"Then don't think of it, dear Mrs. Ralston," cooed Claire. "You will be as safe as safe in the seclusion of my sister's villa. And you can set things straight soon, when we have arrived. There can't be much to fear, can there, Mr. Allyne?"

"Nothing very formidable," said the banker, rising to take his leave.

"Pray, don't exaggerate the trouble, Mrs. Ralston. Prompt attention, such as Lord will give the matter, will make all safe. Besides, he is not hunting _you_; the man thinks you dead."

"True; I had forgotten," said the lady, looking somewhat reassured.

"Claire, we will pack to-night, and then try and be content until it is time to go."

"Meantime, I will telegraph to Lord and let him know that you will come, and when," said Mr. Allyne, taking up his hat to depart.

The morning of their departure dawned clear and bright. Claire was in extravagant spirits, while even Mrs. Ralston seemed to catch the infectious cheeriness of the day, and her companion's mood.

When they were about to enter the carriage that was to take them to the depot, a letter was put into the hand of Miss Keith. She flung back her veil and leaning back among the cushions perused it in attentive silence. Having finished, she looked up with a little frown upon her brow, and exclaimed:

"How very provoking!"

Mrs. Ralston looked alarmed. "Is your sister ill?"

"Oh, no; it's Madeline."

"The young girl I have heard you speak of?"

"Yes."

"Is _she_ ill?"

"No; she got well, just to avoid me; she is gone."

"Gone?"

"Yes; or will be, when we arrive. Why, how stupid I am not to explain!

Madeline Payne has been with Olive nearly a week. She has been sick, but is better, and will leave there to-day."

Claire had said but little concerning Madeline, fearing lest in her enthusiasm she should say too much. But she had revolved many plans for bringing about a meeting between Mrs. Ralston and her "brave girl."

CHAPTER XXXVII.

"I HAVE COME BACK TO MY OWN!"

Quite the pleasantest of all the rooms that had been so sumptuously fitted up, when "Mrs. Torrance" came to Oakley, a bride, was the back drawing-room. At least it was pleasantest in Winter. Its large windows faced south and west, and all of the Winter sunshine fell upon them, glowing through crimson curtains, and helping the piled-up anthracite in the grate to bathe the room in a ruddiness of crimson and golden bronze.

On this particular December day, the air was crisp and cold, and full of floating particles of hoar frost, while the winter sun shone bright and clear. Outside, one felt that it was an exceedingly cold sun. But viewed from within, it looked inviting enough, and one felt inspired to dash out into the frosty air and try if they could not walk _a la_ hippogriffe, without touching their feet to the ground.

Some such thought was floating through the mind of Mrs. John Arthur, who was progressing in her convalescence very rapidly now, and who had, on this day, made her second descent to the drawing-rooms.

She had donned, for the first time since her illness, a dinner-dress of rosy silk, its sweeping train and elbow sleeves enriched with flounces of black lace. As there was, at present, no need to play the invalid--herself and Davlin being the sole occupants of the room--she was sweeping up and down its length like a caged lioness.

By and by she swerved from her course, and coming to the grate, put a daintily shod foot upon the bronze fender. Resting one hand on a chair, and looking down upon Davlin, who was lounging before the fire in full dinner costume, she said, abruptly:

"How very interesting all this is!"

Davlin made no sign that he heard.

"Do you know how long we have been playing this little game, sir?"

The man smiled, in that cool way, so exasperating always to her, and lifting one hand, began to tell off the months on his fingers.

"Let me see, ball opened in June, did it not?"

She nodded impatiently.

"June!" He was thinking of his June flirting with Madeline Payne, and involuntarily glanced at the windows from whence could be seen the very trees under which they had wandered, himself and that fair dead girl, in early June. "Yes, the last of June--I remember,"--reflectively.

"And pray, from what event does your memory date?" exclaimed Cora, with strong sarcasm.

He glanced up quickly. "Why, _Ma Belle_, from your introduction to the hills and vales of Bellair, and the master of Oakley."

"Oh, I thought it was from the time you received your pistol wound."

Davlin smiled. "Yes, that scratch _was_ given in June; but I don't date from trifles, Co."

"Oh! Well, I fancy it was not the fault of the hand that aimed the bullet, or rather of the _heart_, that you got a 'mere scratch.' I never believed in your card-table explanation of that affair, sir."

"Well, don't call _me_ to account for _your_ want of faith."

"I believe you promised yourself revenge on the fellow who shot at you. Why didn't you take it?"

Lucian stooped down and brushed an imaginary speck from his boot toe, saying, as he did so: "I was forestalled."

"How?"

"The--fellow--is dead."

"Oh, well, I don't care about dead men--what I am anxious about is this--"

"Oh, yes," maliciously. "Return to subject under discussion. You embarked in this enterprise in June--"

"Bother," impatiently.

"Late in Summer, bagged your game; in early Autumn, fitted up this jolly old rookery--"

Cora gave a sniff of disdain.

"Next--well, you know what next. We haven't been two months at this last job."