A BITTER HARVEST.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XLII, Issue 12931, 29 July 1905, Page 3 (Supplement)

A BITTER HARVEST.

By CAKOLINE HASTINGS. jX-nthor of tlie "Cross of Circumstances," • " For the Sake of One Woman," "Eva's Dilemma," etc., etc.. '

, • CHAPTER I. liY THE STUDY HUE. "And then—" My father stopped. His fingers touched jay hair caressingly white I knelt beside Jiim. ' 4'j "Then she 'left you." I finished the jentenoe. He nodded. ' "Yes. child, that is the end of the whole miserable story of my second marriage. I •was foolish," lie went on, "to think I could find any other woman to take the place of your sainted mother; but I was thinking of you, my sweet child, and all my friends ea.id it was my clear duty to take the step. So, for your sake, I took tins other woman to my heart, not knowing that she only cared for my gold, and that when it was gone she would leave me." , "But that is all over now, father," I whispered; and, as my arms stole about Jiis neck, he pressed me close to him in a feverish grasp. "Let the past be forgotten," I went on; "we have only ourselves to live for, and we love each other with a Jove that nothing can lessen." And I sang to him the old song: —

" For I've got you, and you've got me, And everything may go; We're all the world to eaeli other, daddy, • For mother, dear mother, once told me so."

The fire burned low in the study grate, and as I saw the light flicker on the loved face I saw there something that chilled the blood in my veins.

"You are ill, father!":! cried.

"No, darling, only tired—so tired."

But I could see that the sands of his life were running low, and that very soon he would be called away to join the dear mother who bore me. How I wished then, and how often I have wished since, that the ebbing tide had carried us 'both away on its bosom to th© land of cloudless day.

Summoning one of the servants I assisted him to his room and left him with a kiss. Then' I went back to the study to think out my own sad thoughts by the dying embers.

: : I suppose I might call myself a grown-up lady, for if you looked at the old family Bible it would tell you that Florence Van Arsdale was now seventeen yjars of age.

My mother died when I ws.s quite little, but not before she had implanted in my breast a passionate love for her.

;}. But my joy in her presence was shortlived. While I was still little more than an infant she died, and with her the baby heir of the Van Arsdales, whose birth had cost her her life.

, My father was nearly heartbroken, and for some time I was consigned to the care of his mother

• Then happened the awful event wliioli we had just now been discussing by the study fire—his second marriage.

. He never expected to find anyone whom he could love as he had loved the wife he had lost. But lie fancied lie could find a mother for me and a mistress for his household in a young lady whom .he had admired during a visit to town. He thought her amiable , and good, gentle and sweettempered- and a very model of feminine .propriety, and ho placed his hand and fortune at her feet. Like many other women, she took the former for the sake of the latter, and so deceived him that, when this crash came, and when lie was alone and forsaken, he was more astonished than anything else. He had believed in her, and she had betrayed him. . The story was common and vulgar enough; she had always loved someone else, and had let my father's money tempt her into playing him false. They met again, find the temptation too strong for her; she eloped with her old lover, and died in obscure misery. She did not live to be divorced, and it was said my father sought her out and helped her when she was almost starving. It was like him if he did ; and after it was all over lie turned to his child ■ aud resolved that 110, woman should ever, make him unhappy again. The .second Mrs. Van Arsdale might never, have existed for any trace there was of her 5 at Kilrood, as our house was called. Everything that could possibly remind anyOne of her bad been carefully removed when my father made a fresh home for me, his little daughter, and installed me as the baby mistress of. his establishment. All that could recall my own mother had full prominence, and her apartments were set ajsi for me and tile dear governess to whom J. owe all that is good and amiable in my nature.

