Left alone, she opens the letters. The first is apparently of little interest, and is tossed carelessly aside. The second--at the first line she starts and flushes as red as a June rose; then with eager eyes reads on with devouring speed till the end. It is not a very long letter, but it seems to agitate her in no small degree. "How strange!" she says. "After all these years--and to-day, of all days! What on earth am I to do?" She grows very white, and for some moments leans back on the snowy pillows, with her breath coming fitfully and unevenly, and her eyes looking sad and troubled. Then with a great effort she rises and puts the letter aside, and proceeds with her morning toilette. She is standing before the mirror in a loose white dressing-gown, her long rich hair hanging loosely about her, when the door opens and a lady enters. A very handsome, stately lady, with sufficient likeness to the girl to suggest their relationship; but the soft curved lips of the young face are thin and cold in the older one, and the eyes, though brilliant, still lack the softness and tenderness that give so great a charm to those of Lauraine. "Up and dressed, my darling!" she says, in clear, sweet tones. Then she comes near to the girl and kisses her effusively on both cheeks. "Will you come to my boudoir for breakfast?" she continues. "I made Henriette dress my hair first, so that you can have all her attention afterwards. What a barbarous custom to have weddings so early in the day! You look very well, dear; just a trifle pale, but that is quite correct for a bride." Then she kisses her again, and Lauraine submits to the caresses with a sort of passive contempt. There is no gladness on her face, nor in her eyes, and she has certainly grown very pale, but the pallor only makes the beautiful eyes more wistful, and the sweet red lips more exquisite in contrast. The girl is tall and slender, with delicately-cut features, and a wealth of dusky gold-brown hair, and a clear, creamy skin, that shows every trace of the coursing blood as it flows beneath. It warms suddenly now, with a brilliant flush, as she meets her mother's eyes and listens to her words. The white slender hand moves to the toilet-table, and takes from amidst its glittering array a letter lying there. "Mother," she says suddenly, "whom do you think I have heard from this morning? An old friend of ours." Mrs. Douglas looks a little startled just for a moment. Then she smiles sweetly. "I am a bad hand at guessing, love. Pray tell me, if it is of any importance." Lauraine looks full at her, still holding the letter in her hand. "It is from--Keith," she says calmly. "From Mr. Athelstone!" remarks Mrs. Douglas calmly, but a little nervous agitation is visible on her face. "Dear me! I thought he had long forgotten us!" "So did I," answers Lauraine, glancing for an instant at the superscription.