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family occupied in different ways. Lord Bereford is seated beside the
familiar form of a beautiful woman dressed in robes of mourning. A
second glance is not necessary to aid recognition. The sweet pensive
smile is sufficient. Lady Rosamond has lost none of her charms. Time has
no grudge against her for personal wrongs, no retributive justice to be
meted out--instead, the quiet happiness of a contented mind is lavished
with true delight. A fond light beams in the lovely eyes as they turn
towards Maude Bereford--ever the same Maude that strolled around
Trevelyan Hall some time in the past. The same simplicity is attached to
every movement, action and speech--Maude still.

But a stranger is engrossing her attention. A tall, handsome and gallant
gentleman occupies a seat at her side, devoting his attentions to her,
occasionally addressing Lady Rosamond in terms of endearing familiarity.
There is not much difficulty in ascertaining the relationship. Geoffrey
Seymour had become a frequent visitor at the Castle. The blushes that
greeted him told the tale upon Maude Bereford. Yet, she cared not for
the eyes of the world. She had given her heart to a true, honorable and
affectionate lover. Already she has woven bright dreams wherein are
clearly portrayed outlines of two fond beings living in the sunshine of
each other's love, surrounded by the comforts and ease of a bright and
happy fireside. Lady Bereford is within the privacy of her own
apartments. Grief and anxiety have left heavy marks upon her hitherto
well preserved face. The furrowed forehead, wrinkles and grey hairs,
show full well the heavy blow which had been dealt her ladyship in the
death of her first-born. Time cannot eradicate the inroads made upon
this high-minded woman. Her failing health speaks of dissolution. The
mother's heart that beat so wildly as she dreamt of the glorious future
of her son, now feebly responded to the sluggish torpor of faded hopes.

Other friends are awaited at the Castle. Ere we have time to turn aside,
light steps are flying across the hall and a girlish figure is at our
elbow, and the next instant in the arms of Lady Rosamond and Maude. The
childish face of Fanny Trevelyan once seen is not soon to be forgotten.
Oh no, Fanny, you occupy an important niche within our memory! Two years
were only a myth--a dream to the young mistress of Trevelyan Hall, save
when some other's troubles aroused her sympathy and called forth the
fine feeli