“It shall not. Postponements are unlucky!” Cora uttered angrily. “Just a few days, dear--until next week, say,” whispered her lover, who could scarcely turn his horrified gaze from that fair, dead face before him to his pouting sweetheart. He was recalling the words Jessie had used in speaking of Carey Doyle’s frustrated attempt to kiss her lips: “I should have died of disgust!” How he had laughed at the idea of any one dying of a kiss, but looking at that still form on the floor, he felt as if he had the brand of Cain on his high, white brow. “Her death lies at my door!” he thought, in a passion of remorse. They bore Jessie tenderly from his presence to a beautiful white and gold room near Mrs. Dalrymple’s own, and there the lady’s favorite maid robed the lovely form for the grave in beautiful white robes fit for a bride, selected from the wardrobe of her mistress. Then, laid on a soft, white couch with her golden locks drifting about her like sunshine on snow, and fragrant flowers between her waxen hands, she lay like one asleep in her calm, unearthly beauty. And by her side Mrs. Dalrymple kept lonely vigil, distracted by doubts and fears lest this prove to be her own lost darling restored to her only in death. Toward midnight a stealthy figure glided in--Cora Ellyson, in a crimson silk dressing gown with her raven hair streaming loose over her shoulders. “Aunt Verna, you will make yourself sick, staying up like this! And what is the use?” remonstratingly. There was no answer from the heavy-eyed woman brooding over the dead girl’s couch, and Cora continued eagerly: “I beg you to reconsider your decision. Send this body away to the undertaker’s and let the funeral be from there, so that my wedding need not be overshadowed by so evil an omen.” “I cannot grant your request, Cora. The funeral will take place from this house, and your wedding must be postponed,” came the sad but firm reply. “I tell you it shall not. I will not be disappointed for a hysterical sentiment. This poor girl is nothing to you, nothing! I give you notice that unless you do as I wish I will remove to-morrow to my Cousin van Dorn’s and have my wedding from his house Thursday!” “Please yourself, Cora, but do not presume to dictate to me! And now, go; leave me, I prefer to be alone!” with a flash of spirit. CHAPTER XI. A BREAKING HEART. Madame Barto did not expect any customers the next morning; it was so still, so dark and lowering after the night’s storm, but at ten o’clock the bell clanged loudly and she admitted a beautiful, richly dressed woman who said excitedly: “No, I do not wish my fortune told, but I will pay you well for any information about a young girl who has been living with you--Jessie Lyndon.” “She ran away from me last night, the little vixen, and I did not discover it till this morning,” the fortune teller answered sullenly.