"I have brought some one else to you, my darling," he said. "See, Pluma--a new mamma! And see who else--a wee, dimpled little sister, with golden hair like mamma's, and great blue eyes. Little Evalia is your sister, dear. Pluma must love her new mamma and sister for papa's sake." The dark frown on the child's face never relaxed, and, with an impatient gesture, her father ordered her taken at once from the room. Suddenly the great bells of Whitestone Hall ceased pealing for the joyous birth of Basil Hurlhurst's daughter, and bitter cries of a strong man in mortal anguish rent the air. No one had noticed how or when the sweet, golden-haired young wife had died. With a smile on her lips, she was dead, with her tiny little darling pressed close to her pulseless heart. But sorrow even as pitiful as death but rarely travels singly. Dear Heaven! how could they tell the broken-hearted man, who wept in such agony beside the wife he had loved so well, of another mighty sorrow that had fallen upon him? Who was there that could break the news to him? The tiny, fair-haired infant had been stolen from their midst. They would have thanked God if it had been lying cold in death upon its mother's bosom. Slowly throughout the long night--that terrible night that was never to be forgotten--the solemn bells pealed forth from the turrets of Whitestone Hall, echoing in their sound: "Unhappy is the bride the rain falls on." Most truly had been the fulfillment of the fearful prophecy! "Merciful God!" cried Mrs. Corliss, "how shall I break the news to my master? The sweet little babe is gone!" For answer Hagar bent quickly over her, and breathed a few words in her ear that caused her to cry out in horror and amaze. "No one will ever know," whispered Hagar; "it is the wisest course. The truth will lie buried in our own hearts, and die with us." * * * * * Six weeks from the night his golden-haired wife had died Basil Hurlhurst awoke to consciousness from the ravages of brain-fever--awoke to a life not worth the living. Quickly Mrs. Corliss, the housekeeper, was sent for, who soon entered the room, leaning upon Hagar's arm. "My wife is--" He could not say more. "Buried, sir, beneath yonder willow." "And the babe?" he cried, eagerly. "Dead," answered Hagar, softly. "Both are buried in one grave." Basil Hurlhurst turned his face to the wall, with a bitter groan. Heaven forgive them--the seeds of the bitterest of tragedies were irrevocably sown. CHAPTER II. One bright May morning some sixteen years later, the golden sunshine was just putting forth its first crimson rays, lighting up the ivy-grown turrets of Whitestone Hall, and shining upon a little white cottage nestling in a bower of green leaves far to the right of it, where dwelt John Brooks, the overseer of the Hurlhurst plantation.