d. The world did
not hold such another. When the letter was finished it was time to
dress for dinner.

"Which dress will you wear, miss?" asked the attentive maid.

"The prettiest I have," said the young girl, her bright face glowing
with the words she had just written.

What dress could be pretty enough for him? One was found at last that
pleased her--a rich, white crepe. But she would wear no
jewels--nothing but crimson roses. One lay in the thick coils of her
dark hair, another nestled against her white neck, others looped up the
flowing skirt.

Beatrice's toilet satisfied her--this, too, with her lover's fastidious
taste to please. She stood before the large mirror, and a pleased
smile overspread her face as she saw herself reflected therein.

Suddenly she remembered the letter. The morning-dress still hung upon
a chair. She took the envelope from the pocket.

"Shall you want me again, Miss Earle?" asked her maid.

"No," replied Beatrice, breaking the seal; "I am ready now."

The girl quitted the room, and Beatrice, standing before the mirror,
drew out a long, closely written letter, turning presently, in
amazement, to the signature, wondering who could be the writer.

Chapter XXXI

The sun shone brightly upon the roses that gleamed in her hair and
nestled against the white neck. Could it be lingering in cruel mockery
upon the pale face and the dark eyes so full of wild horror? As
Beatrice Earle read that letter, the color left even her lips, her
heart seemed to stand still, a vague, nameless dread took hold of her,
the paper fell from her hands, and with a long, low cry she fell upon
her knees, hiding her face in her hands.

It had fallen at last--the cruel blow that even in her dreams and
thoughts she had considered impossible. Hugh Fernely had found her
out, and claimed her as his own!

This letter, which had stricken joy and beauty from the proud face and
left it white and cold almost as the face of the dead was from him; and
the words it contained were full of such passionate love that they
terrified her. The letter ran as follows:

"My own Beatrice,--From peril by sea and land I have returned to claim
you. Since we parted I have stood face to face with death in its most
terrible form. Each time I conquered because I felt I must see you
again. It is a trite saying that death is immortal. Death itself
would not part me from you--nay, if I were buried, and you came to my
grave