"I do not have the least apprehension of such a calamity," she answered, throwing off the chill presentiment with an effort. "I feel sure that Leslie Dane and his Bonnibel will be far beyond pursuit and detection before to-morrow night. And you will infinitely oblige me by keeping your doleful croaking to yourself, mother." Mrs. Arnold looked at her watch and rose wearily. "It is almost morning," she said; "I think I will retire. Good-night, my dear, and pleasant dreams." "They cannot fail to be pleasant!" answered Felise, with her mocking, triumphant laugh. But her dreams were all waking ones. She was too triumphant and excited to sleep. "This is a happy, happy night for me!" she exclaimed again and again. CHAPTER XXXI. Bonnibel was completely crushed by the knowledge that Colonel Carlyle had put into execution his threat of making her a prisoner. For a moment she ran wildly about the room, passionately seeking some mode of egress, filled with the impulse of seeking and following her poor, maltreated Lucy. But no loophole of escape presented itself. Her suite of rooms, boudoir, dressing-room, and sleeping-apartment, all communicated with each other, but only one opened into the hall, or presented any mode of egress from her imprisonment. Of this room, the boudoir which she then occupied, Colonel Carlyle had taken the key. She was in an upper story, many feet from the ground, or she would have jumped from the window in her desperation. As it was she could do nothing. She threw herself down upon the floor, crushing her beautiful ball-dress with its grasses and lilies, and wept unrestrainedly. The slight form heaved and shook with emotion, the tears rained from her eyes in a torrent. At length, worn out with passionate weeping, and overcome by the "dumb narcotic influence of pain," she fell asleep where she lay on the floor, her wet cheek pillowed on her little hand, her golden hair floating about her in "sad beauty." Thus Colonel Carlyle found her when he entered, late that morning. He was honestly shocked at the sight, for he had supposed that she would yield gracefully to the inevitable, and retire to her sleeping-apartment without more ado when she found how inflexible a will he was possessed of. Instead, here she lay prostrate on the rich velvet carpet of the boudoir, still attired in her ball-dress, the traces of tears on her pale cheeks, and her restless slumber broken by sobs and moans that shook her slight form like a wind-shaken-willow. He stood still looking down at her, while pity vainly struggled against the fierce anger and resentment burning hotly in his heart. "She can grieve for him like this," he muttered bitterly, and lifted her, not rudely, but yet unlovingly, and laid her down upon a silken sofa. The movement disturbed her, and for a moment she seemed about to wake; but the heavy lethargy of her troubled sleep overpowered her.