She straightened out a folded paper she had carried in her bosom, and leaning forward pointed out a small paragraph to her mother. Mrs. Arnold read the brief paragraph with starting eyes, then turned and looked at her daughter. She no longer kept her finger between the pages of her novel. It had slipped down upon the floor. She was getting absorbed in this tragedy in real life. "Is it possible?" she exclaimed. "Felise, can it be true?" "Why not?" was the cool interrogatory. "Such things happen often--don't they? "'Every minute dies a man, Every minute one is born.'" "Let me see the date," Mrs. Arnold said, bending forward. "Ah! it is very recent. Well, I _am_ surprised. But yet it is a very fortunate occurrence, is it not? Of course it is genuine." "Why, of course it is," said Felise, with a short, dry laugh. "How else could it be in the paper? They don't put such things in for sport, I suppose." "Of course not; but it came upon me so suddenly I felt quite incredulous at first. Well, this puts a new face upon the matter, does it not, my dear?" "Certainly, mother. I will show her this paper, and she cannot have any pretext for repeating her refusal in the face of the alternative with which you shall threaten her. I suppose any girl in her senses would marry Colonel Carlyle and his millions rather than be turned out homeless into the street." She sat still a moment staring before her into futurity with lurid eyes that saw her revenge already, and curling lips that began to taste its sweetness in anticipation. "When must I tell her, Felise?" inquired Mrs. Arnold. "To-morrow, mother. There is no use in delaying matters. Let us bring the marriage about as speedily as possible. You will tell her to-morrow what she has to do, and I will be on hand with the paper." She rose slowly. "Well, I will go, and leave you to finish your novel," she said; "but if you take my advice you will retire instead. It is growing late. Good-night." "Good-night, my love, and pleasant dreams," her mother answered. She went out as quietly as she had entered, her dark hair flying wildly over her shoulders and her white robes trailing noiselessly after her. She was twisting her hands together, and again Mrs. Arnold thought of Lady Macbeth washing her hands and crying in her sleep, "Out, damned spot!" Ah, Felise Herbert! There was a stain on your soul as red as that on Lady Macbeth's hand! CHAPTER XV. The morning after the rejection of Colonel Carlyle, Bonnibel Vere sat alone in a pleasant little morning-room that was thrown out from the main residence as a wing. It was daintily furnished in blue plush and walnut, and had double glass doors that looked out upon a lovely little garden that in this pleasant May season was glowing with bloom and fragrance.