“To London--to a hotel. I have five hundred pounds a year, surely they cannot deprive me of that! Then we will find a comfortable little home somewhere, Nina, and you shall stay with me as long as you like--not as a mere servant--but as a friend, the most faithful friend I have ever had.” Nina’s face flushed with pleasure, and she clapped her hands together joyously. “Oh, my lady, won’t that be nice! But what a shame for all your fortune to go because of that wretched will.” “Hush, Nina; I never wish to think of it again. Never before was a poor mortal so afflicted as I, but beyond the black clouds of the present I have faith that there is a golden promise that will blossom into glorious fruition. I know that my lover will come back to me some day--and I shall wait--even if it is until I am old and gray. Bitter as my sorrows have been, the most dreadful blow has not fallen. There is no proof that Sir Harold has been false to me. If this were so, then I should be stricken with death, indeed!” Lady Elaine shed a few tears, then, with rapid and decisive movements, assisted her maid to turn out the contents of drawers and wardrobes, and pack them into her traveling trunks. In the meantime, Lady Gaynor had sent an urgent telegram to the viscount, who was dutifully visiting his octogenarian uncle, the Duke of Rothwell. The duke’s country seat was within twenty miles of Ashbourne, and the viscount had many reasons for trying to conciliate the old gentleman. In the first place, his grace had complete control of every acre of his possessions. There was not a square yard of entail, and the viscount had never been a favorite with his uncle. When the telegram arrived, Rivington was reading that morning’s _Times_ to the Duke of Rothwell. The day was bright and warm, and they were sunning themselves on one of the terraces that overlooked miles of undulating woodland. “What is that, Henry?” asked his grace, suspiciously. “Lady Gaynor desires my immediate presence at the Lodge,” replied Rivington, knitting his brows. “Lady Gaynor!” echoed the duke, contemptuously. “You must break with that woman, Henry. Let me see the telegram.” Rivington reluctantly handed the slip of pink paper to his uncle, who slowly read: You must come at once. Trouble with the girl.--GAYNOR. “Trouble with the girl,” repeated the duke, suspiciously. “What does that mean? No deception, please. I endured quite enough of that in your young days, when you used money that did not belong to you. Sometimes I think that I have been a fool to take you back again and make you a handsome allowance. It is hard to believe in the reformation of a blackleg and a gambler. But my will is not yet made in your favor, and all depends upon your marriage with Lady Elaine Seabright. After that there is some hope for you!” “Uncle!” pleaded Rivington. “How unkind you are!” “The telegram, the telegram!” was the interruption.