“I believe that we shall win, after all,” he said, “and I will teach my wife to care for me some day. Take me back to the station, Lady Gaynor!” CHAPTER XXVII. “WE SHALL NEVER MEET AGAIN.” Lady Elaine was toying with the breakfast that it was impossible for her to eat, and thinking with a hopeless kind of bitterness of the misery that had come into her life, when Nina suddenly entered the room, her face betraying strong agitation. “My lady, there is a person in the drawing-room who insists upon seeing you. I cannot say whether she is young or old, but I fancy that she must be young by the sweetness of her voice. She is closely veiled, and speaks nicely.” Nina stopped to regain breath, adding, “She will not give her name, my lady.” “I do not wish to be bothered, Nina,” said Lady Elaine, wearily. “This is an extraordinary hour for visitors. Possibly the person is engaged in some charitable pursuit. Tell her that she can state the nature of her business to you.” “I have done everything in that way, my lady,” the maid declared. “I think that it will be best for you to see her.” “No, I cannot be bothered. I am weary of everything, Nina.” Then the maid stammered: “I was to tell you, my lady, that--that she came from Sir Harold Annesley.” Lady Elaine started, her face turning deathly white. Was Sir Harold ill? Had some fresh misfortune befallen him? “You are sure of this, Nina?” She held one hand to her throbbing heart. “Quite sure, my lady.” “Then I will see her. Bring the lady to me here. This room is warm, and I fear that I dare not try to walk. My limbs are shaking with nervous dread.” Nina glanced at her mistress, a pitiful look in her eyes, and left the room. One minute, and she returned, a black-robed, girlish figure behind her. “A mere girl,” thought Lady Elaine. “How could Nina be doubtful whether she were young or old?” “This is the lady from Sir Harold Annesley, your ladyship,” said Nina. Elaine rose and bowed to her visitor, and was conscious of being closely scrutinized. Then, at a sign from her mistress, Nina softly withdrew, and the stranger spoke. The tones were soft, tremulous, and flute-like, and there was a world of pathos in every note. “You are Lady Elaine Seabright?” “Yes,” Elaine said, gently. She knew not why her heart went out in tenderness to this black-robed figure. Perhaps it was in sympathy, because she, too, mourned a lost one. “You are very beautiful, Lady Elaine,” continued the visitor, half-dreamily, “and I have wanted to see you so much! I wanted to see the woman whom Sir Harold loved first--and loves best.” A haughty light flashed into Elaine’s eyes, but the words that rose to her lips were checked by the girl tossing aside her veil, and revealing a face of wondrous beauty. “I am Theresa,” she said. “I am Sir Harold’s unhappy wife.” She dropped into a lounge, and shed passionate tears. In a moment Elaine was beside her, and murmuring soothing words to poor Theresa.