ly trying to speak words of comfort and
cheer, while they waited for the return of those who had gone to search
for the missing one.

Lord Cameron came back after a time, accompanied by Mr. Mencke, who had
arrived on the first train from Nice, but he brought no tidings of
Violet.

"There will be no wedding to-day, even if she is found," he said, with a
stern, set face, "so let all preparations be stopped at once."

Then without another word, he went out, mounted his horse, and rode away
toward the mountains.

The wretched day passed, and evening shut down again upon the place,
where but one theme was thought of or talked about. Many believed that
the young girl had gone out for a walk in the early morning and had,
perhaps, fallen into some ravine among the mountains, or into the sea
and been drowned.

There were only a few who thought otherwise, and these were Mr. and Mrs.
Mencke, Lord Cameron, and his mother.

Mr. and Mrs. Mencke did not lisp their suspicions that Violet might have
fled from an uncongenial marriage to a suicide's fate; but Lord Cameron,
who remembered his last interview with his betrothed, had a terrible
fear that such might be the case; while Lady Cameron, having told him of
Violet's strange excitement and remarks of the evening previous,
suggested that she might have fled to escape wronging him and being
untrue to herself.

"It may be so," the wretched young man said, "but oh, I fear she is
dead. I shall search for her until I am satisfied of either one thing or
the other."

When Lord Cameron had said there would be no wedding, even if Violet
were found, Mrs. Mencke went away and shut herself in the room where
Violet was to have dressed for her bridal, and where, spread out before
her, were the lovely dress of white silk tulle, with its delicate
garnishings of lilies of the valley and white violets the beautiful
Brussels net vail, with its chaplet of the same flowers, the dainty
white satin boots, gloves, and handkerchief; and there she gave vent to
the rage, disappointment, and grief which she could no longer contain.

It was the most wretched day of her whole life, and she afterward
confessed that there, for the first time, in the presence of these
voiceless accusers of her for her treachery and heartlessness toward the
young girl whom she should have tenderly cherished and shielded from all
unhappiness, her guilty conscience began to upbraid her, and remorse to
sting her with their rel