“Why, of course. How stupid we have all been!” chorused the party, and from that moment no one doubted but that the dastardly burglars had murdered Gipsy and hidden her beautiful dead body somewhere, perhaps cast it into the murmuring Greenbrier River, winding along below the cliffs where The Crags perched high against the clear blue sky. They waited eagerly for the arrival of the blood-hounds to track the wretches; but they were bitterly disappointed when a telegram arrived saying that some heartless fiend had poisoned both the dogs. CHAPTER XVII. A LETTER FROM LAURIE. After such a gruesome tragedy, and with the mistress of The Crags lying critically ill, the house-party broke up by unanimous consent. The gloom of death brooded over The Crags, the same as if a corpse lay under the roof, and all felt it the proper thing to depart. Lelia did not try to detain them. She agreed with them that it was, indeed, a house of mourning now, and might better be left to time and solitude. By night all were gone, and Lelia and Mrs. Goodwill kept vigil by the sick-bed of Miss Cyrilla. She had already telegraphed her mother and the general, Laurie’s father, that her aunt lay at the point of death. She knew that this message would bring them both at once. She hoped, too, that it would lure Laurie back. When he came she would lose no time in making up with him, and keeping the peace hereafter, for Lelia had learned her lesson at bitter cost, and she meant to profit by it. She made up her mind that, after their reconciliation, there should be a hasty marriage, forging his fetters too tightly for him to slip them again. In her breast throbbed ever one passionate yearning: “If he will only return--if he will only return!” The dreary night waned, and brought another golden summer day. She had received no reply to her telegram to her relatives, but she believed that the noon train would bring them from Charleston. She knew her mercenary mother would spare no pains to ingratiate herself with Miss Cyrilla, hoping to secure her fortune for her daughter. When Crawford returned with the morning’s mail, she pounced eagerly upon it, carrying it hastily to her own room to read. She had a faint hope that Laurie might have repented and written to her to take him back. Oh, how gladly she would assent, how joyously greet him on his return. Nothing should ever come between them again. She would conquer all that self-will and jealousy that had wrought such evil and branded her heart with remorse forever. Eagerly she ran over the letters, looking for the familiar handwriting. Yes, there it was, Laurie’s own bold hand! But, alas! It was addressed to Miss Cyrilla Willoughby. He had written to his aunt, not to Lelia. “She is too ill to read it. And I--I cannot wait! I must know what he says. It is all in the family, anyhow!” she muttered, and recklessly tore open the letter, devouring its contents with burning eyes.