My lather would have spoiled me Winy heart's content but for the judicious ban of Miss Hainds, who was wore like a mother to me than a paid governess, and: whose memory I hold in tender reverence. 11 ' her, too, when • I was T sixteen and my ' father declared I s " have no tore schooling. A du.i'! learned enough, ho used to say, wi 1 a lau«li—far 'beyond him in every branch or ?tuay •

My' grandmother predicted my utter rum, did all our lady friends held up their hands 111 horror at the idea of my being let wild," as they said-; but I think -answ pretty well!''"Perhaps I was a little unconvetitiohal in my fashion of doing things, a trifle more outspoken than most gtf 1 my age; but Miss Haines had had a. g horror of the bread-and-butter style o g , as she used to call them, and s ie brought me up accordingly. _ . She liked a woman who had opinions, she always said; and', though she set her face against anything unladylike or • nine in any way, she preferred that a girl should have' something more to say . small talk about theatres and garden part. My father made me conversant w of the current topics of the day; > ; ou the years went on, I becamo bis F in everything. I rode and him; I shared! all his pleasures, was very simple, and I proudly fancied mat I shared all his anxieties, too. uu ■ Dear father! How was I to know. cbild that I was, that everything-ofa^dffl B able nature was kept away fior • tender love. Mid that, when he. was n , worried and anxious about anything, least of Scarcely any _ female friends.^My , I had scarcdy any nends J grandmother died while I wa- £ ernes : the superintendence of my goo 8 j ier and my father had no sisters; my " wae an only child, so there were ]iearer on her side. Sometimes 1 J^„ hole j think : ties than cousins, but on the v j I was very well contented wit' ! an longed for the sweet companionship » guidance of a mother when I sa \,. ore> ■ with theirs, but I wanted uothmg Had I not my father, who wa • . kinsthan a, whole host of aunts and f0 He had his own circle' f whom I was also intimate, as a [[ can be with gentlemen. , I r ~ i „_(£ a with one exception-Mr. Glaus , friend hear neighbour, and a very in hated V of my father's. I could not tell why,l hajeQ him— it. was hatred, and no , g wlienbut I -did. I felt inclined to shudder wnen ever he came near me. , wthe He was a handsome nwi, an Ug appearance of a gentleman , a fatdtmanners. were courtly and his'' . me . leas, and ho : was ' particularly p «ways H.W waled m as »/ Md ' but £ »J with the grave respect I ha' s to an older person. I liked n iAa, s ed other men who came to Kllrood, Zfiiad me to be greeted as if I weie}, f the grown up and the accepted mist house; but r would far rather he had m>haved to me as if I were a very 7 with the exaggerated respect he though . to show me. • bein£ r the I ; was an heiress as well as t should daughter of Gerald Van Arsdal • have been rich enough 'had I Ibad ° else, . inheriting, as I should, alter my

ther 1 b f E I l ich > and age. I wwi? v, m l ine when I was of my father's lii.nrlc L f it; ' * fc was 111 be? ii 1 S, Bi * h « else shotild good for mo 4 S' w°h to P end as *«■ fm* forthcoming Tdoi't"?? 6 ! waa lor * ivenwi r **-* »nd; about moiiov «»« I® aS unsophisticated T Viaj " cy matters as the veriest bahv to see if°£ that mea Hoiked to our houli allowed to win a Y chance of «* being talS of l S i) n Je heiress, or that I was the moth nf • ® • y° un S lady among ~n rl J ICIS of impecunious sous. I was fret the future.' aUd troubled with 110 care about

