The Lost Lady of Lone. Emma Dorothy Eliza Nevitte Southworth

a slow and hesitating manner. "Have you seen or heard anything more of that girl, Mrs. Ross?"

      "Meaning that ne'er-do-weel light o' love Rose Cameron, me leddy!" inquired the housekeeper.

      "Yes, Rose Cameron. There have been such crowds of people on the island today to inspect the decorations, that I thought—I thought—"

      "As that handsome jaud might be amang 'em, me leddy? Ou, ay, and sae she waur! But when I caught her prowling about here, I sent Mr. McRath to warn her off the place, and threaten her wi' the constable gin she didna gang!" said the housekeeper.

      "But that was cruel, Mrs. Ross."

      "Na, na, me leddy. It waur unco well dune! She was after no guid prowling about here, and making an excuse o' luking at the deekorated grounds. She didna care for the sight a bodle! Aweel she's gane, and a guid riddance."

      "What does the girl look like, Mrs. Ross?"

      "Eh, leddy, she's a strapping wench! tall and broad-shouldered, and full-breasted, with a handsome head that she carries unco high, and big, bold blue eyes, and a heap o' long, red hair. That's Rosy Cameron, me leddy."

      This was a rather rough portrait of the Juno-like Highland beauty; but then, it was drawn by an enemy, you know.

      "But dinna fash yersel' about yon hizzie ony mair, me young leddy. She'll na be permitted to trouble ye," concluded the housekeeper.

      "That will do, Mrs. Ross. Thanks. But pray do not let anyone be harsh with that poor girl. If she is a little crazy, she is all the more to be pitied. Good-night," said Salome, thus gently dismissing her talkative attendant.

      "Guid night, me young leddy. Guid rest and blithe waking to ye," repeated the old woman, as she courtesied and left the room.

      "Poor girl!" mused Salome. "I cannot help sympathizing with her tonight. What if Arondelle who is so courteous to all, were courteous to her also. And she, unused to courtesy in her rude Highland home, mistook such gentle courtesy for preference, for love, and gave him her love in return? He would not be in the least to be blamed, while she would be much to be pitied. What a cruel sight these wedding preparations must be to her! What a miserable night this must be for her! I must see to that poor girl's welfare," concluded Salome.

      A low rap at her door disturbed her.

      "Come in."

      Her maid entered.

      "What is it, Janet?"

      "If you please, Miss, Sir Lemuel's man has just brought me a message for you. Sir Lemuel requests, Miss, that you will come to his room before you retire."

      "Dear papa, I will go at once. You need not wait for me here, Janet. Just turn the lights down low—they make the room so warm—and leave the windows partly open, and then go to bed, my girl, I shall not want you again tonight," said Salome, as she passed out of the chamber and went down to the long hall, at the opposite extremity of which was her father's room.

      She entered silently, and found the banker wrapped in his gray silk dressing-gown and seated in his large resting-chair.

      "Come and sit by me, my dear. I only wanted to have a little talk with you tonight," he said, holding out his hand to her.

      She went up to him, clasped and kissed the out-stretched hand, and then seated herself, not on the chair by his side, for that would not have brought her near enough to him, but on the footstool at his feet, so that she could lay her head upon his knees.

      "Salome, my darling, I have not been a good father to you," he said, sadly, as he ran his long white fingers through the tresses of the little dark-haired head that lay upon his knees.

      "Oh, papa! the best and dearest papa that ever lived!" she answered, drawing his hand to her lips and kissing it fondly.

      "No, no; I have not been a good father to you, my poor motherless child. I feel it to-night. I left you fourteen years in a foreign convent, and scarcely ever saw you. Was that being a good father to you, my child?"

      "Yes, dear, it was. I had to be educated. And the nuns did their whole duty by me, did they not?" said Salome, soothingly.

      "They sent me home a sweet and lovely child, who in the three years that she has been my greatest blessing and comfort has made me feel and know how much I lost in banishing her from my presence so long—fourteen years!—a time never to be redeemed!" said the banker, with a sigh.

      "Yes, papa, dear. It can and shall be redeemed. For now you know I shall live with you as long as you live. My marriage will not deprive you of your daughter, but give you a dear and noble son. You know it is settled that after our brief wedding we shall return to Lone, and you and the duke, and Arondelle and myself, will all live here together until the meeting of Parliament in February, and then we shall go up to London together. So cheer up, papa. All the coming years shall compensate for all we have lost in the past," said Salome, gayly caressing him.

      "'The coming years?' Ah, my darling! do you forget that I am quite an old man to be your father? You were the child of my old age, Salome! I was nearly fifty when you were born. I am nearly seventy now!"

      "Dear father!" murmured Salome, caressing him with ineffable tenderness.

      "Do not let me sadden you, my darling. I would not be a day younger. It is well to be old. It is well to have lived a long time in this world, for it is a good world. But good as it is, it is but rudimentary. It is to the human being only what the soil is to the seed—the germinating bed; the full and perfect world is beyond. Young Christians believe this. Aged Christians know it. There, brighten up! And think that this marriage of yours and Arondelle's if it be as true as I feel assured it is—will be not for time only but for all eternity! Believe this and be happier than you were ever before! There now, my darling! I called you in here to make my little confession. I have received absolution. Now go to your rest. Good night," said the banker, bending and kissing her forehead.

      "Dear, dearest father! bless your daughter before she goes," said Salome, in a voice thrilling with emotion, as she raised from her seat and knelt at her father's feet.

      The old man laid his hand upon her bowed head and solemnly invoked a blessing upon her.

      "May the Lord look down on you, my daughter. May He give you health and grace to bear your burdens and do your duties as wife and mother, and save and bless you and yours, now and ever more, for Christ's dear sake. Amen."

      She arose in silence from her knees, put her arms around his neck, kissed him, and glided from the room.

      And now a terrible and mysterious thing happened to the bride-elect.

      The lights had been turned very low in the hall. The household had all retired to rest. The stillness and the sense of darkness awed her as she glided noiselessly along in the deep shadows. Suddenly she saw the form of a man approaching from the direction of her own room. He might be some belated servant on some legitimate business for one of the guests, yet he startled her. She looked intently toward him, but in the obscure light she could only see that he was a tall man in dark clothing, and with a very white face. She shrank back in the shadow of the wall as he swiftly and silently approached her.

      Then with amazement she recognized the face and form of her betrothed husband. But the face was deadly pale, and the form was shaking as with an ague fit.

      "Arondelle! You here!" she exclaimed, starting towards him.

      But she met only the empty air, the form had vanished.

      In unbounded amazement she stared all around to see where it could have gone, and in what part of the darksome hall she herself then stood.

      She found herself opposite to the entrance of a long, narrow passage opening from the hall and leading to the door of a staircase communicating with the dungeons of Malcolm's Tower.

      She looked down that passage. It was black as the mouth of Hades!

      A nameless terror seized her, and she fled precipitately