any one in this world was true or pure again if
I thought for one moment deceit lay brooding in a face so fair as
little Daisy Brooks's."

CHAPTER XXVII.

The months flew quickly by; the cold winter had slipped away, and the
bright green grass and early violets were sprinkling the distant
hill-slopes. The crimson-breasted robins were singing in the budding
branches of the trees, and all Nature reminded one the glorious spring
had come.

Rex Lyon stood upon the porch of Whitestone Hall gazing up at the
white, fleecy clouds that scudded over the blue sky, lost in deep
thought.

He was the same handsome, debonair Rex, but ah, how changed! The
merry, laughing brown eyes looked silent and grave enough now, and the
lips the drooping brown mustache covered rarely smiled. Even his voice
seemed to have a deeper tone.

He had done the one thing that morning which his mother had asked him
to do with her dying breath--he had asked Pluma Hurlhurst to be his
wife.

The torture of the task seemed to grow upon him as the weeks rolled
by, and in desperation he told himself he must settle the matter at
once, or he would not have the strength to do it.

He never once thought what he should do with his life after he married
her. He tried to summon up courage to tell her the story of his
marriage, that his hopes, his heart, and his love all lay in the grave
of his young wife. Poor Rex, he could not lay bare that sweet, sad
secret; he could not have borne her questions, her wonder, her
remarks, and have lived; his dead love was far too sacred for that; he
could not take the treasured love-story from his heart and hold it up
to public gaze. It would have been easier for him to tear the living,
beating heart from his breast than to do this.

He had walked into the parlor that morning, where he knew he should
find Pluma. She was standing before the fire. Although it was early
spring the mornings were chilly, and a cheerful fire burned in the
grate, throwing a bright, glowing radiance over the room and over the
exquisite morning toilet of white cashmere, with its white lace
frills, relieved here and there with coquettish dashes of scarlet
blossoms, which Pluma wore, setting off her graceful figure to such
queenly advantage.

Rex looked at her, at the imperious beauty any man might have been
proud to win, secretly hoping she would refuse him.

"Good-morning, Rex," she said, holding out her white hands to him. "I
am glad you