~s* after our talk in the study eL, n, 0 Slck ' H* illness was not a 3! i U ei^ fc ' the doctor told me so, and smileT v, Ways a chcci ' word his room to Wkle he was confin « d to ful 2' ]t came l ' l)on him with fearm suddenness, and struck him down in a ft d, I was dreadfully frightened. I thouiht ?-" la himself very officious £ dm " l s our brief «■» of distress homo IT C almost made Kilrood Ms father's vl W<lS a gl ' e r t deal too much in my .ei b loom, according to my notions of Jime and rest I told our doctor what I thought, tor he and I were great friends. wi(lHu\ SUie l le distresses papa," I raid, Willi the tears standing in my eyes, though I was not of the weeping order of girls. "He fe y Vu *S ° WOrricd !Uld tod. when Ui e Delsarte comes out, I wish you would tell him not to. Not to what, Miss Florence?" asked the doctor, smiling. ( Not to tease papa." " Don't trouble your. pretty head about it, , was the provoking reply. "I. don't think 1 can prohibit Mr. Delsarte's visits, xour papa, and he have business together which I cannot interfere with; and I should do Mr. Van Arsdale far more harm if I prevented his friend from talking to him than, by letting him coma as often as he likes; -tie will not do your papa any mischief; you need not be afraid." ' But I was afraid, and I was sure that the man did annoy my father; for he was always so feverish and excited when he visited him. Once I heard my father and him talking eagerly together, and my name was mentioned.

" I 1 or her sake," my father said—" for the sake of Florence, Claire, I should die if I thought I had not—" Claire Delsarte stopped him with a little laugh.

"There will be no. occasion for you to die of that," he said. "No harm will come to pretty Florence or her fortune. I envy you the possession of that girl, though she does me the honour to hate me with all her might." " Oh, no," my father said. "Florence has 110 reason. to hate you or anyone." "Thei. she does it without reason. Don't worry yourself about her, my boy—she will be safe."

"I wish I could think so. - It is maddening to lie here like a log while so much is at stake-"

"There is nothing at stake if you will only think so." Then he turned the; con--versation.

But my fears were verified; my father was weaker and more restless that, night than lie had been.

But he recovered and regained his good looks and brightness, and the doctors' recommended change' of air and scene and the absence of all worries and cares.

"Take missy, here, and go to Scotland," Dr. Knox said, when my father was able to leave his room and come downstairs. "Put all business thoughts away from you, and be lazy for a month. It is glorious weather for the Highlands." It was glorious weather for anywhere, and I was delighted at the prospect much for the sake of getting rid of the man who seemed to have become in some strange way my father's shadow <as the journey itself, though I was very fond of travelling and loved a change, like all young folks. I was unreasonable,' I have no doubt, in my dislike to Claire Delsarte and his family, who all treated me. .with immense respect. He was a bachelor, and seemed quite an old man to. me. But to a girl in her teens forty seems a patriarchal age. - • ■■■•'. ■:■■■. . • He lived 011 the next estate to ours with his mother, a disagreeable, underbred old lady, who, to my. prejudiced .eves, was the very essence of vulgarity, and his sister, an overdressed young lady who affected great simplicity of character, and, I have since learned, aped my, natural outspoken-, ness and carelessness of other people's opinion in a fashion that did not sit becomingly upon her. . . ~ • She dressed daringly and in a bizarre > tasteless sort of fashion that made her more remarkable than piquant, which was what she aimed at. Much as I disliked the brother, I think he was even, less objectionable than his sister, with her offers .of friendship and her hints that we girls ought to be more friendly, as our gentlemen kindred were so intimate. We girls. And I looked upon her as a horrible old maid, and all but told her so.

CHAPTER 11. my hatred grows.

