of your beauty, child ; but things look so different in the strong light of eternity. I have often thought you proud ami vain. Ah, Rita ! you will lie some day where I am lying now —remember it is all vanity ! Do not fix your heart on the world's honours and riches. Ah, .no, that pain ! 1 shall not see Daisy again ; kiss her for me, and tell ner how well i love her." Even as she uttered the words an awful, grey pallor settled on her face, and Rita went hastily to summon aid. But no human help could avail for Mrs. Rivers — the fiat had gone forth. Tho doctor was summoned ; friends came, and stood near ; the faithful heart was fast nearing its rest. She did not speak again. In the faint morning light, whan Daisy came find bent over her no look of recognition shone in tho dim eyes ; they were closed to all earthly things. Before Mrs. Rivers died—before Daisy came home—Rita gathered the contents of the little parcel together, and placed them carefully in her own box. " There will bo time enough for telling her that strange story," she thought. And Daisy, all unconscious, knelt by her supposed mother's side. She closed the kind eyes that had always looked tenderly on her ; and when she knew that Death had claimed his own, she wept bitter tears of sorrow. Yet, as she gazed upon the white, cold face, she felt, in some strango way, it was not part of herself that lay there. Friends and neighbours comforted tho two orphan girls, now left utterly alone. Daisy felt as though her heart would break, and wondered at the strange, dreamy look on Rita's face. There wow not much time for weeping ; preparations had to be made for the funeral. Poor i\*rs. Rivers' only friend in Deepdale, an old -/idow lady, Mrs. Feme, took up her abode *t the cottage, where mourning dresses and arrangements for the funeral deepened tho gloom of the young girls. Rita said to herself that there was no opportunity of telling Daisy the story until after the funeral. As she watched her adopted sister a feeling of envy crept into her heart. For the first, time she whs struck by tho difference between Daisy and herself. She noted the air of high bred refinement the spiritual expression of the sweet, pure face ; tho little hands, so white and beautifully formed ; the graceful symmetry of the slight, girlish figure. Could it bo possible that this girl, whom she had always looked down upon as her younger and inferior sister, might turn out to be the child of a rich and noble father ? Either she was that or her very birth was a shame and disgrace. Which could ib be ? Her mother had entertained cruel doubts ; could they have been just ones? In the dead silence of the night Rita rose and unlocked the box containing her trust. She read Margaret Arle's letters over and over again. Ah ! there could be no doubt, she spoke so proudly of her husband ; it had been a real marriage, Rita felt sure, and no mock one. Whoever Captain Arthur might be, Daisy was his legitimate child. What if he were a man of high position as woll as good birth. Then Daisy would be a lady—• would enter, by right, that gay world Rita thought paradise. Sho would be rich and happy. Why had fate and fortuno favoured her? Ah! would that Daisy had been Mrs. Rivers' own child and she the captain's daughter!

Then, with fcho letters in her hand, she foil into a waking dream. If it had been so, she would never rest until she had discovered himshe would search for him until he was found. Then she would win his love. He would surely bo pleased with, and proud of her magnificent beauty. Then all she had longed for would be hers. She saw herself superbly dressed, with gleaming jewels, with lovers sighing around her —with the gay, the great, and the noble all ofieringher homage. The vain, worldly heart was dazzled with the picture; but the cold reality came and chilled herall this was for Daisy, and not for herself.

With a deep sigh, she relocked the box, and went back to the little room where Daisy slept. The moon shone brightly; one of its silvery beams touched Daisy's face, lingering almost lovingly on the clear, calm brow and the delicate, spiritual features. Rita bent over her, silently wondering, until wonder became jealous pain, what the future held in store lor the sleeping girl. Suddenly, across her face there came a strange expression, as of a wild, deep thought.; it lingered there, filling: the dark eyes with gloom. She held out her hands in horror, as though trying to drive it from her, but it would not go. "Not now," she whispered to herself. " I will not think of it now. I have to kiss my mother's face again."

Yet tho thought had a weird fascination for her. She could not sleep, she could not rest; ideas crowded upon her almost against her will; plans and arrangements suggested themselves to her. Early dawn found Margaret Rivers pale and absorbed. The sun rose, and the day was the ono appointed for Mrs. Rivers' funeral. The two girls went together to the darkened room where she lay, and took their last farewell of her. Warm tears fell from Daisy's eyes upon the cold form she had always dearly loved ; but no tears dimmed the dark eyes that had so strange an expression. Tho funeral was over; friends and neighbours had all withdrawn, Mrs. Feme alono remaining. Daisy was preparing to return to Miss Toffies' on the following morning, and still the secret was not told, the' trust was unfulfilled ; and tho younger girl wondered why the older one shunned her, and what it was that clouded Rita's face with something deeper than sorrow. She little dreamed of tho fierce warfare going on in that vain, passionate heart; she little know that good and evil woro fighting a hard battle; that her own destiny and Rita's hung trembling in the balance. That night, whilo Daisy slept, Rita watched and fought the battle that decided the course of her life. For many long hours the battle had raged, and ovil was ast triumphing over good. She had nevor told tho story ; for on the night she gazed with jealous envy on Daisy as sho lay sleeping a thought came to her which burned its way into her heart, and would not leave her. Daisy knew nothing of the secret. No ono in the wido world knew it but herself. There was no proof except such as she held in her hands. Why not put herself in Daisy's place, and call herself Captain Arthur's daughter? Who would know ? Tho only two who could detect the imposition—Daisy's mother and her own—were both dead.

At first tho thought that glanced through her mind shocked her ; it was too base a betrayal of her mother's trust. But gently and subtly it stole back and nestled there a welcome guest. Still she did not dare, while her mother lay utiburied thoro, to arrange her plans, When sho stood, as it were, alone in tho world, she made up her mind. It was a fierce battle ; there was something of good in the vain, worldly, ambitious nature, and hor better self cried out at the base design ; but the good was conquered on that summer night when she stood at the window watching the quiet stars. Tho temptation was too strong— she yielded—and the great battle was lost. Thero seemed no obstacle, not even one difficulty to overcome—thanks to tho fate that had called her Margaret, and had given to Daisy the same name. Margaret Rivers was, according to the register, the only child Mrs. Rivers had. There could be no difficulty in that. Everyone would readily believe Daisy to be that child. Who could say she was not? Her mother had known few peoplo at Deepdale, and they were never likely to hear of' the circumstances again. Possession, in this case, was more than nine points of the law. Sho had the ring, the locket, the letters, and, above all, the story. She need not alter one word of it. Mio had but to put herself in Daisy's place. She thought over everything connected with the history of Margaret Arlo and her child, and could not find one weak point. "After all." she said to herself, as the voice of conscience tried to make itself heard, "what does it matter? If ever Captain Arthur comes to light, ho will find a daughter to bo proud of, anil I shall make a better lady than Daisy ever could. To deprive him of a child would bo very different; to substitute ono grown-up girl for another cannot matter much." It was after midnight when Rita wont to Daisy, and calling her gently, roused her from sloop. The young maiden opened her eyes in wonder, and Rita shrunk from the pure, clear glance. " Do not bo angry, Daisy ; I could not help waking you. You are going back to-morrow, and I want to tell you something before you return." Daisy looked up in some surprise. " What, is it, dear?" she asked, gently. " Are you in trouble, or have you a secret?" Rita flushed jus she exclaimed, hoarsely : "It is a secret, one that concerns myself." (To be continued.)