present situation, bereft of love, hope, sympathy, and even of seclusion, and above all, the terrible trial of absence of fresh air and outdoor exercise to a girl of her race and temperament, these things were seriously affecting her health. But for the hope held out in Sarah’s message Stella would hardly have lived through the twenty days that followed. Her nights were sleepless, and what slumber she enjoyed came to her by day and by the use of opiates, which her father, who would allow no doctor to see her, caused to be administered to her in her tea and coffee; and it was in a deep sleep, brought on by a dose of this kind, that Lord Carthew saw her, lying fully dressed on the sofa, the window, which was open to allow the fresh spring air to blow through the room, letting in a torrent of clear, bright sunlight, which seemed absolutely to shine through the girl’s attenuated form as she lay resting among cushions, her cheeks of a marble whiteness under her long, black eyelashes. Sir Philip himself brought his future son-in-law to see his daughter, as the latter, on his third visit, would not be denied. “If you don’t let me see her, I shall think she is dead,” he said, half laughing, but half seriously, too. “My dear Carthew, I have really been afraid of startling you. The poor child’s grief has been so excessive that she is wasted to a shadow. She is morbidly fearful lest you may be shocked at the change in her; but I will myself go and prepare her for your visit, and entreat her to receive you.” “Seeing that we are to be married in a week, it would seem very strange if I could not see her for a few minutes,” observed Lord Carthew; and Sir Philip recognizing a certain doggedness in his tone, knew that he had made up his mind. Not for the first time the Baronet realized that his future son-in-law had a strong will of his own, and he rejoiced to see it manifested. A husband with a strong will, he told himself, was imperatively necessary in the case of a girl with Stella’s erratic and vagrant instincts. It was, indeed, almost pitiful to consider Sir Philip’s anxiety that the marriage between Lord Northborough’s heir and his daughter should come off without any hitch. The chatelain of the Chase was accustomed to be obeyed in fear and trembling, and he never once questioned the wisdom of his own decrees. It was of vital importance, so he told himself, that Stella should marry Lord Carthew, and he was placed in a position of extreme difficulty by the fact that if Stella and Claud once met before the ceremony, the girl would undoubtedly blurt out the terrible facts of her preference for Hilary Pritchard, and of her gypsy descent. The dread of such a contingency prevented Sir Philip from resting by night or by day. He did not like the Chase, but he remained in the house simply and solely to prevent his daughter from running away, as he felt sure she would do should the least opportunity present itself.