■It almost spoiled the pleasure of my journey to see Mr. Dekarte at the at,on when we drove in from Kilrood.- Gould he never let us have any peace/ Weie we always to be plagued with his presence. For a moment I actually thought he was going with us, he seemed to make himself so much at home among our package^ T "Are you going to Scotland, 100/ I asked in not the most-'amiable fashion, for which I felt ashamed of myself the m « n jfo fc " he o replied, with a smile, raising his hat as he spoke, as if he had not seen me before; " such a pl» demesn e. I wanted to speak to Mi. Van Arsclaie, th " Papa is very tired," I said, sllorfc |?' -Must .you worry him about business this m< " I 'am afraid I must—with your gracious .«««• disagreeable look in his handsome eg as he turned' away from me to my favher and I felt stung and angry—all the angnei because I could not plead to myself that T lia'd any reasonable cause to be so. 1 Why & not this man or anyoneto come to say a parting word on business to my father? The station ce t ° a ; and there might be business that 1 knew nothing about that needed attending,to. _ if it ml been any other person than the man I disliked so'much I should have thought nothing about it; but I had come £ Sid him with something very like TJ TSto feel like a trapped bird whenever I came into his presence. . influence Perhaps he had some mesmeric influence iernaps 1 truth in such things, I f er tij perhaps it was the inSt i «2.^VtlniLfu r ho 1 ould work me a mischief that made me slunk from him Whatever the cause was the King was there, and would not be crushed my dSingboSd Stofand brighter Van I had seen him do for some tllllfl. "You look troubled, my pet, he said „ we were whirled through the pretty country. "What is the matter.' C " Mr. Delsarte is the matter," I replied. ■I.» afraid lie was coming with us. "He would have liked to do so. "Then I am very glad he did not, papa, dear. Why do you have him so much at m "Sm, my dear. Don't J" like Jfy "No" was emphatic . enough, and my father laughed. What has he "Poor man!" he said. What nas iw done to deserve such an awful punishment aS There in my father's tone this morning that told me he was not to be Sed with. I had seldom heard him speak KV-p that—not more than once or twice m 1 i £ Trt ma I longed to throw my arms lfan"mS d hifbotm £dj but again for fa "Try and *" over it, child, beg of you." . n "I can't, papaSS3SS 3« my :usoal mode ?! sp'*'"® to me.

, The teats rose to my eyes, and would not be kept back; I was so unused to anything but the utmost gentleness from him. ~ 6 ® never a word, and we whirled into the gloom of a tunnel, where I felt uj i rn . 1 stealing round my waist, and my head being drawn to rest on his shoulder.

XT darling," he said, 'as we emerged into the daylight again, and I dried my eyes, don t let us quarrel about anyone. am not quite myself, and cross, I darechild " doll 'k Want *° ma, you unhappy,

You .don't, pa-pa," I urged, and then .fmf m y oi 7 an( was better. Then, dry your tears. What will anyone think that gets into this compartment? Iney will fancy I have been taking the opportunity of being alone with you to administer condign punishment. Come, Florence, let me see you smile again. I only want you to be civil to my friend, that is all." J '

I wish I could be civil to him at a ■ distance, then," I said, saucily. "Is he your Mend, papa? Is he to be trusted?" What an odd question, child! Yes, of course he is; he is as necessary to me just 110 'as illy exacting little daughter here. 1 don t quite know where you and I should be without him."

11l try, I said. "I will be as civil to inm as I can, papa. I don't want to vex you, but I don't like him for all that. I cant help it; he always reminds me of a noma, watching snake, ready to gobble somebody up." My dear Florence, do try and be a little less childish," was all that my father said ill reply to this speech; and somehow I felt as if I had better drop the subject, which I accordingly did, comforting myself with the . reflection that I was free of Claire Delsarte for a month at least. I was thoroughly!happy with my father, and we explored some of the loveliest places m Scotland together. The early autumn is the time for seeing bounie Scotland in its loveliness, when the hills are just beginning to turn purple with the blooming heather and the brown rocks lie basking under the hot sun. There had been a great deal of rain, but it was happily over, and the mountain torrents and streams of all sorts were full.

