eyes, recommenced his search for the daguerreotype, which was
nowhere to be found. Could she have found it? Impossible! for it
was not in her jealous nature to have held her peace; and again he
sought for it, but all to no purpose, and finally thinking he must
have taken it with him and lost it, he gave it up, mourning more for
the loss of the curl, which could never, never be replaced, while the
picture might be found.

"Why do I live so?" thought he, as he nervously paced the room. "My
life is one of continual fear and anxiety, but it shall be so no
longer. I'll tell her all when she returns. I'll brave the world,
dare her displeasure, take 'Lena home, and be a man."

Satisfied with this resolution, and nothing doubting that he should
keep it, he started for Versailles, where he had an engagement with a
gentleman who transacted business for him in Lexington.

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE LETTER AND ITS EFFECT.

Mabel had gone out, and 'Lena sat alone in the little room adjoining
the parlor which Mr. Douglass termed his library, but which Nellie
had fitted up for a private sewing-room. It was 'Lena's favorite
resort when she wished to be alone, and as Mabel was this morning
absent, she had retired thither, not to work, but to think--to recall
every word and look of Durward's, to wonder when and how he would
repeat the question, the answer to which had been prevented by Mr.
Graham.

Many and blissful were her emotions as she sat there, wondering if it
were not a bright dream, from which she would too soon awaken, for
could it be that one so noble, so good, and so much sought for as
Durward Bellmont had chosen her, of all others, to be his bride?
Yes, it must be so, for he was not one to say or act what he did not
mean; he would come that day and repeat what he had said before; and
she blushed as she thought what her answer would be.

There was a knock on the door, and a servant entered, bringing her a
letter, which she eagerly seized, thinking it was from him. But
'twas not his writing, though bearing the post-mark of Versailles.
Hastily she broke the seal, and glancing at the signature, turned
pale, for it was "Lucy Graham," his mother, who had written, but for
what, she could not guess. A moment more and she fell back on the
sofa, white and rigid as a piece of marble. 'Twas a cruel and
insulting letter, containing many dark insinuations, which she, being
wholly innocent; could not understand. She knew