had maintained the position of housekeeper
for a score of years or more, stood at the window twisting the
telegram she held in her hand with ill-concealed impatience. The
announcement of this home-coming had been as unexpected as the news of
his marriage had been quite a year before.

"Let there be no guests assembled--my reasons will be made apparent to
you later on," so read the telegram, which puzzled the housekeeper
more than she cared to admit to the inquisitive maid, who stood near
her, curiously watching her thoughtful face.

"'Pears to me it will rain afore they get here, Hagar," she said,
nervously, and, as if in confirmation of her words, a few rain-drops
splashed against the window-pane.

Both stood gazing intently out into the darkness. The storm had now
commenced in earnest. The great trees bent to and fro like reeds
before the wind; the lightning flashed, and the terrific crash of
roaring thunder mingled with the torrent of rain that beat furiously
against the casement. It seemed as if the very flood-gates of heaven
were flung open wide on this memorable night of the master's return.

"It is a fearful night. Ah! happy is the bride upon whose home-coming
the sunlight falls," muttered Mrs. Corliss under her breath.

Hagar had caught the low-spoken words, and in a voice that sounded
strange and weird like a warning, she answered:

"Yes, and unhappy is the bride upon whose home-coming rain-drops
fall."

How little they knew, as they stood there, of the terrible tragedy--the
cruelest ever enacted--those grim, silent walls of Whitestone Hall
were soon to witness, in fulfillment of the strange prophecy. Hagar,
the maid, had scarcely ceased speaking ere the door was flung violently
open, and a child of some five summers rushed into the room, her face
livid with passion, and her dark, gleaming eyes shining like baneful
stars, before which the two women involuntarily quailed.

"What is this I hear?" she cried, with wild energy, glancing fiercely
from the one to the other. "Is it true what they tell me--my father is
bringing home his bride?"

"Pluma, my child," remonstrated Mrs. Corliss, feebly, "I--"

"Don't Pluma me!" retorted the child, clutching the deep crimson
passion-roses from a vase at her side, and trampling them ruthlessly
beneath her feet. "Answer me at once, I say--has he _dared_ do it?"

"P-l-u-m-a!" Mrs. Corliss advances toward her, but the child turns her
darkly beautiful, willful face t