"I have asked you to choose between us," he said, calmly, "and you have chosen Rex regardless of all the promises of the past. The consequences rest upon your own head." "So be it," she answered, haughtily. With a low bow Stanwick turned and left her. "_Au revoir_, my dear Pluma," he said, turning again toward her on the threshold. "Not farewell--I shall not give up hope of winning the heiress of Whitestone Hall." For several moments she stood quite still among the dark-green shrubs, and no sound told of the deadly strife and despair. Would he see Rex and divulge the crime she had planned? Ah! who would believe she, the proud, petted heiress had plotted so cruelly against the life of an innocent young girl because she found favor in the eyes of the lover she had sworn to win? Ah! who could believe she had planned to confine that sweet young life within the walls of a mad-house until death should release her? What if the plan had failed? The intention still remained the same. She was thankful, after all, the young girl was dead. "I could never endure the thought of Rex's intense anger if he once imagined the truth; he would never forgive duplicity," she cried, wildly. The proud, beautiful girl, radiant with love and happiness a short time since, with a great cry flung herself down among the ferns, the sunlight gleaming on the jewels, the sumptuous morning dress, the crushed roses, and the white, despairing face. Any one who saw Pluma Hurlhurst when she entered the drawing-room among her merry-hearted guests, would have said that she had never shed a tear or known a sigh. Could that be the same creature upon whose prostrate figure and raining tears the sunshine had so lately fallen? No one could have told that the brightness, the smiles, and the gay words were all forced. No one could have guessed that beneath the brilliant manner there was a torrent of dark, angry passions and an agony of fear. It was pitiful to see how her eyes wandered toward the door. Hour after hour passed, and still Rex had not returned. The hum of girlish voices around her almost made her brain reel. Grace Alden and Miss Raynor were singing a duet at the piano. The song they were singing fell like a death-knell upon her ears; it was "'He Cometh Not,' She Said." Eve Glenn, with Birdie upon her lap, sat on an adjoining sofa flirting desperately with the two or three devoted beaus; every one was discussing the prospect of the coming morrow. Her father had returned from Baltimore some time since. She was too much engrossed with her thoughts of Rex to notice the great change in him--the strange light in his eyes, or the wistful, expectant expression of his face, as he kissed her more fondly than he had ever done in his life before.