But a lucky accident helped the plans of the wise old Judge. “I am to bury the past and all reference to it. There must have been some strange sorrow, and perhaps my co-heiress was in the past a part of some hostile element.” Completely deceived as to her birth, the young girl divided with Sara Conyers a budding mystery of sweetness and light, which she dared not as yet acknowledge upon her mother’s bosom. For the Queen of the Street was a stately presence, and Romaine’s maidenly heart was shy and gentle. But Noel Endicott was daily becoming to her the joy-bringer and his “business” at Lakemere was not unseen by his astute old uncle. “That goes on well enough!” the old lawyer chuckled, “and it will be a noble ending to the poor girl’s homeless childhood. But my lady herself is a mystery.” He forgot to add, “as all other women are,”—the same changeful mystery. “She has locked up her heart and seems to be still determined to walk the lonely path. If Alynton would only speak!” The old Judge fretted and fumed among his parchments. Loyal Sara Conyers alone, knew why her brother Hugh had studiously avoided the happy circle at Lakemere. For old Judge Endicott’s prophetic words as to Alynton’s wooing rankled deep in the steadfast man’s lonely heart. He waited grimly and afar off for the advent of the conquering swain, Senator Alynton. “She needs me no more,” he bitterly decided. “It is all over. I have the whole world to choose from for a future home, and as she seems to have captured Sara for life, I am now free to go my way.” And so, when the foreign station was offered him, Conyers quietly accepted it, and then leisurely prepared for his departure. In daily close communion with Hugh Conyers’ sister, the Lady of Lakemere silently wondered at his continued absence and pondered over the gravely worded letters of polite refusal which answered her hospitable biddings. There was that strange, sweet womanly pride in Elaine Willoughby’s heart, the pride of a cherished secret, which held her speechless when the words of inquiry trembled on her lips. And it seemed as if the witching breath of the tender spring, hinting of summer roses, had now bewitched the whole circle. The fern seed of invisibility drifted down on all the hidden plans slowly revolving around Lakemere. For the long winter had worn away, and the time of the singing of birds had come again. Elaine Willoughby, hugging her undiscovered secret with a lingering pleasure, ardently sighed for the days when safe beyond the reach of all untoward accident, she could build up around her recovered daughter the paradise of a happy home beyond the seas. Of herself, of her own future, she dared not to think, for the sweet spring was stirring in her throbbing pulses.