They had many things to tell her, but the story that interested her most of all was of her own apparent death and her interment in the old family vault. She knew now that it was no dream, the memories she had cherished of her mother’s sorrow over her coffin, and Frank Laurier’s words of passionate love and grief. She would cherish them deep in her heart forever. As for Mark and Willie, they received the most idolatrous love from all. “It was so noble in you, Verna, to take them to our own home so generously that I was always thinking what I could do to reward you for your goodness, but, lo! God paid the debt of gratitude by making the little lads the saviors of our own daughter,” the fond husband cried, with deep emotion. In the following spring Ernest Noel wrote to Mrs. Dalrymple telling her of Cora’s death at his villa in Italy. Shortly after the announcement of this sad news Frank Laurier and the girl he loved were united in the holy bands of matrimony. CHAPTER XLII. IRIS AND ISABEL. “What do you mean by disobeying my orders? Didn’t I tell you I would see no one to-night? How dare you take it upon yourself to act contrary to my wishes?” Peter, the servant, to whom these angry, impatient words were addressed, stood meekly in the doorway of his master’s library, half in and half out of the room, waiting for Mr. Oscar Hilton’s loud voice to cease before venturing to explain his reason for thus intruding on the latter’s privacy. “Please, sir, I didn’t forget your orders, but if you’ll remember, sir, you told me only yesterday never to deny you to Mr. St. John----” As Peter uttered this name Oscar Hilton’s face, which had been haggard and pale as if some deep sorrow weighed upon him, brightened wonderfully, and his voice lost its angry tone. “You are right, Peter; say to Mr. St. John that I will see him here, and----” At this moment Peter drew himself back from the doorway, and a young girl entered the room--a petite and fairylike creature, looking even younger than her eighteen years, with eyes of that peculiar blue that darkens into purple, a complexion clear and fair as the lotus leaf, and hair of a deep reddish brown that shone like dull gold in the soft shaded light. She was dressed richly, as became the daughter of Oscar Hilton--who was supposed to be one of the richest men in New York. But that gentleman’s face betrayed neither admiration nor love as she advanced into the room and stood before him. “We are ready for Mrs. Laurier’s reception, papa, and I wanted you to see my costume for the occasion before Isabel came to you, because I knew how my poor little self will fade into insignificance and be totally eclipsed by the superior beauty of my queenly sister--but what is the matter? Papa, you look pale and tired. Shall I stay at home and read for you? Indeed, I do not care about the party--do let me stay with you, papa.”