aw that she was equipped for a walk. Her
cheeks were scarlet, her brown eyes all aglow with eager expectation,
and her lips twitched, as she exclaimed,--

"Oh, doctor, I hope everything; for I learn that the pictures were
found on the lawn at 'Solitude,' where Phoebe was once hired as cook;
and she recognized the case as the same she had one day seen on a
writing-desk in the parlor. The boy confessed that he picked it up
from the grass, and, after taking out the contents, soaked the case in
a bucket of salt-water. Phoebe says the pictures belong to Mrs.
Gerome, the gray-headed woman who owns that place on the beach, and I
am almost tempted to believe she is Elsie, who may have married again.
At all events, I shall soon know where she obtained the portraits."

"You are not going to 'Solitude'?"

"Yes, immediately. I cannot rest till I have learned all. God grant I
may not be mocked in my hopes."

The unwonted excitement had kindled a strange beauty in the whilom
passive face, and Dr. Grey could for the first time realize how lovely
she must have been in the happy days of eld.

"Miss Dexter, Mrs. Gerome will not receive you. She sees no visitors,
not even ministers of the gospel."

"She must--she shall--admit me; for I will assure her that life and
death hang upon it."

"How so?"

"If Evelyn is alive, and I can discover her retreat, I will urge her
to go to her husband, who needs her care. You know Mrs. Gerome,--she
is one of your patients. Come with me, and prevail upon her to receive
me."

In her eagerness she laid her hand on his arm, and even then noticed
and wondered at the crimson that suddenly leaped into his olive face.

"Some day I will give you good reasons for refusing your request,
which it is impossible for me to grant. If you are resolved to hazard
the visit, I will take you in my buggy as far as the gate at
'Solitude,' and when you return will confer with you concerning the
result. Just now, I can promise no more."

An expression of disappointment clouded her brow.

"I had hoped that you would sympathize with and be more interested in
my great sorrow."

"Miss Dexter, my interest is more profound, more intense, than you can
imagine, but at this juncture circumstances forbid its expression. My
buggy is at the door."

CHAPTER XXX.

Even at mid-day the grounds around "Solitude" were sombre and chill,
for across the sky the winds had woven a thin, vapory veil, whose
cloud-meshes seem