We made our way through the great chain of lakes, and saw all the beauties of the mountain gorges. We saw Culloden, and stood upon the " Blasted Heath," as all good and true tourists ought to do, and then we turned out of our way to go to the very dismallest'place it has ever been my fortune to see. My father knew the officer jn command at Fort George, Major Beaver, and took me there to see him. I think I shall ■ never forget the drive across the moor that stretches all round that solitary fort, nor the howling of the wind, for it was a dreary day, with no sun.. It looks more like a prison than anything else in the most favourable times, and our charioteer pointed out to us, as we drove along, how 'they had to drive stakes all along by the side of the road to mark where the track should be in snow time. I shuddered jit the notion of living there, and yet I found that Major Beaver's wife and family managed to make themselves very comfortable and happy there. , Inside the fort matters were very different; there were order and cleanliness and the discipline which goes to make the most miserable place ship-shape and bearable. I was interested in everything. The life in this strange place seemed so different to anything I had ever seen before, and it was a new sensation to Mrs. Heaver and her children to have anyone from the outer world visit them. They showed me everything. I watched the drilling of some very raw recruits, and saw something of the routine of camp life,, while my father and the major were renewing their old. acquaintance and revelling in reminiscences about the old days when they were boys together arid partners in all sorts of mischief. • Whilo Mrs. Beaver and I were strolling through the court I caught sight of a face that made me stop her rather unceremoniously and exclaim abruptly: " Who is that?"

It was only one face among many, and till I saw it I had faueied that all the men were alike—their uniform made them appear, so to. my unaccustomed eyes—there was something in this one face that in- ; stantly caught my attention. Ho was one of a 'band of recruits, evidently. They were practising that most ridiculous-look-ing cxercise, the "goose step," and their various attitudes as they attempted the unfamiliar style of progression were ridiculous in the extreme. " There was nothing ridiculous about the man I noticed; lie went at his evidently distasteful and unaccustomed . work with , a will and resolution that made him , take every step accurately, and his face was .as still and set as if carved out of stone. There was absolutely no expression in the features, but in the eyes there was a hollow despair, as if everything in' the world that was lovely and ' worth having, had slipped by him and left him nothing but the barrack-yard and this monotonous duty. He was very handsome, there could be no doubt of that; and there was a refinement about him altogether that even the soiled and miserable-looking fatigue dress that lie wore could not obliterate.

It seemed to me that a quiver passed over the rigid features and on the set lips as our eyes met by accident, and I turned my head away, lest I should pain him by looking at him. A gentleman, without doubt; it was written in every line of his haggard face and in every movement lof his well-poised body; and when by chance I saw his hands I could see at a glance that they were small and wellshaped and white-skinned, although they were scarred and seamed from rough work. " Who is lie?" I. asked Mrs. Beaver, and she turned with some surprise to see what I was looking at. " Only a recruit," she said. " They send a lot here for drill. A gentleman, did you say? Oh, very likely; a great many gentlemen enlist when, they have done something they are ashamed of, or run through all their money, or made themselves obnoxious at home, or anything of that sort. And a great deal of trouble they give, I can assure you." "How?" I asked. "Don't they behave themselves?"

' "Sometimes they do and they are less trouble to set up than young fellows from the plough and the stables. Since gymnastics and athletic sports have come into fashion our drill sergeants have not nearly so much to do in drilling the men. It isn't that; but gentlemen don't always know their own minds, and they get their friends to buy them out just as they get useful, or they get worse here than they have been outside, and make others as bad as themselves. 1" have not heard anything of the man you speak of. I daresay he is a gentleman, now I come to-look at him. He has the bearing of one." CHAPTER. 111. THE FACE IN THE LOCKET. . I,don't know why I watched the man. He seemed to fascinate me, and 1 am sure that I saw his eyes following me as I moved about. Presently the men were dismissed, and there was a lull in their duties they were at liberty to amuse themselves, if amusement could be found in that dull place. Then I saw him again; but for him I might not have been alive to tell this story. There was some masons' work going 011, and, without knowing it, we two ladies were walking right underneath a dangerous stone that threatened to come down.

. ■ Suddenly, before I was. aware of my danger, a . strong hand had clasped me round the waist, and I was drawn away just in time to see the stone fall at my feet; then the recruit drew back with a bow that was never learned in ' a barrack room, and begged my pardon for the liberty he had token.

A gentleman, every inch of him, and by birth as well as nature, I was sure from that moment.

I was flurried and startled by the unexpected danger and the way in which it had been averted, and held out my hand to the man who had saved me from it.

