He opened the door of the pretty morning-room where he had left her, and saw her lying back in the huge lounging chair. He placed his fingers on her lips. “Hush!” he said to Mr. Eyrle; “she has cried herself to sleep. Do not awaken her; that does not look much like guilt, does it?” There was a strange, brooding stillness in the room, no sound broke it, even the birds had ceased singing. The earl went up to the chair. Was this sleep; this strange, deep, unbroken calm, this hushed, solemn repose? He bent over her, and a cry that Kenelm Eyrle never forgot came from his lips--a cry of such horror, such dread, that it rang through the silence with a terrible sound. He laid his hand on the cold face, on the silent heart. “Oh, my God!” he said, in a terrible voice. “She is dead!” Ah! they might do as they would--run here and there in hot haste for doctors, apply remedies--the grim angel laughed. She was stone dead. Kenelm Eyrle saw the little packet, and took it from her hands. “This is something very precious and very sacred to her,” he said, “or she would not have it so tightly clasped in this poor, dead hand.” And Lord Lorriston, hardly knowing what he did, took it from him, little dreaming that its contents had killed his daughter. Then they carried her upstairs and laid her on the bed. They sent in hot haste for doctors, they called up the servants, but there was no human help for Lady Alden. Was that sweet smile lingering on her face because she stood by Ronald’s side again? Unutterable horror lay over the stately mansion of Aldenmere. One heard the weeping of children who were to be loved and tended by her no more, the loud lament of servants, the smothered weeping of friends. “There must be a curse on the house,” said the old housekeeper, raising her trembling hands. “I have seen two bonny brides brought home, and two dead wives carried out; there must be a curse on Aldenmere.” She did not know that the curse was one of ill-regulated, undisciplined passion, the heaviest curse that can fall on mortal man. They looked from one to another in tearless dismay, those faithful servants. Most of them had been there when Lady Clarice had met with her sudden death, and now another fairer and more dearly loved mistress had gone from their midst. Superstitious fear and horror was ripe among them. Then, to add to their horror, Mr. Eyrle announced to them the intelligence received that morning from abroad. So it came to pass that the little motherless boy, weeping for the mother he was never to see again, was now Sir Henry Alden of Aldenmere. At first all was confusion and dismay, but after a time Mr. Eyrle took the reins of government and restored something like order. When the news began to spread there were callers innumerable. The country that night supped full of horrors. Sir Ronald Alden had died abroad and the shock of his death had killed the beautiful, lovely wife, so devoted to him.