The poor old lord went stooping away, his tired face looking aged and haggard with anxiety. His beautiful young daughter was scarcely less dear to him than to her mother, and the sound of her cries cut to his heart, yet in the midst of his anguish he had a pang of compassion for the poor child who, as he believed, was the thoughtless cause of the accident. What agony of remorse must be hers! What torture she would now be suffering! The guests and servants were standing huddled together on the landing upstairs or running to and fro to procure what was needed. Every thought was concentrated on Rosalind, and Rosalind alone, and the part of the house where the dance had been held was absolutely deserted. He took his way along the gaily decorated hall, noted with absent eye the disordered condition of the “harem,” which had been pointed out so proudly at the beginning of the evening, and entered the empty room. The lights were out, except for a few candles scattered here and there among the flowers. He walked slowly forward, saw the silver candlestick on the floor before the fireplace, and stood gazing at it with a quick appreciation of what had happened. For some reason or other Rosalind had tried to reach the candle, and the light had caught her gauzy skirt which had burst into flames. It was all easy—terribly easy to imagine; but in what way had Peggy Saville been responsible for the accident, so that her name should sound so persistently on Rosalind’s lips, and who had been the good Samaritan who had come to the rescue with that thick curtain which had killed the flames before they had time to finish the work of destruction? Lord Darcy peered curiously round. The oak floor stretched before him dark and still save where its polished surface reflected the light overhead; but surely in the corner opposite to where he stood there was a darker mass—a shadow deeper than the rest? He walked towards it, bending forward with straining eyes. Another curtain of the same pattern as that which had enveloped Rosalind—a curtain of rich Oriental hues with a strange unaccountable patch of white in the centre. What was it? It must be part of the fabric itself. Lord Darcy told himself that he had no doubt on the subject, yet the way across the room seemed unaccountably long, and his heart beat fast with apprehension. In another moment he stood in the corner and knew too well the meaning of that patch of white. Peggy Saville lay stretched upon the curtain, white and unconscious, to all appearance dead! (_To be continued._) [Illustration] OUR PUZZLE POEM REPORT: IN PERILOUS TIMES. IN PERILOUS TIMES. AN ACCIDENTAL CYCLE. _Catching Fire._ If your clothing catches fire, Do not rush about for aid, Simply roll on mat or mire And a fearful death evade. _Railway Collision._