Mrs. Crosbie glanced at her niece, leaning languidly against the open window, almost frail-looking in her delicate white gown, and could scarcely reconcile the strong, cold, relentless spirit with so lovely an exterior. For an instant a feeling of disgust at this girl’s calm trickery and deceit, and at her own share in the matter, passed over her. Then her pride came to the rescue, and she consoled herself with the thought that Stuart had been saved from dishonor and trouble, and that Vane had done well. She bent and kissed her niece’s delicate cheek. “Yes, you are right,” she said, thoughtfully. “The problem is solved, and you have done it. I cannot thank you enough, Vane.” “Do not thank me at all,” the girl whispered. “You know why I did it--it was my love for Stuart that prompted me. Some day he will thank me, perhaps. But for the present I fear he will suffer.” “With you near, Vane, that will not last,” and, with an affectionate glance, Mrs. Crosbie left the room. The next day came, and Stuart still lived in his blissful dreams. Then, with a rough hand, they were ruthlessly shattered. Vane was reading in the colonnade that afternoon, when she saw hurried steps approaching, and, on looking up, saw Stuart, his face as white as his tennis coat, beside her. “What is it, Stuart?” she asked, hurriedly. “Vane, something has happened so strange, and yet so absurd, that, were I not so confoundedly weak, I should laugh at it. My man Andrews has just told me that Morris has left Hurstley--left early yesterday morning--for Australia, and Margery has gone with him. He declares that it is true.” “True!” repeated Vane. “It is too absurd to credit for one instant. Stuart, how can you believe it?” “The man is so positive,” Stuart went on, with a sigh, resting his left hand on a chair for support, “that it quite staggered me. Of course, there is some mistake; but it haunts me, nevertheless. Vane, will you drive me to the village?” he asked, abruptly. “I must make inquiries.” “Willingly;” and Vane at once put down her book. “How good you are!” exclaimed Stuart, trying to force a smile. “You are indeed a friend.” With a little laugh Vane put her hand on his lips and flitted away, while Stuart called to a gardener and ordered the pony carriage to be brought round. Vane was down again almost immediately, her face nearly as pale as her cousin’s. It was but a few minutes before the carriage appeared, yet to Stuart they seemed hours. He tried to laugh at the absurdity of the report, yet a presentiment of trouble possessed him. “It cannot be, it cannot be!” Vane heard him mutter again and again; and then he approached her. “Tell me once more the messages she sent,” he said, hurriedly; and Vane breathed the tender falsehoods in his ear, touching his agitated, troubled spirit with their healing balm. Sir Douglas Gerant passed through the hall just as they were starting. “Whither away, wounded knight?” he asked, lightly.