adly fear that lay at her
heart, Beatrice still felt something like hope. Hope is the last thing
to die in the human breast--it was not yet dead in hers.

At least for that one evening--the first after Lord Airlie's
return--she would be happy. She would throw the dark shadow away from
her, forget it, and enjoy her lover's society. He could see smiles on
her face, and hear bright words such as he loved. Let the morrow bring
what it would, she would be happy that night. And she kept her word.

Lord Airlie looked back afterward on that evening as one of the
pleasantest of his life. There was no shadow upon the beautiful face
he loved so well. Beatrice was all life and animation; her gay, sweet
words charmed every one who heard them. Even Lionel forgot to be
jealous, and admired her more than he ever had before.

Lord Earle smiled as he remarked to Lady Helena that all her fears for
her grandchild's health were vain--the true physician was come at last.

When Lord Airlie bade Beatrice good night, he bent low over the white,
jeweled hand.

"I forget all time when with you," he said; "it does not seem an hour
since I came to Earlescourt."

The morrow brought the letter she had dreaded yet expected to see.

It was not filled with loving, passionate words, as was the first Hugh
had written. He said the time had come when he must have an
answer--when he must know from her own lips at what period he might
claim the fulfillment of her promise--when she would be his wife.

He would wait no longer. If it was to be war, let the war begin he
should win. If peace, so much the better. In any case he was tired of
suspense, and must know at once what she intended to do. He would
trust to no more promises; that very night he would be at Earlescourt,
and must see her. Still, though he intended to enforce his rights, he
would not wantonly cause her pain. He would not seek the presence of
her father until she had seen him and they had settled upon some plan
of action.

"I know the grounds around Earlescourt well," he wrote. "I wandered
through them for many nights three weeks ago. A narrow path runs from
the gardens to the shrubbery--meet me there at nine; it will be dark
then, and you need not fear being seen. Remember, Beatrice, at nine
tonight I shall be there; and if you do not come, I must seek you in
the house, for see you I will."

The letter fell from her hands; cold drops of fear and shame stood upon
her