yet. You will not mention
it?"

"No."

"Then good-night, and pleasant dreams."

"Thank you," in a grave voice; "good-night."

Claire returned to her room and penned a long letter to Edward Percy,
full of sweet confidence, gayety and trustfulness. She reperused his
last letter, said her prayers, or rather read them, for Claire was a
staunch little church-woman, and then slept and dreamed bright dreams.

CHAPTER XI.

A GLEAM OF LIGHT.

A few moments after Claire's door had closed for the last time,
Madeline came cautiously from her room, her slippered feet making no
sound on the softly carpeted floor. Passing Claire's door, she paused
before another, opened it gently, and stood in Olive Girard's
bed-chamber.

Evidently she was expected, for a light was burning softly and Olive
sat near it with a book in her hand, in an attitude of waiting.

Madeline seated herself at the little table as if quite accustomed to
such interviews, and said in a low tone:

"I am so glad you came to-night; are you too tired for a long talk?"

"No; tell me all that has happened since I have been absent."

"Olive, I must go away; back to Bellair," said Madeline, abruptly.

"Madeline, you are mad! To Bellair? Why, _he_ is there often now."

"He will not find me out, never fear. I _must_ go to Bellair within
the week."

Olive leaned forward and scanned the girl's face closely and long. At
last, she said: "Madeline, what is it you meditate? tell me."

"Going back to Bellair; keeping an eye upon the proceedings of Mr.
Arthur; finding out what game that man and woman are playing there;
and baffling and punishing them all."

She had been kept informed, through Henry, into whose hands had fallen
a letter in Cora's handwriting, bearing the Bellair postmark, and
addressed to Lucian Davlin, who, so Henry said, "went down, on and
off," and always appeared satisfied with the result of his journey.

Olive argued long against this resolution, but found it impossible to
dissuade Madeline.

"It is useless," the girl said, firmly. "I should have died but for
the expectation of a time when I could be avenged, and this time I
must bring about. All through my convalescence I have pondered how I
could best avenge my mother's wrongs, and my own. Now Providence has
thrown together the two men who are my enemies; why, I do not yet
know, but perhaps it is that I may make the one a weapon against the
other. And now I want to ask you some q