"My heart aches to clasp her again," she answered. "Be patient. In a few hours I will bring her to you," he answered. "And you?" she asked, slowly. "Are you glad or sorry that the waves gave her back to us?" "I love her," he answered, simply, and with that she was content. He went away on his mission to restore the child to her mother's arms, and Elaine waited with eager impatience for his return. "He has a brave, true heart," she said. "Irene will have a noble husband. After all, the mistake of that dreadful night may prove a providence to them both." For it seemed to her that they could not help from loving each other. It seemed like a match made in Heaven. He was so handsome, so noble, so kind. Irene was so lovely, so tender, and her mother knew that beneath her pretty, wilful ways, that were but as the foam on the sea, she had a heart of gold. So Elaine was well content with her son-in-law for her daughter's sake, though when she looked into her mirror it seemed almost ridiculous to reflect that she was a mother-in-law. Time had touched her very lightly in its flight, and she was as beautiful as her daughter. Indeed, Clarence Stuart pronounced her lovelier. Sorrow had brought such soul and expression into her face, even as "night brings out the stars." When several hours had passed and she heard footsteps in the hall outside her door, the glad tears rose to her eyes and the rapturous beats of her heart were almost painful. "Irene, my love, my darling," she murmured, longingly. The door unclosed and Guy Kenmore entered--alone! Elaine looked past him--her face paled, her eyes filled. "Oh, do not tell me she would not come," she cried. Then she saw the shadow of heavy trouble brooding over his face. "Not dead!" she wailed. He took her hands in his firm, strong clasp. "Be brave," he said. "She is not dead. It is not so bad as that. But last night while we were away at the concert, Irene fled from the villa, and her absence was not discovered until late this morning. She left this note for Mrs. Leslie, and she has sent it to you." He drew the dainty white envelope from his breast and laid it in her hand. CHAPTER XLVII. Elaine took the letter in her trembling hands, and, through a mist of bitter tears, saw the pretty girlish writing of the daughter she had mourned as dead. She wiped the dew from her eyes and read the sorrowful words that had flowed from the girl's burdened heart.