"I have gained one point at least," she murmured to herself. "And I will gain the rest, I swear it," clenching her jeweled hands tightly. "I love him. How strange that I should grow to care for him when once I fled from him in the hour that would have made me his own. I was mad and blind. I was deluded by my romantic fancy for Clyde. Ugh! how the remembrance of that man's face troubles and haunts me. I see it always as I did that night, upturned in the moonbeams, dead and white. If I had loved him really, the shock must have killed me. But I did not love him--at least not half so well as I love Vane Charteris now. How proud and independent he is. But I love him all the better for that. If he had not come back and brought me that paper I might have been hung, or at least imprisoned for life. I hate to think that I owe it to Reine Langton, whom I never liked. How fortunate for me that she and Uncle Langton died. I have the fortune now, and I am determined that I will yet be the adored wife of Vane Charteris." CHAPTER XXV. "Is the English mail in yet, Mrs. Odell? I do so want my English letter!" Mrs. Odell turns a compassionate look on the pale, wistful face of the girl, into whose white cheeks all the life-giving breezes of Mentone have failed to restore the vanished rose. Reine has been in Italy three weeks now. Thrice she has written to England to her Uncle Langton relating the story of her escape, and begging for news of himself and Vane. No answer has come to these eager appeals, and she is half wild with anxiety. "There is no letter yet, my dear," Mrs. Odell answers, sorrowfully, for she knows of Reine's strange story now. "I will tell you what to do now, Reine. Write to the postmaster there, and ask him for news of your uncle. Perhaps Mr. Langton has gone to another place." "It is not probable," Reine answers, sighing, but she takes her friend's advice, and writes the letter of inquiry. This time the answer comes all too soon. Her own three letters are returned unopened, with the information that Mr. Langton is long since dead! The physician encloses a certificate of death. "He is dead, my dear, kind uncle is dead, Mrs. Odell!" Reine cries, lifting her dark eyes, heavy with grief, to the pale face of her friend. "My poor darling, I feared as much," the lady answers, compassionately. "Now, darling, you belong wholly to me." "You forget my husband," Reine answers, through her tears. And Mrs. Odell, clasping tighter the paper she holds in her hand, speaks no word at first. How can she stab that tender heart yet deeper, already bleeding with the sad news of her uncle's death? "You will be your uncle's heiress, dear," she says to her presently, thinking to check the flowing tide of grief. The girl starts and looks up, bewildered. "I said, you will be your uncle's heiress," Mrs. Odell repeats. And Reine, growing a trifle paler, shakes her head