he was to him. And so he
gradually forgot even that she had ever lived! She had long been "out of
mind" as "out of sight."

Fifteen years of married life had passed over the heads of the Duke and
Duchess of Hereward.

The duchess at thirty-five was still a very beautiful woman, a reigning
belle, a leader of fashion, a queen of society.

The duke at sixty-five was still a very handsome, stately and commanding
old gentleman, with hair and beard as white as snow. He was a great
political power in the House of Lords. Their son, the young Marquis
of Arondelle, was a fine boy of fourteen.

It was very early summer in London. Parliament was in session, and the
season was at its height.

The Duke and Duchess of Hereward were established in their magnificent
town-house in Piccadilly.

The Marquis of Arondelle was pursuing his studies at Eton.

A memorable day was at hand for the duke.

It was the morning of the first of June--a rarely brilliant and beautiful
day for London.

The duchess had gone down to a garden party at Buckingham Palace.

The duke sat alone in his sumptuous library, whose windows overlooked the
luxuriant garden, then in its fullest bloom and fragrance.

The windows were open, admitting the fine, fresh air of summer, perfumed
with the aroma of numberless flowers, and musical with the songs of many
birds.

The duke sat in a comfortable reading-chair, with an open book on its
rotary ledge. He was not reading. The charm of external nature, appealing
equally to sense and sentiment, won him from his mental task, and
soothed him into a delicious reverie, during which he sat simply resting,
breathing, gazing, luxuriating in the lovely life around him.

In the midst of this clear sky a thunderbolt fell.

A discreet footman rapped softly, and being told to enter, glided into
the room, bearing a card upon a tiny silver tray, which he brought to his
master.

The duke took it, languidly glanced at it, knit his brows, and took up
his reading-glass and examined it closely. No! his eyes had not deceived
him. The card bore the name: ARCHBALD A. J. SCOTT.

"Who brought this?" inquired the duke.

"A young gentleman, sir," respectfully answered the footman.

"Where is he?"

"I showed him into the blue reception room, your grace."

The duke paused a moment, gazing at the card, and then abruptly demanded:

"What is the young man like?"

"Most genteel, your grace; most like our young lord, and about his a