t nothing of it. That same evening when Lady Ilfield, who was one
of Lady Marion's dearest friends, spoke of Stoneland House, Lady Evelyn
told the incident as a grand jest. Lady Ilfield looked earnestly at her.

"Do you really mean that you saw Lord Chandos with Madame Vanira at
Ousely?" she asked. "Alone, without his wife?"

"Yes," laughed Lady Evelyn, "a stolen expedition, evidently. He looked
horrified when Captain Blake spoke to him."

"I do not like it," said Lady Ilfield, who was one of the old school,
and did not understand the science of modern flirtation. "I have heard
already more of Lord Chandos than has pleased me, and I like his wife."

This simple conversation was the beginning of the end--the beginning of
one of the saddest tragedies on which the sun ever shone.

"I am sorry that he saw me," said Lord Chandos, as the captain waved his
final adieu; "but he did not see your face, Leone, did he?"

"No," she replied, "I think not."

"It does not matter about me," he said, "but I should not like to have
any one recognize you."

He forgot the incident soon after. When the boat was again on the
bright, dancing river, then they forgot the world and everything else
except that they were together.

"Lance," said Leone, "row close to those water-lilies. I should like to
gather one."

Obediently enough he went quite close to the white water-lilies, and
placed the oars at the bottom of the boat, while he gathered the lilies
for her. It was more like a poem than a reality; a golden sun, a blue,
shining river, the boat among the water-lilies, the beautiful regal
woman, her glorious face bent over the water, her white hands throwing
the drops of spray over the green leaves.

It was the prettiest picture ever seen. Lord Chandos filled the boat
with flowers; he heaped the pretty white water-lilies at the feet of
Leone, until she looked as though she had grown out of them. Then, while
the water ran lazily on, and the sun shone in golden splendor, he asked
her if she would sing for him.

"One song, Leone," he said, "and that in the faintest voice. It will be
clear and distinct as the voice of an angel to me."

There must have been an instinct of pride or defiance in her heart, for
she raised her head and looked at him.

"Yes, I will sing for you, Lance," she replied. "Those water-lilies take
me home. I will sing a song of which not one word has passed my lips
since I saw you. Listen, see if you know the words