"So have tigers. There, dear, take the picture; I am no fit judge, perhaps. Remember, I once knew a man with the face of an angel, and the heart of a fiend. Your friend is certainly handsome; let us hope he is equally good." "He is; I know it," asserted Claire. Then she told her companion how she had met him at the house of a friend; how he was very learned and scientific; very grave and dignified; and very devoted to herself. And how, beyond these few facts, she knew little if anything of her blonde hero, Edward Percy. Madeline received this information in a grave silence, whose chill affected Claire as well, and after a few moments, as if by mutual consent, they arose and entered the house. Olive Girard had been absent a week; gone on a journey, sacred to her as any Meccan pilgrimage, a visit to the place of her husband's imprisonment. Every year she made this journey, returning home in some measure comforted; for she had seen her beloved. She came back on this evening, as the two girls were mingling their voices in gay bravura duets--by mutual consent they avoided all songs of a pathetic order, for reasons which neither would have cared to acknowledge. The evening having passed away, Claire found herself in her chamber gazing at her lover's pictured face and thinking how good, how noble, it was, and what a little goose she had been to allow anything Madeline had said to apply to him. A sudden thought occurred to her, and going to Madeline's door, she tapped gently. The door opened, and Claire, raising a warning finger, said: "Madeline, I forgot to tell you that Olive knows nothing of Edward Percy, and--I don't want to tell her just yet. You will not mention it?" "No." "Then good-night, and pleasant dreams." "Thank you," in a grave voice; "good-night." Claire returned to her room and penned a long letter to Edward Percy, full of sweet confidence, gayety and trustfulness. She reperused his last letter, said her prayers, or rather read them, for Claire was a staunch little church-woman, and then slept and dreamed bright dreams. CHAPTER XI. A GLEAM OF LIGHT. A few moments after Claire's door had closed for the last time, Madeline came cautiously from her room, her slippered feet making no sound on the softly carpeted floor. Passing Claire's door, she paused before another, opened it gently, and stood in Olive Girard's bed-chamber. Evidently she was expected, for a light was burning softly and Olive sat near it with a book in her hand, in an attitude of waiting. Madeline seated herself at the little table as if quite accustomed to such interviews, and said in a low tone: "I am so glad you came to-night; are you too tired for a long talk?" "No; tell me all that has happened since I have been absent." "Olive, I must go away; back to Bellair," said Madeline, abruptly. "Madeline, you are mad! To Bellair? Why, _he_ is there often now." "He will not find me out, never fear. I _must_ go to Bellair within the week."