Dolf was recalled to wisdom at once--he could not afford to make a misstep on the very day of his return. He emptied the pan, followed Clorinda into the kitchen, making a sign of farewell to Vic which the old maid did not observe. Once in Clorinda's own dominion, the darkey so improved the impression already produced that he was soon discussing a delicate luncheon with great relish, and so disturbing Clorinda's equanimity by his compliments, that she greatly endangered the pie-crust she was industriously rolling out on one end of the table where he sat. CHAPTER XXVIII. THE DEAD SECRET. The morning after Elsie's return Grantley Mellen mounted his horse, and rode off towards the shore tavern, a sad and heavy-hearted man. The woman whom he had loved so devotedly with the first passion of his youth, lay in that little chamber waiting for burial. Where destined when she met her fate, or how much she suffered, he could only guess. But there she was, after years of separation, thrown upon his charity even for a grave, with no one to mourn her death, no one to care how or where she was buried. He had not mentioned her to his wife or sister, an aching memory at heart forbade that, but underneath the joy of his return home lay this dead secret, haunting him with funereal shadows. The woman was in her coffin when he entered the little chamber, which was now so desolately clean; for he had given orders regarding her interment before leaving the house that stormy night, and they had been well obeyed. A veil of delicate gauze covered the face, softening it into singular loveliness. Mellen did not lift this veil, which neutralised the coldness of death so beautifully, but his breast heaved with a farewell sigh, while tears blinded his last look, which carried deep and eternal forgiveness with it. A noise in the next room disturbed him. He turned hastily, and went down stairs, shrinking from observation. Scarcely had Mellen disappeared when the door which connected the death chamber with a small inner room was pushed open, and a pale, wild face looked in. It was that of North; after a quick survey of the room, he darted towards the door leading to the stairs and shot the bolt. Then he went up to the coffin, flung back the gauze from that marble face, and looked down upon it. Those black eyes burned too hotly for tears, but the raven beard trembled about his mouth, his hand was clenched, the burning consciousness of a great crime was upon him, and he felt it in every nerve and pulse of his system. If North had ever loved this woman, all the force of that passion came back upon his soul now in an agony of remorse. As he gazed, his hand released its iron grip, his strong limbs shook like reeds, and flinging himself down by the coffin he cursed himself, his crime, and that living woman for whose sake it had been committed.