the _Family Honor_!" came the hissing answer. "_Come_, I tell
you."

And like a man in a nightmare, Frank Lamotte obeys.

CHAPTER XXVI.

PRINCE'S PREY.

The morning of the following day breaks gray and dismal. The wind has
been blowing all the night through, and wherever a tree stands, there
the fallen leaves lie, thick and rain-soaked; for it is raining,
drizzling weather, and above, below, and around, all is gray, and dull,
and dreary.

Dr. Heath's cottage stands aloof from all other dwellings, quite by
itself, for the houses stand wide apart in this suburban portion of the
town, and he has selected the pretty place because of its quiet beauty,
and comparative isolation. He has neighbors within sight, within
hearing, too, should he choose to be vociferous; but the houses about
him all stand within their own pleasant grounds. His nearest neighbor,
on the one hand, has placed a fine orchard between them, and on the
other hand, he has no neighbor at all; there is a vacant lot, well
planted and pleasantly ruinous to see. A fine dwelling had once occupied
the site, but fire had destroyed it, and the gaping cellar, a pile of
burnt bricks, and some charred debris, are all that remain. In summer
the place is one tangled growth of roses and flowering shrubs, and
Doctor Heath makes free with the flowers in their season, and even
swings his hammock there among the old trees, that outnumber his own,
and have outstripped them, too, in years and growth.

[Illustration: The cottage stands quite by itself.]

Opposite the doctor's cottage stands a handsome dwelling, far back among
the trees. It is the home of Lawyer O'Meara and his wife; and the two
are the doctor's firm friends.

Beyond the O'Meara dwelling and on the same side of the street,
stretches a row of cottages, built and owned by Mr. O'Meara. These are
occupied by some thrifty mechanics, and one or two of the best of the
mill workers. They are neat, new, tasteful, and well cared for by their
tenants.

Clifford Heath awakes a little later than usual, this dismal, gray
morning; he had returned from his second visit to Sybil Burrill at a
late hour, and after sitting beside his fire, pondering long over many
things, had retired, to sleep soundly, and to wake late. What first
rouses him is a knocking upon his door, a regular tattoo, beaten by his
housekeeper, grown impatient over coffee too long brewed, and muffins
too brown.

He makes his toilet after a l