There was a subtle something in the stranger's voice that throbbed through the child's pulses like leaping fire--a strange, mysterious influence that bound her, heart and soul, like the mesmeric influence a serpent exerts over a fascinated dove. Slowly, hesitatingly, this child, whose fiery will had never bowed before human power, came timidly forward, step by step, close to the iron gate against which the woman's face was pressed. She stretched out her hand, and it rested for a moment on the child's dark curls. "Pluma, the gate is locked," she said. "Do you know where the keys are?" "No," answered the child. "They used to hang behind the pantry door--a great bunch of them. Don't they hang there now?" "Ye--es." "I thought so," muttered the woman, triumphantly. "Now, listen, Pluma; I want you to do exactly as I bid you. I want you to go quickly and quietly, and bring me the longest and thinnest one. You are not to breathe one word of this to any living soul. Do you understand, Pluma--I command you to do it." "Yes," answered the child, dubiously. "Stay!" she called, as the child was about to turn from her. "Why is the house lighted up to-night?" Again the reckless spirit of the child flashed forth. "My father has brought home his bride," she said. "Don't you see him bending over her, toward the third window yonder?" The woman's eyes quickly followed in the direction indicated. Was it a curse the woman muttered as she watched the fair, golden-haired young girl-wife's head resting against Basil Hurlhurst's breast, his arms clasped lovingly about her? "Go, Pluma!" she commanded, bitterly. Quickly and cautiously the child sped on her fatal errand through the storm and the darkness. A moment later she had returned with the key which was to unlock a world of misery to so many lives. "Promise me, Pluma, heiress of Whitestone Hall, never to tell what you have done or seen or heard to-night. You must never dare breathe it while you live. Say you will never tell, Pluma." "No," cried the child, "I shall never tell. They might kill me, but I would never tell them." The next moment she was alone. Stunned and bewildered, she turned her face slowly toward the house. The storm did not abate in its fury; night-birds flapped their wings through the storm overhead; owls shrieked in the distance from the swaying tree-tops; yet the child walked slowly home, knowing no fear. In the house lights were moving to and fro, while servants, with bated breath and light footfalls, hurried through the long corridors toward her father's room. No one seemed to notice Pluma, in her dripping robe, creeping slowly along by their side toward her own little chamber. It was quite midnight when her father sent for her. Pluma suffered him to kiss her, giving back no answering caress.