n till the coffin closes above me. General Laurance, you
are running a fearful hazard, and the very marble of the altar should
find a voice to cry out and stay your madness."

She shivered, and her eyes burned almost supernaturally large and
lustrous.

Charmed by her beauty and grace, which had from the beginning of
their acquaintance attracted him more powerfully than any other woman
had ever done, and encouraged by the colossal vanity that had always
predominated in his character, he merely laughed and caressed her
hand.

"Can any hazard deter me when the reward will be the privilege, the
right to fold you in my arms? I am afraid of nothing that can result
from making you my wife. Do not cloud my happiness by conjuring up
spectres that only annoy you, that cannot for an instant influence
me. Your hands are icy and you have no shawl. Let me take you home."

Silently she accepted his arm, and as the fringy acacias trembled and
sighed above her, she walked by his side; wondering if the black
shadow that hung like a pall over the distant crest of Vesuvius were
not a fit symbol of her own wretched doomed existence, threatening a
sudden outbreak that would scatter ruin and despair where least
expected?

Nearing the Villa gate General Laurance asked:

"What is the character of your drama? Is it historic?"

"Eminently historic."

"In what era?"

"In the last eighteen or twenty years."

"When may I read the _MS_? I am impatient to see all that springs
from your dear hands."

"The dramatic effect will be finer, when you see me act it. Pardon me
if I am vain enough to feel assured that my little play will touch my
husband's heart as ever Racine, Shakespeare, and Euripides never
did!"

There was a triumphant, exultant ring in her silvery voice that only
charmed her infatuated companion, and tenderly pressing the hand that
lay on his arm, he added pleadingly;

"At least, my dear Odille, you will tell me the title?"

She shook off his fingers, and answered quietly:

"General Laurance, I call it merely--_Infelice_."

CHAPTER XXVI.

For some days subsequent to Mrs. Carew's departure, Regina saw little
of her guardian, whose manner was unusually preoccupied, and entirely
devoid of the earnest interest and sympathy he had displayed at their
last interview. Ascribing the change to regret at the absence of the
guest whose presence had so enlivened the house, the girl avoided all
unnecessary opportuniti