LITMIR.BIZ

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the embroidery not finished on my Surah polonaise! It is just like her—the lazy, ungrateful thing! To go and die just when I needed–"

      But Vera slams the door between her and the rest of the heartless lament, and flies along the hall laughing like some mad thing. In truth the horrors of this dreadful night have almost unseated her reason. She shuts and bolts herself into her room, her young heart filled with wild hatred for her heartless cousin.

      "To-morrow I shall have my revenge upon her," she cries, with clenched hands. "I would not tell her to-night. My triumph would not have been complete. I will wait—wait until to-morrow, when Leslie Noble will take me by the hand and tell her to her face that he loves me, and that I am his wife!"

      And her strange, half-maddened laugh filled the little room with weird echoes.

      CHAPTER III

      To-morrow, Vera's to-morrow—dawns, rainy, chilly, cheerless, as only a rainy autumn day can be. The wild winds sigh eerily around the house. The autumn leaves are beaten from the trees and swirl through the air, falling in dank, sodden masses on the soaked grass of the lawn. The sun refuses to shine. No more dreary and desolate day could be imagined.

      With the earliest peep of dawn Vera makes her way to her mother's room.

      It is lonely and deserted save for the sheeted presence of the quiet dead. The lamps burn dimly, and there is a silence in the room so deep it may be felt.

      With a trembling hand Vera turns down the cold linen cover for one long, lingering look at the beloved face—the strangely-beautiful marble-white face, on which the story of a life-long sorrow has carved its mournful record in the subtle tracery of grief.

      Mrs. Campbell has been that most sorrowful of all living creatures—a deserted wife!

      The beautiful, dark eyes of her daughter have never looked upon the face of the father who should have loved and nurtured her tender life.

      But it is all over now—the pain, the sorrow, the loneliness, the deep humiliation. The small, toil-stained hands are folded gently together over some odorous white tube-roses that Vera has placed within them!

      The jetty fringe of the long, black lashes rests heavily against the thin, white cheeks, the beautifully-curved lips are closed peacefully, the golden brown hair, thickly-streaked with gray, is parted sweetly on the peaceful brow.

      As Vera gazes, the tears, which have remained sealed in their fountains till now, burst forth in healing showers, breaking upon the terrible calm that has been upon her.

      Again and again she presses her hot, feverish lips to the cold, white brow of the only friend her lonely life has ever known.

      "Oh, mamma, mamma, if you might but have taken me with you," she sobs, bitterly.

      "The best thing that could have happened," says a curt, icy voice behind her, and turning with a shiver of repulsion, Vera beholds her aunt, Mrs. Cleveland, who has entered noiselessly in her furred slippers and crimson dressing-gown.

      She comes to the foot of the bed and stands silently a moment regarding the cold, white features of her dead sister, then hastily turns her head aside as if the still face held some unspoken reproach for her.

      "Cover the face, Vera," she says, coldly. "It is not pleasant to look at the dead."

      "Not when we have wronged them," the girl murmurs, almost inaudibly, and with deep bitterness.

      "What is that you are saying?" demands Mrs. Cleveland, sharply. "'Not when we have wronged them,' eh? Beware, girl, how you let that sharp tongue of yours run on. You may chance to see the inside of the alms-house!"

      But Vera, biting her lips fiercely, in mute shame at that angry slip of the tongue in presence of the dead, makes no answer. Dropping the white sheet back over the sealed lips that cannot open to defend her child, she buries her face in the pillow, trembling all over with indignation and grief.

      Mrs. Cleveland stands contemplating her a moment with a look of contemptuous scorn on her high, Roman features, then, to Vera's amazement, she exclaims:

      "One of the servants told me that Leslie Noble brought a preacher in here last night. Was it to administer the sacrament to the dying?"

      No answer from Vera, whose face remains buried in the pillow.

      "Speak!" Mrs. Cleveland commands, coming a step nearer, "did he come to administer the consolations of religion to the dying?"

      "No," Vera answers, lifting her white face a moment, and looking steadily into her enemy's questioning eyes. "No."

      "No," Mrs. Cleveland echoes, with a look of alarm. "What then, girl, what then?"

      But Vera, with the strange reply, "You must ask Mr. Noble—he will inform you," drops her pallid face into her hands again.

      Mrs. Cleveland makes a step forward, resolving in her own mind "to shake the breath out of that stubborn girl," but even her wicked nature is awed by the still presence of death in the room, and she desists from her heartless purpose, and, retreating to the door, pauses with her hand on the latch to say, icily:

      "Your mother's funeral will take place from the Epiphany Church this afternoon. Mourning garments will be sent to your room for you to wear."

      Vera springs to her feet with a heart-wrung cry:

      "So soon! Oh, my God, you will not bury her out of my sight to-day, when she only died last night!"

      Mrs. Cleveland's haughty features are convulsed with anger.

      "Hush, you little fool!" she bursts out, angrily. "Do you think that dead people are such enlivening company that one need keep them in the house any longer than is necessary to provide a hearse and coffin? Only died last night, forsooth! Well, she is as dead now as she will be a hundred years hence, and the funeral will take place this afternoon. You will be ready to attend, if you understand what is good for yourself."

      So saying, she sweeps from the room, slamming the door heavily behind her.

      Alas, the bitterness of poverty and dependence. Vera throws herself down by the side of the bed, and weeps long and bitterly, until exhausted nature succumbs to the strain upon it, and she sleeps deeply, heavily, dreamlessly, wrapped in a dumb, narcotic stupor rather than healthful slumber. She is hustled out of the way at length that her mother may be placed in the plain coffin that has been provided for her, and a few hours later—oh, so piteously few—she is standing by that open grave in Glenwood, hearing the dull thud of the earth, and the patter of the rain upon the coffin, and the solemn voice of the minister, repeating in tones that sound faint and far away to her dazed senses, "Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust."

      From her carriage, where she sits impatiently waiting the conclusion of the sacred service, Mrs. Cleveland watches the scene, frowning impatiently at the sight of Leslie Noble supporting Vera on his arm, and holding his umbrella carefully over her, reckless of the rain-drops that patter down on his uncovered head and face. Mrs. Cleveland does not like the look of it at all. She regards Leslie as Ivy's own especial property. Leslie is too kind-hearted. Why should he trouble himself over Vera Campbell, her despised niece, who is no better than a servant to Ivy, her idolized daughter. She does not like the look of it at all, and when Leslie hands the sobbing girl into the carriage, and takes a seat by her side instead of Mrs. Cleveland's, the matron's vexation rises into almost uncontrollable rage. Biting her lips fiercely, she resolves that as soon as they reach home she will give the young man a broad hint to cease his little kindnesses in that quarter.

      The occasion comes very soon. It is almost dark when they reach home. The gas is lighted and a cheerful fire glows in the luxurious parlor.

      Mr. Noble leads his passive companion deliberately in, and installs her in a cushioned seat before the fire. With deft fingers he removes the heavy veil and hat, the black shawl, and the wet gloves, and chafes in his own warm clasp the half-frozen little fingers.

      "Upon my word!" drawls a thin little voice, full of anger and surprise.

      Mr. Leslie, glancing up, sees Ivy reclining on a couch, and regarding the scene with supercilious surprise commingled with anger. Mrs. Cleveland, who has followed them into the room, stands

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