ng a glance at her father's face. In
that one instant the evil seeds of a lifetime were sown strong as life
and more bitter than death.

Turning hastily aside she sprung hurriedly down the long corridor, and
out into the darkness and the storm, never stopping to gain breath
until she had quite reached the huge ponderous gate that shut in the
garden from the dense thicket that skirted the southern portion of the
plantation. She laughed a hard, mocking laugh that sounded unnatural
from such childish lips, as she saw a white hand hurriedly loop back
the silken curtains of her father's window, and saw him bend tenderly
over the golden-haired figure in the arm-chair. Suddenly the sound of
her own name fell upon her ear.

"Pluma," whispered a low, cautious voice; and in the quick flashes of
lightning she saw a white, haggard woman's face pressed close against
the grating, and two white hands were steadily forcing the rusty lock.
There was no fear in the fiery, rebellious heart of the dauntless
child.

"Go away, you miserable beggar-woman," she cried, "or I shall set the
hounds on you at once. Do you hear me, I say?"

"Who are you?" questioned the woman, in the same low, guarded voice.

The child threw her head back proudly, her voice rising shrilly above
the wild warring of the elements, as she answered:

"Know, then, I am Pluma, the heiress of Whitestone Hall."

The child formed a strange picture--her dark, wild face, so strangely
like the mysterious woman's own, standing vividly out against the
crimson lightning flashes, her dark curls blown about the gypsy-like
face, the red lips curling scornfully, her dark eyes gleaming.

"Pluma," called the woman, softly, "come here."

"How dare _you_, a beggar-woman, call me!" cried the child,
furiously.

"Pluma--come--here--instantly!"

There was a subtle something in the stranger's voice that throbbed
through the child's pulses like leaping fire--a strange, mysterious
influence that bound her, heart and soul, like the mesmeric influence
a serpent exerts over a fascinated dove. Slowly, hesitatingly, this
child, whose fiery will had never bowed before human power, came
timidly forward, step by step, close to the iron gate against which
the woman's face was pressed. She stretched out her hand, and it
rested for a moment on the child's dark curls.

"Pluma, the gate is locked," she said. "Do you know where the keys
are?"

"No," answered the child.

"They used to hang be