ed her heart and mind, no face
to kiss, no heart to lean on; she was so completely alone. And this
was the hour her fate was being decided for her. There was no sympathy
for her, her isolation was bitter. She thought of all the heroines she
had ever read of. Ah, no one could picture such a sad fate as was
hers.

A bright thought flashed across her lonely little heart.

"His mother is there," she sighed. "Ah, if I were to go to her and cry
out: 'Love me, love me! I am your son's wife!' would she cast me from
her? Ah, no, surely not; a woman's gentle heart beats in her breast, a
woman's tender pity. I will plead with her on my knees--to comfort
me--to show me some path out of the pitiful darkness; I can love her
because she is his mother."

Daisy drew her breath quickly; the color glowed warmly on her cheek
and lips; she wondered she had not thought of it before. Poor child!
she meant to tell her all, and throw herself upon her mercy.

Her pretty, soft blue eyes, tender with the light of love, were
swimming with tears. A vain hope was struggling in her heart--Rex's
mother might love her, because she worshiped her only son so dearly.

Would she send her forth from that home that should have sheltered
her, or would she clasp those little cold fingers in Rex's strong
white ones, as she explained to him, as only a mother can, how sadly
he had misjudged poor little Daisy--his wife?

No wonder her heart throbbed pitifully as she stole silently
across the wide, shadowy porch, and, quivering from head to foot,
touched the bell that echoed with a resounding sound through the long
entrance-hall.

"I would like to see Mrs. Lyon," she said, hesitatingly, to the
servant who answered her summons. "Please do not refuse me," she said,
clasping her little white hands pleadingly. "I must see her at once.
It is a question of life or death with me. Oh, sir, please do not
refuse me. I must see her at once--and--all alone!"

CHAPTER XXII.

In the beautiful drawing-room at Whitestone Hall sat Pluma Hurlhurst,
running her white, jeweled fingers lightly over the keyboard of a
grand piano, but the music evidently failed to charm her. She arose
listlessly and walked toward the window, which opened out upon the
wide, cool, rose-embowered porch.

The sunshine glimmered on her amber satin robe, and the white
frost-work of lace at her throat, and upon the dark, rich beauty of
her southern face.

"Miss Pluma," called Mrs. Corliss,