"I might have been killed," I said. " How shall I ever thank you?" " I am thanked enough," he said, in the manner of an equal; "to be able to render a service to a lady is its own reward." He bowed over my hand in quite a chivalrous manner, and Mrs. Beaver laughed at my embarrassment. "What is your name?" she asked him. "Miss Van Arsdale here would like to know, I daresay. You have done her a 1 signal service." _ t ''I was only too happy to do it," was the low reply. " My name— have almost

forgotten that I have one; we are numbered here— am Paul Jones." "In tie regiment?" " Yes." "Is that your real name?" Mrs. Beaver had very little delicacy of feeling, or i she would never have _ asked such a question. She had been "in the service," as she loved to call it, all her life. She had been born in barrack quarters and had been in every part of the world where the British army was stationed, and she had lost much of the womanliness of manner and gentleness that, pertains to - stay-at-home ladies. • To her the men of her husband's regiment. were only, so many parts of a big machine that had to be kept in order. She looked after the women, and helped them and their children, and scolded them when they went wrong but all with a great gull between them and herself which nothing could bridge. . .As to a private having feelings, or being hurt by anything that his superior officer's wife might choose to say to him, such a thing never entered her head. Nor was she too sensitive oil her own side, otherwise the fact of Paul Jones having addressed her as he did, as if he were her equal, would not have gone unnoticed. His next speech was not one white more satisfactory. He was perfectly respectful, but had no intention of satisfying her curiosity. '"It is the name I am known by, madam© ; if I needed any other Ishmael might do as well as any." " Or Sir Bedivere, perhaps," I whispered. I thought aloud, and 1 did not mean to say the words, and Mrs. Beaver did not hear them. She was speaking to someone who had come to seek her, and her back wasi turned for a moment.' Paul Jones heard them and smiled. " Yes," lie said, "I have as much right to that name as any man since the passing of the Knights of the Round Table. I beg your pardon; I have no business to talk to you like this, but "But what?" I had no right to talk to him; it was very unbecoming and wrong, but I was strangely fascinated. The man was so different from any of the people around him ; his eyes had such a bewildering attraction for me that I forgot what he was and talked to him as I should to one of my father's guests. .. "I can hardly explain the 'but.' I think the very sight of a lady has given me a little life—sent me hack to the past. Only yesterday I • was, thinking what' it would bo like to meet— Bah!' I am talking nonsense, and you must forgive me. This place is so dull that the sight of a fresh ia'ce is like a bottle of champagne. I am glad to have been of service to you." He bowed again and turned away just as my father came up to call me. The earriago was waiting, he said, and if we wished to get over the moor before dark we had better go at once. I told him of what had happened, and looked round for Paul Jones, but lie was gone and was not to be found, though he was sought for to speak to my father. "We shall hear of him again," he said, as we drove away, after making our adicux to /the major and his wife, with many promises on the part of the gentlemen to keep up their renewed acquaintance. 1 would not commit myself to any promise of writing to Mrs. Beaver. I was a wretched correspondent, and generally broke my promises in that way; but I made up my mind that 1 would write to her, if only to get some information concerning • the man who had made such an impression on me.'. I could not get him out of my head on our southward journey; his pale,. refined face, with the close-cropped head; under the rough cap, and the lithe, .handsome form shrouded in the coarse clothing that the nation provides for her gallant defenders. He looked like an eagle among barndoor fowl there in the midst of those clumsy recruits. Paul Jones! What nonsense ! If he had told me ho was a scion of tho proudest family in the country I should have believed it sooner. Would Mrs. Beaver ever write, I wondered, or, if she did, would she tell me anything about him? What a silly girl I was, to be sure! What did it matter to me what the man's name was. or where lie came' from? I should never sec him again, , What had I, Florence Van Ansdale, to do with a private soldier? I must surely be going mad! . ■

And then 1 looked at my father sleeping, and'vowed for the hundredth time, at least, that 110 man should ever take me awav from him.

