“I have triumphed although driven away in disgrace, and I will yet return to his heart and home. He has no real proof of my guilt, and time will make his impressions fainter until they seem mere illusions,” she muttered, as she turned away from the beautiful home in which she had made such cruel havoc of Norman de Vere’s happiness. Night fell darkly over the fairy-like home, and a strange, heavy silence seemed to settle down about it. Toward ten o’clock the silence was broken by a startling ring at the door-bell. When the door was opened a group of men came in, bearing among them the unconscious form of the master of the house. Shrinking sensitively from scandal as he did, Norman de Vere could not forego the chastisement of Lord Stuart. It must be done to lend color to the cause of his parting from his wife. Armed with a small whip, he had proceeded to the Hotel Française and publicly lashed Lord Stuart, alleging his flirtation with Mrs. de Vere as the cause. Lord Stuart drew a pistol and deliberately shot his assailant. Then he fled. Norman de Vere’s wound was in his breast, narrowly missing the heart. He was borne home to his anguished mother, and long weeks elapsed ere he was well again. Meanwhile, Lord Stuart had never been apprehended. Popular rumor declared that he had gone abroad and joined the false wife of the man he had wronged. It was spring before Norman’s physician agreed that he should quit Jacksonville for the colder climate of New York, so much had his wound and the long fever it caused enfeebled his frame. Heaven only knew what the young man had suffered physically and mentally in that time. His pain could only be measured by the depth of the love he had felt for the woman who had proved so unworthy. “I lived, if that may be called life From which each charm of life has fled, Happiness gone, with hope and love-- In all but breath already dead.” While he lay suffering, an odd little letter had come to him from Paris, from Lord Stuart: “My dear fellow, I hope you will forgive me for the suffering I caused you. My aim was bad. I only meant to give you a slight flesh wound in the shoulder, but I learn from American papers that you came near losing your life. I hope you will live. Camille was not worth the sacrifice of your strong young life. She is not with me, as I see it rumored in the papers. I have got over my fancy for her. I hear she is in London, but I do not know. I hope you will never make up your quarrel with her, for you are too good for such a woman.” Camille had written, too, from London, begging to be allowed to return and nurse her husband. Mrs. de Vere was compelled to write that her son refused the offer. CHAPTER XXIV. “Sweetheart, will you go with me to the dance this evening?” “I’ve promised to go with Frank--so there! And I wish, Tom Hinton, you wouldn’t call me that babyish name, Sweetheart. I can’t bear it!”