ust start to-morrow morning."

"Oh, dear, oh, dear!" sobbed Daisy, throwing herself down on her
little white bed when she had reached her own room, "what shall I do?
I can't go without seeing Rex. I never heard of a girl that was
married being sent off to school. I--I dare not tell Uncle John I am
somebody's wife. Oh, if I could only see Rex!" Daisy springs out of
bed and crosses over to the little white curtained window, gazing out
into the still calm beauty of the night. "If I only knew where to
find Rex," she mused, "I would go to him now. Surely he would not let
me be sent away from him." She turned away from the window with a
sigh. "I must see Rex to-morrow morning," she said, determinedly. And
the weary little golden head, tired out with the day which had just
died out, sunk restfully down upon the snowy pillow in a dreamless
sleep, the happiest, alas! that poor little girl-bride was to know for
long and weary years.

A dark, dreamy silence wraps the cottage in its soft embrace, the
moon, clear and full, sails tranquilly through the star-sown heavens,
and the sweet scent of distant orange groves is wafted through the
midnight breeze. Yet the dark-cloaked figure that walks quickly and
softly up the graveled walk sees none of the soft, calm beauty of the
still summer night. She raises the brass knocker with a quick,
imperative touch. After a wait of perhaps ten minutes or so Septima
answers the summons, but the candle she holds nearly drops from her
hands as she beholds the face of her midnight visitor in the dim,
uncertain flickering glare of the candle-light.

"Miss Pluma," she exclaims, in amazement, "is there any one ill at the
Hall?"

"No!" replies Pluma, in a low, soft, guarded whisper. "I wished to see
you--my business is most important--may I come in?"

"Certainly," answered Septima, awkwardly. "I beg your pardon, miss,
for keeping you standing outside so long."

As Pluma took the seat Septima placed for her, the dark cloak she wore
fell from her shoulders, and Septima saw with wonder she still wore
the shimmering silk she had in all probability worn at the fete. The
rubies still glowed like restless, leaping fire upon her perfect arms
and snowy throat, and sprays of hyacinth were still twined in her
dark, glossy hair; but they were quite faded now, drooping, crushed,
and limp among her curls; there was a strange dead-white pallor on her
haughty face, and a lurid gleam shone in her dark, slumbrous eye