, At length wo reached Edinburgh, where : We Were to stay for Rome time, as my father ! had several old friends there. My mother, too, -had been here a good deal in her girl- ■ hood days, and 'this rendered the city still : more . attractive. -We secured rooms just opposite the pretty gardens at the foot' of the Castle rock, and our windows looked down on the ever-busy Primes-street. I was sitting alone one day, for my father had gone out with a, friend' of his, and I was glad to rest a little; even seventeen gets weary sometimes, and I had done ah immense quantity'of sightseeing since our arrival. We had a party arranged for Graigmillar and one or two other places on the ■morrow; we were to explore more of Quern' Mary's favourite places, and look out of the very window from which she'showed herself to the troops before the last miserable light (hat sent her captive to her vindictive cousin ; and I was thinking of Scott's novels arid confounding them with history, : after the fashion of young ladies, when the waiter came in with a letter. It was not for my father; it was for mo, and I took it with 110 small surprise. Its postmark was Campbelltowii, and I knew .it must ho from Mb. Beaver. I forgot' all about the hapless Stuart Queen, and tore it open . he very name of the place seemed to have a fascination for me. It contained a piece of very odd news: — My dear Miss Van Arsdale, —I thought perhaps you would have found time to send me a line to tell 1110 how yon prospered on your journey southward. How I envied you the pleasure!. But I suppose you have been too much occupied to find time for writing. ' I assure you your short visit was a great treat to all of us here, and I only wish it could .be repeated. Perhaps it will some day—who- knows? Bather an odd thing has happened since you were perhaps it is only a coincidence. You remember the recruit you took such an interest in; I forgot to tell you he was going away to the south of Ireland. We have got rid of all that awkward squad, I am thankful to say. He was ill wheal he went away; the very night of your visit he dropped down in a fainting fit, or something of the sort, just by the door of our quarters. I had him brought in, for it was rainingpoor fellow! —and wo attended to him.. Wo opened his jacket to give him air, and there dropped out a locket which he wore suspended round his neck. There is generally some woman in the case when a man enlists, as I feel certain he did, under a false name, and I had, the curiosity to open it. My dear, it was your portrait! I am not easily astonished, but 1 certainly was then, and am now. How did he come by it? Who is he? Satisfy my curiosity, if you can, for I am devoured with it. It was your face, just as I saw,, you the other day." I laid down the letter, feeling as if I must be dreaming, and yet there were the words. It was some mistake, of course; that unknown soldier could not have got my likeness, for the simple reason it had never been taken. I had had my portrait painted, but had never been photographed by a- professional photographer. My father did not care for my likeness to find its way into the shop windows, to be at the mercy of everyone, and lie knew that my rather- striking face would come to that in the long run. I took up the paper again, but there was no clue. • ) "I laid it down,'' Mrs. Beaver went on, ' and helped in what was being done for the. man. He _ soon got better, and the first thing lie did, with returning consciousness, was to put his hand to his breast to feel for the locket. I put it into his hand, and he said, quietly, 'Thank you, madam e,' as if he had been speaking to an equal. I intended to ask him about it before he left, but the next day 1 was very ill myself, not able to lift my head, and the next he was gone. How ever lie came by your portrait lie seems to regard it as his greatest treasure on earth. Somehow or other, I don't think you have seen the last of ' Paul Jones.'" There was something spiteful in the tone of the letter. Did this woman, who had never seen me till that day at the soldier barracks, think of me so meanly as to believe that I would have a clandestine acquaintance with any man? The tone of her 1 letter indicated as much, and I flew into a rage at the very idea. " I will find out what it means," I said, aloud, without knowing it. "I will know

how he came by my likeness, and who he really is." i A voice answered my self-communing. "Of course von will, Miss Florencewhatever it is. Can Ibe of any service to you in tho matter?" • • And 1 lifted my head to seo my special detestation, 1 Mr. Claire Delsarte, standing opposite him, looking at me with a wicked smile on his face.

(To be continued.)

[Another instalment of this very interesting story will be given in these columns on Monday next, and continued daily until its completion.]