“I am sorry now that I did not follow my first impulse and burn those hateful letters!” cried Maybelle regretfully. “How many were there?” asked her brother, grimly. “Seven in all. He must have written to her every day until he received your letter that she was dead. And such letters! fully of the silliest love. Pah!” cried the girl, who despised the letters because they were written to her rival. If they had been intended for her--jealous, envious Maybelle--she would have wished them framed in gold and precious stones. For what is so dear to a woman’s heart as a love letter from the man she adores? The mere sight of it makes the blood bound gladly through her frame, and brightens eye and cheek with joy. The touch of it makes her fingers tingle with delight. She reads it over and over in the solitude of her own chamber, and kisses it as fondly as if it were the face of her beloved. She carries it in her bosom by day, and places it beneath her pillow, to bring blissful dreams, by night. All this bliss of which Maybelle had robbed bonny Floy was hers now, and the angry girl’s bosom throbbed with the awful pain of jealousy as she realized how her sweet rival would rejoice over those ardent words of love sprinkled like diamonds over the pages he had written for her comfort while they were sundered one from each other. “I thought of thee--I thought of thee On ocean many a weary night, When heaved the long and solemn sea, With only waves and stars in sight. We stole along by aisles of balm, We furled before the coming gale, We slept amid the breathless calm, We flew before the straining sail-- But thou wert lost alas! to me, And day and night I thought of thee.” Otho listened to his sister with a cynical frown, guessing all that she suffered by the pain in his own heart. “I have a suspicion!” he exclaimed, abruptly. “What is it?” “Floy is hidden at Suicide Place,” he said, with an evil gleam in his deep-set, dark eyes. “Do you think so? But Floy told Mrs. Banks before she went away that she had seen something terrible there, and would never cross the threshold again.” “No matter; I believe she is in hiding there. It is so simple a solution of the mystery that I wonder it did not occur to me before. Yes, she is surely at Suicide Place, and I shall entrap her to-night!” he exclaimed, with triumphant malice. “But, Otho, are you not afraid to venture into that fatal house?” “Not in the least. I prize my life too highly ever to commit suicide, I assure you. I am strong-minded, practical. The grim influence of the place will not affect me.” “I am glad that you think so, and I hope that you prosper in your undertaking to-night.” “Thank you, sis, I can not foresee any possible failure this time. She will be entirely at my mercy, with no Beresford to interfere.” They were both silent for a time, ashamed to discuss their wicked plans, then Maybelle drew a deep breath, exclaiming: