At that instant, through the raging of the fierce elements, the sound of carriage wheels smote upon their ears as the vehicle dashed rapidly up the long avenue to the porch; while, in another instant, the young master, half carrying the slight, delicate figure that clung timidly to his arm, hurriedly entered the spacious parlor. There was a short consultation with the housekeeper, and Basil Hurlhurst, tenderly lifting the slight burden in his strong, powerful arms, quickly bore his wife to the beautiful apartments that had been prepared for her. In the excitement of the moment Pluma was quite forgotten; for an instant only she glanced bitterly at the sweet, fair face resting against her father's shoulder, framed in a mass of golden hair. The child clinched her small hands until she almost cried aloud with the intense pain, never once deigning a glance at her father's face. In that one instant the evil seeds of a lifetime were sown strong as life and more bitter than death. Turning hastily aside she sprung hurriedly down the long corridor, and out into the darkness and the storm, never stopping to gain breath until she had quite reached the huge ponderous gate that shut in the garden from the dense thicket that skirted the southern portion of the plantation. She laughed a hard, mocking laugh that sounded unnatural from such childish lips, as she saw a white hand hurriedly loop back the silken curtains of her father's window, and saw him bend tenderly over the golden-haired figure in the arm-chair. Suddenly the sound of her own name fell upon her ear. "Pluma," whispered a low, cautious voice; and in the quick flashes of lightning she saw a white, haggard woman's face pressed close against the grating, and two white hands were steadily forcing the rusty lock. There was no fear in the fiery, rebellious heart of the dauntless child. "Go away, you miserable beggar-woman," she cried, "or I shall set the hounds on you at once. Do you hear me, I say?" "Who are you?" questioned the woman, in the same low, guarded voice. The child threw her head back proudly, her voice rising shrilly above the wild warring of the elements, as she answered: "Know, then, I am Pluma, the heiress of Whitestone Hall." The child formed a strange picture--her dark, wild face, so strangely like the mysterious woman's own, standing vividly out against the crimson lightning flashes, her dark curls blown about the gypsy-like face, the red lips curling scornfully, her dark eyes gleaming. "Pluma," called the woman, softly, "come here." "How dare _you_, a beggar-woman, call me!" cried the child, furiously. "Pluma--come--here--instantly!"