ot know the name of the
nurse?"

"Yes, she lived at a little place called Ashwood. I advertised for her,
I offered large rewards, but I have never gleaned the least news of her;
no one could ever find her. Her husband, it appeared, had been guilty of
crime. My opinion is that the poor woman fled in shame from the
neighborhood where she was known, and that both she and my dear child
are dead."

"It seems most probable," observed Lord Arleigh.

"If I could arrive at any certainty as to her fate," said the earl, "I
should be a happier man. I have been engaged to my cousin Lady Lily
Gordon for four years, but I cannot make up my mind to marry until I
hear something certain about my daughter."

Chapter XXXIV.

Winiston House was prettily situated. The house stood in the midst of
charming grounds. There was a magnificent garden, full of flowers, full
of fragrance and bloom; there was an orchard filled with rich, ripe
fruit, broad meadow-land where the cattle grazed, where daisies and
oxlips grew. To the left of the house was a large shrubbery, which
opened on to a wide carriage drive leading to the high road. The house
was an old red-brick building, in no particular style of architecture,
with large oval windows and a square porch. The rooms were large, lofty,
and well lighted. Along the western side of the house ran a long
terrace called the western terrace; there the sun appeared to shine
brightest, there tender plants flourished, there tame white doves came
to be fed and a peacock walked in majesty; from there one heard the
distant rush of the river.

There Lady Arleigh spent the greater part of her time--there she wore
her gentle life away. Three years had elapsed, and no change had come to
her. She read of her husband's sojourn in Scotland. Then she read in the
fashionable intelligence that he had gone to Wood Lynton, the seat of
the Earl of Mountdean. He remained there three days, and then went
abroad. Where he was now she did not know; doubtless he was traveling
from one place to another, wretched, unhappy as she was herself.

The desolate, dreary life had begun to prey upon her at last. She had
fought against it bravely for some time--she had tried to live down the
sorrow; but it was growing too strong for her--the weight of it was
wearing her life away. Slowly but surely she began to fade and droop. At
first it was but a failure in strength--a little walk tired her, the
least fatigue or exercise se