Neva slowly lifted her pale, joyous face from her lover’s bosom, and stood a little way from him, eager, expectant, and wondering. “My poor little girl!” said the young earl, with an infinite yearning. “How you have suffered! I have brought you very startling news, and you will need all your bravery to bear it. Give me your hands--so! Neva, I have news from India.” Something in his tone startled the girl. Her face grew paler on the instant. “Yes, Arthur,” she said softly. “You have heard more about his death--poor papa!” “A gentleman has come from India,” said the earl telling the story much as Atkins had told it to him. “He says--can you bear to hear it, darling--he says that Sir Harold did not die out there at all: that he was attacked by a tiger, but was rescued by his Hindoo servant, who sent him away into the mountains in the care of other Hindoos, who kept Sir Harold a captive. And he says that Sir Harold is alive and well to-day.” “Oh, Arthur, Arthur! Can it be?” cried Neva, trembling. “My poor father! I dreamed that he still lived, and my dream has come true. We will start for India at once, and rescue papa. Oh, Arthur, do you think it is true!” “Yes, my darling, I believe it.” “Well, I don’t!” sneered Craven Black, turning pale nevertheless. “Such trumpery tales are common enough. Look at Livingstone. He’s been said to be dead these several years, but every little while the newspapers resurrect him. I _know_ Sir Harold is dead!” “And I know it,” scoffed Octavia. “Alive, after an absence of so long duration! Bah! I wonder you haven’t more sense, Lord Towyn. Sir Harold Wynde alive! I should like to see him!” The door swung slowly on its hinges, and Sir Harold Wynde walked into the room. He paused near the door, and surveyed his false wife with stern and awful eyes. Octavia gave utterance to a frightful scream--whose horror was indescribable--and bounded forward, her hand upon her breast, and fell to the floor upon her face. Sir Harold’s awful gaze turned upon Craven Black, and seemed to turn that individual to stone. It rested upon Artress, and she cowered before it in terror. It passed over the French woman, and fixed itself upon Neva, softening and melting to almost more than human tenderness and love, and then, with a great joy shining in his keen blue eyes, he opened wide his arms. Neva sprang forward, and was clasped close to his great heart. The sacred joy of that reunion need not be dwelt upon. Presently, as Sir Harold was about to lead his daughter from the room, his glance rested upon the still prostrate figure of Octavia. “Look to your wife, Mr. Black,” he said; his irony arousing Black from his stupor. “She has fainted!” Craven Black obeyed the voice of command, essaying to lift the prostrate figure of Octavia, but with a cry of horror he let it fall again, shouting hoarsely: “She’s dead! Octavia is dead!” It was true. The engorged lungs had ceased their work. The heart had stopped its beating.