“How long is it that I boasted that my life was all sunshine; that I knew trouble only by name? Is it to punish my heart that the hand of God is laid so heavily upon me?” He turned from his companion and walked away abruptly. No human eyes must see how keen and bitter was his grief. No human eyes must see tears fall like rain from the eyes of one of England’s proudest peers. They had left her alone, and she sank back in her chair overpowered again by the strange, faint, fluttering pain at her heart. “What can it be?” she gasped. “Is it death?” And there came to her a memory of how, when she was a child, those pains had troubled her, and the doctors said something about disease of the heart. Was it that--was it death’s cold hand clutching at her heart and causing it first to beat so madly, then almost to stop, that sent such strange shuddering through every nerve? Oh, welcome death! Death that would place her at Ronald’s side again. Once more the pain passed, and she looked around her with frightened eyes. “I wish I were not quite alone,” she said. “Oh Ronald, Ronald, how cruel has fate been to us! Oh! my own love! my dearest, only love! Are you where you can hear me? Ronald, when I call to you, do you hear me? My husband, I have kept my vow; I was willing to die for you; I would have gone to the scaffold and have smiled while I died for you. There came a strong temptation to me when they told me you were dead, for one moment--a temptation to save myself--but I trampled it under foot. I will save you, and screen you still; your fair name, even in death, is dearer to me than my own life.” She looked at the little parcel still clinched in her hand. “I must destroy it,” she said. “Ronald is dead. He is safe when this is destroyed; it matters but little what becomes of me. Oh! my love! my love! You repented before you died. I pray that I may stand at your side again.” She tried to rise to destroy that packet, but fell back with a long, shuddering moan; the cold hand had touched her heart again, the sharp, intolerable anguish thrilled every nerve. “It is death,” she whispered, faintly; “death, and I am all alone--death, and I have no strength to destroy this!” Grim darkness seemed to be closing round her, thick and heavy. The light faded from her eyes, another sharp pain, and the cold hand seemed to hold the panting heart more tightly in its grasp. The fair head drooped; once, twice the white lips opened as though she would fain cry for help, and then--ah! then the dark curtain was torn from before the portals of eternity, and she who had loved him so faithfully stood by Ronald’s side again. Lady Alden was dead. It was an hour before her father and Mr. Eyrle returned. Then the earl knew all that had passed, and was firm in maintaining his daughter’s innocence. “There is a mystery in this mystery,” he said, “and you will find it so. Let us return to my unhappy child and try to solve it.”