The Senator's Favorite. Alex. McVeigh Miller

would say so, too, if he saw her? Would he like her blue eyes better than my dark ones? Would he think her golden curls prettier than my raven tresses? Woe be to her if he did, for now he is almost my declared lover, and if she won him from me I should be tempted to take a terrible revenge on both," she thought bitterly, forgetting that the deadliest revenge often recoils on the hand that deals the blow.

      They passed into the broad hall, where they were met by Mrs. Winans' privileged attendant, Norah, who had nursed all her children.

      "Norah! Norah! has Precious come home?" cried her mistress anxiously.

      The woman stared in surprise at the question.

      "No, madam, she is not here. I thought she was to come back with you! Why, what ails you that you look so pale and wild? Oh, she is fainting! Help! help! we must carry her to her room!"

      They bore the limp figure upstairs, and laid it on the bed. Ethel knelt by her, weeping.

      "Mamma, dear mamma, speak to me! Oh, Norah, why does she lie still so long? Is she dead?"

      "No, it's only a swoon. I've brought her safely through many like it, poor dear. But tell me what has happened, Miss Ethel? Where is your father and your sister, my little nursling?"

      Ethel told her briefly what had happened, adding:

      "Papa sent us home and remained, to search for Precious."

      "Heaven have mercy!" sobbed nurse Norah, then she busied herself about her mistress.

      Ethel stood idly watching her, with dazed eyes, her head in a whirl. She was not thinking of her lost sister, nor her stricken mother. Her restless thoughts had gone back to her handsome English lover.

      She was thinking:

      "When mamma came upon us so suddenly he was about to make a declaration of his love. I saw it in his eyes, it was trembling on his lips; but mamma came between with the name of Precious—that name that always comes between me and everything! Was it an evil omen, I wonder, or will he tell me to-morrow that he loves me?"

       CHAPTER IV.

      "FOR LOVE OF HER FAIR FACE."

      "My hope was still in the shadow,

      Hers lay in the sun:

      I longed in vain: what she asked for

      It straightway was done,

      Once I staked all my heart's treasure,

      We played—and she won!"

—Adelaide Procter.

      In the gray dawn of the wild March morning Senator Winans came home alone, looking ten years older, the stamp of despair on his dark, handsome face.

      He went at once to his wife, and found her lying awake in a fever of suspense and anxiety.

      When she saw him enter alone she started up with a cry of keen despair:

      "Precious! Oh, where is Precious?"

      Her husband knelt by her side, clasped the feverish little hands, and kissed the woeful white face, all wet with tears, like a rain-drenched lily.

      "Be brave, be patient, my dearest, for you must bear this cruel suspense yet a little longer," he sighed.

      "Oh, Paul, you have not found her yet? Then she must be dead, our little darling!"

      He had decided to tell her the truth. It would be better than the anguish of wretched uncertainty, so he broke it to her gently, the story of the golden-haired girl who had been carried out of the ballroom unconscious.

      "It must have been our golden-haired darling. I believe she has been kidnaped for the sake of a ransom; so cheer up, my darling, for the wretches will not harm our pet; they will keep her safe and well to earn the reward they will expect to be offered in the morning papers. And I have attended to that already, Grace, for my advisers think it will be best to give great publicity to the affair, as in that case it may come to the knowledge of some persons who may be able to give us an unexpected clew. Oh, my wife; do not sob so bitterly. Our darling shall soon be found, I swear it," and for the sake of the anguish she saw in his eyes the poor mother fought with her sorrow, and tried to find a glimmer of light in the Cimmerian darkness.

      But it was cruel, cruel, for the horror of the present was only augmented by the memory of the past. Her eldest born, her precious boy, had been stolen in his babyhood, and four years elapsed before he was recovered. It had taken all the strength of youth and hope to endure that cross. Now she was older, frailer, and she knew she could not bear another such agony and live.

      But her husband's seeming hopefulness put a gleam of sunshine in her heart, and for his sake, because she loved him very dearly, she would not add to his remorseful grief by one reproachful word.

      The morning papers in glaring black headlines chronicled the abduction of the senator's favorite daughter and the princely ransom he had offered for her restoration. Excitement ran high over the terrible sensation, and stories of the girl's wonderful grace and beauty passed from lip to lip. The studio of a famous artist who had but just completed the portrait of Precious for her father was thronged with gazers. He could not deny them, for it was hoped that familiarity with her looks might in some way help the search for the missing girl.

      Among the first of the curious visitors to the studio was handsome Lord Chester.

      The senator's earnest praises of his favorite child rang continuously in the young man's head.

      His eager curiosity drove him to the studio of the famous artist, and when he stood at last before the full-length portrait he could not turn his eyes away; they lingered in rapture on the pictured loveliness of Precious Winans.

      "Sweet face, swift eyes and gleaming

      Sun-gifted rippling hair—

      Lips like two rosebuds dreaming

      In June's fruit-scented air:

      Life when her spring days meet her,

      Hope when her angels greet her,

      Is not more calm—nor sweeter;

      And love is not more fair.

      "God bless your thoughts, my sweet one,

      Whatever they may be!

      Youth's life is but a fleet one,

      Foam from an ebbing sea.

      Time, tide, and fate o'erturn all,

      Save one thing ever vernal,

      Sweet love that lives eternal,

      Life of eternity!"

      To the day of his death Arthur, Lord Chester, carried this picture in his memory and his heart—this picture of a girl standing by a magnificent large mastiff with one tiny white hand holding his silver collar. Beneath her fairy feet was daisied grass, and her simple white gown and the broad straw hat she carried on her arm seemed to fit the spring-time that was imaged in the golden lengths of rippling hair. So she stood—"a sight to make an old man young"—Ethel's younger sister, the senator's favorite.

      The words of a poet of his own fair land leaped to his lips:

      "Sovereign lady in fair field

      Myself for such a face had boldly died."

      Later in the day he called at the Winans mansion, and Ethel received him alone. Her mamma was too ill and nervous to see any one.

      Never had the queenly Ethel looked more charming. No shade of anxiety dimmed the dark radiance of her eyes. She had slept long and late, and when she awoke and heard that Precious was not yet found she laughed and said that she was sure that her sister had eloped with some handsome young man, and would be coming home in a few days from her bridal tour, with her husband, to ask papa's forgiveness.

      And she repeated this to Lord Chester when he expressed solicitude over her sister's fate.

      "I am not at all uneasy, my lord," she cried lightly; "I think it very likely that Precious has eloped with one of her