ace, and she turned
to her son.

"Lance," she said, "Madame Vanira reminds me of some one, and I cannot
think who it is."

"Have you seen her before, mother, do you think?" he asked.

"No, I think not; but she reminds me of some one, I cannot think whom.
Her gestures are more familiar to me than her face."

Evidently the thought of Leone never entered her mind; and Lord Chandos
was more puzzled than ever. The countess was charmed.

"What fire, what genius, what power! That is really acting," she said.
"In all my life I have seen nothing better. There is truth in her
tenderness, reality in her sorrow. I shall often come to see Vanira,
Lance."

So she did, and was often puzzled over the resemblance of some one she
knew; but she never once dreamed of Leone, while, by dint of earnest
watching and study, Lord Chandos became more and more convinced that it
was she.

He was determined to find out. He was foolish enough to think that if he
could once be sure of it, his heart and mind would be at rest, but until
then there was no rest for him.

What could he do--how could he know? Then the idea came, to follow her
carriage home. By dint of perseverance he found, at last, that Madame
Vanira had a very pretty house in Hampstead called the Cedars, and he
determined to call and see her there. If he had really been mistaken,
and it were not Leone, he could but apologize; if it were----

Ah, well, if it were, he would ask her forgiveness, and she would give
it to him, on account of the love she bore him years ago.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

NEITHER WIFE NOR WIDOW.

It was with some trepidation that Lord Chandos presented himself at the
gates of the Cedars, yet surely she who had loved him so well would
never refuse him admission into her house? that is, if it were Leone. As
he walked through the pretty garden and saw all the pretty flowers
blooming, he said to himself, that it was like her. She had always so
dearly loved the spring flowers, the flame of the yellow crocus, the
faint, sweet odor of the violets, the pure heads of the white
snow-drops. He had heard her say so often that she loved these modest,
sweet flowers that come in the spring more than the dainty ones that
bloom in summer-time.

It was like her, this garden, and yet, he could not tell why. Great
clusters of lilac-trees were budding, the laburnums were thinking of
flowering; but there was no song of running brook, and no ripple of
fountains, no sound o