“They speak now of Alynton for a leading Cabinet position. His term in the Senate is expiring; or they will give him one of the four Embassies. “If he asks you to share his life, I would say nothing to him of the unhappy past. Romaine is now of age. She is rich beyond need. I myself never have questioned you. “You have a right to hold back all that might shadow Romaine (God bless her!) in her possible future marriage.” Endicott’s voice was tremblingly affectionate, and yet the solicitude was tinged with a solemn earnestness. The old lawyer rose and kissed the fair woman’s hand. “My life-work is nearly done. Noel, as your agent, can carry on the executive affairs, and as you are off the ‘Street’ and out of stocks forever, you will need no lawyer, only now and then a mere bit of office counsel, and therefore I am turning over my practice soon to Headley, my partner and legal disciple. He will be to you what I have been. Alynton will call within two days.” “You wish me to marry?” said Elaine, with softly shining eyes. “Wait, wait! I may consider your advice and act favorably upon it.” The happy old advocate departed, sure of his victory. It was all going on well. Hiram Endicott was haunted by the strange smile which lit up the thoughtful face of the woman whose life as Margaret Cranstoun was now closed forever from a curious world by the sealed barriers of a dead past. “She will surely accept him,” rejoicingly muttered the happy old advocate. “Noel will then gain Romaine’s heart, and there will be a royal circle gathered in coming years at Lakemere, around the once lonely fireside.” But, Love that hath us in the net was weaving, ever weaving, in silence. And the cross purposes of the unwitting actors were seemingly as unsolved as before. With a sudden craving for aid in her hour of mental indecision, that night Elaine Willoughby wrote a last appeal to the invisible Hugh Conyers: “I must see you, Hugh, at once on a matter involving the happiness of my whole future life. Come to me. I have no one but you to depend upon in this vitally important juncture.” As the Lady of Lakemere mentioned to her now all-potent representative, Sara Conyers, the impending visit of Senator David Alynton, she saw, with a womanly intuition, an indignant flash of unspoken resentment in her friend’s eyes. Suddenly forgetting her usually affectionate “Good-night,” the startled hostess fled away to her own room, and not daring to look at her own face in the mirror, seized the letter directed to the recalcitrant Hugh and tore it into little fragments. “I understand!” she whispered with self-accusing timidity, and now strangely fearful of her own judgment, her heart leaping up in defense of the absent man. “It would be too cruel! I dare not, and yet how will he ever know?” Dan Cupid, from rosy clouds, smiled roguishly upon her slumbers that night.