words that tortured her.

It could not be true--it could not be true! Stafford had not written
it. It was some cruel jest, a very cruel jest, perpetrated by someone
who hated them both, and who wantonly inflicted pain. Yes; that was it!
That could be the only explanation. Someone had written in his name; it
was a forgery; she would meet Stafford presently, and they would laugh
at it together. He would be very angry, would want to punish the person
who had done it; but he and she would laugh together, and he would take
her in his arms and kiss her in one of the many ways in which he had
made a kiss an ecstasy of delight, and they would laugh together as he
whispered that nothing should ever separate them.

She laughed now as she pictured the scene that would be enacted. But
suddenly the laugh died on her lips, as there flashed across her mind
the words Jessie had said. Stafford was engaged to Maude Falconer, the
girl up at the Villa, whose beauty and grace and wealth all the dale
was talking of.

Oh, God! Was there any truth in it, was there any truth in it? Had
Stafford, indeed, written that cruel letter? Had he left her forever,
forever, forever? Should she never see him again, never again hear him
tell her that he loved her, would always love her?

The room spun round with her, she suddenly felt sick and faint, and,
reeling, caught at the carved mantel-shelf to prevent herself from
falling. Then gradually the death-like faintness passed, and she became
conscious that her father's voice was calling to her, and she clasped
her head again and swept the hair from her forehead, and clenched her
hands in the effort to gain her presence of mind and self-command.

She picked up the letter, and, with a shudder, thrust it in her bosom,
as Cleopatra might have thrust the asp which was to destroy her; then
with leaden feet, she crossed the hall and opened the library door, and
saw her father standing by the table clutching some papers in one hand,
and gesticulating wildly with the other. Dizzily, for there seemed to
be a mist before her eyes, she went to him and laid a hand upon his
arm.

"What is it, father?" she said, "Are you ill? What is the matter?"

He gazed at her vacantly and struck his hand on the table, after the
manner of a child in a senseless passion.

"Lost! Lost! All lost!" he mumbled, jumbling the words together almost
incoherently.

"What is lost, father?" she asked.

"Everything, everything!" he cr