she was thinking, "to
pay the slightest attention to the canting nonsense of these
fortune-telling impostors! If I had been in his place I would have had
him horsewhipped from my gates for his pains. I must find out what
this terrible prediction was and laugh it out of my husband's mind."

Meantime the carriage rolled down the long avenue, under the majestic
copper-beeches, through the lofty gates, and along the bright sunlit
road leading to the village.

In stole and surplice, within the village church, the Reverend Cyrus
Green, Rector of Stonehaven, stood by the baptismal font, waiting to
baptize the heir of all the Kingslands.

Stately, Sir Jasper Kingsland strode up the aisle, with Lady Helen upon
his arm. No trace of the trouble within showed in his pale face as he
heard his son baptized Everard Jasper Carew Kingsland.

The ceremony was over. Nurse took the infant baronet again; Lady Helen
adjusted her mantle, and the Reverend Cyrus Green was blandly offering
his congratulations to the greatest man in the parish, when a sudden
commotion at the door startled all. Some one striving to enter, and
some other one refusing admission.

"Let me in, I tell you!" cried a shrill, piercing voice--the voice of
an angry woman. "Stand aside, woman! I will see Sir Jasper Kingsland."

With the last ringing words the intruder burst past the pew-opener, and
rushed wildly into the church. A weird and unearthly figure--like one
of Macbeth's witches--with streaming black hair floating over a long,
red cloak, and two black eyes of flame. All recoiled as the spectral
figure rushed up like a mad thing and confronted Sir Jasper Kingsland.

"At last!" she shrilly cried, in a voice that pierced even to the
gaping listeners without--"at last, Sir Jasper Kingsland! At last we
meet again!"

There was a horrible cry as the baronet started back, putting up both
hands, with a look of unutterable horror.

"Good God! Zenith!"

"Yes, Zenith!" shrieked the woman; "Zenith, the beautiful, once!
Zenith, the hag, the crone, the madwoman, now! Look at me well, Sir
Jasper Kingsland--for the ruin is your own handiwork!"

He stood like a man paralyzed--speechless, stunned--his face the livid
hue of death.

The wretched woman stood before him with streaming hair, blazing eyes,
and uplifted arm, a very incarnate fury.

"Look at me well!" she fiercely shrieked, tossing her locks of old off
her fiery face. "Am I like the Zenith of twe