She ended with a little, tinkling laugh of triumphant scorn that fell like hailstones on the heart she had crushed. The cruel truth was out, and when the echo of that exultant laugh died away there was a silence like death in the brilliant, sumptuous room. Frank Laurier, with a low, inarticulate cry, tried to rise from his recumbent position, scarcely knowing what to do, but his sweetheart’s jeweled hand on his shoulder firmly pressed him back, while they gazed in rising awe at Jessie Lyndon. She stood among them a breathing statue of shame-stricken girlhood, the hot color glowing in her cheeks, and mounting up to the roots of her bright hair, her red lips parted and tremulous, the big tears hanging like pearls on her lashes, her bosom rising and falling with emotion beneath the shabby gown that could not hide the budding grace of her perfect form. This poor girl, so fair, so friendless, to whom no one spoke one word of sympathy, so terribly alone among them all, what would she do? For several moments she did not speak a word--she could not, for the terrible, choking sensation in her throat, and the mad leaping of her burdened heart in her breast--then, as the scarlet glow faded into deadly pallor, she lifted her heavy eyes up to Cora Ellyson’s face. “I cannot bear it, God forgive me!” she cried, and the little hand pressed to her lips a tiny vial, then flung it down empty as she rushed from the room, eluding the detaining hand Mrs. Dalrymple stretched forth. “She has taken poison! Follow, and bring her back!” shouted Frank Laurier rising in alarm, then falling back with a groan on the sprained foot that would not support his weight. “Pshaw, she was only shamming!” his proud sweetheart answered coolly, helping him back to his sofa, and bending to press a kiss on his brow. But he did not notice the fond caress. He groaned in a sort of agony: “My God, it is all my fault; I did not realize what I was doing! If she dies, poor girl, it will lie at my door, her cruel fate.” “Nonsense, Frank, it was not your fault, her making such a little fool of herself, trying to catch a rich husband! Lie still, and compose yourself! Aunt Verna will see about the silly creature!” drawing a chair to his side and overwhelming him with attentions to banish Jessie from his mind. Meanwhile the shame-stricken, frantic girl had rushed past Mrs. Dalrymple’s outstretched arms to the corridor, and darting past the astonished servant, tore open the door, and disappeared in the gloom of the stormy night. “Follow her, and bring her back by force!” exclaimed his mistress, in the wildest agitation. “It is storming wildly, madam. The air is filled with snow, and it is deep already,” the man objected. “Go! Bring her back at once! I tell you go!” she stormed at him, and he obeyed without further parley. Then her writhing lips parted in incoherent words: