Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net A MAD LOVE BY BERTHA M. CLAY Author of "Sunshine and Roses," "Beyond Pardon," "Dora Thomas," "From Out the Gloom," etc., etc. CHICAGO. DONOHUE, HENNEBERRY & CO., PUBLISHERS. A MAD LOVE CHAPTER I. A DISCONTENTED BEAUTY. "Leone," cried a loud voice, "where are you? Here, there, everywhere, except just in the place where you should be." The speaker was a tall, stout, good-tempered looking man. Farmer Noel people called him all over the country-side. He stood in the farmyard, looking all the warmer this warm day for his exertions in finding his niece. "Leone," he cried again and again. At last the answer came, "I am here, uncle," and if the first voice startled one with its loudness, this second was equally startling from its music, its depth, its pathos. "I am here, uncle," she said. "I wish you would not shout so loudly. I am quite sure that the people at Rashleigh can hear you. What is it that you want?" "Have you made up the packets of wheat I asked you for?" he said. "No," she replied, "I have not." He looked disappointed. "I shall be late for market," he said. "I must do them myself." He went back into the house without another word. He never reproached Leone, let her do what she would. On Leone's most beautiful face were evident marks of bad temper, and she did not care to conceal it. With a gesture of impatience she started forward, passed over the farmyard and went through the gate out into the lane, from the lane to the high-road, and she stood there leaning over the white gate, watching the cattle as they drank from the deep, clear pool. The sun shone full upon her, and the warm, sweet beams never fell on anything more lovely; the only drawback to the perfection of the picture was this: she did not look in harmony with the scene--the quiet English landscape, the golden cornfields, the green meadows, the great spreading trees whereon the birds sung, the tall spire of the little church, the quaint little town in the distance, the brook that ran gurgling by. She looked out of harmony with them all; she would have been in perfect keeping had the background been of snow-capped mountains and foaming cascades. Here she looked out of place; she was on an English farm; she wore a plain English dress, yet she had the magnificent beauty of the daughters of sunny Spain. Her beauty was of a peculiar type--dark, passionate, and picturesque like that of the pomegranate, the damask rose or the passion-flower.