The beautiful woman in the white dress with the crimson roses fastened against her round white throat rose and went hastily forward. There was a look of pain and shame on the fair face. "Do not call me by that name. It never was mine. It has only been the mask beneath which I hoped to hide my identity," cried Laurel. "I am ashamed and penitent now. Call me, Laurel, mother, and say that you forgive me." "Laurel, I am so glad!" cried Mrs. Le Roy, throwing her arms about her neck, and then with the charming inconsistency of woman she wept. She had forgotten the child in her joy at the restoration of Laurel, but suddenly a little hand stole into hers, and a half-expostulating voice said: "Grandmamma!" She turned and caught the beautiful boy to her heart, half-smothering him in her fond caresses. "My precious little grandchild," she cried; and Laurence asked her _naïvely_: "If you are glad that we have come home, mamma and me, why do you cry?" "You must not ask questions, my little lad," said Mr. Ford, coming forward and greeting his hostess, and thinking to himself that she had suddenly grown beautiful in the radiance of the joy-light that beamed upon her face. He asked the question that Laurel was too timid to syllable upon her lips. "How is Mr. Le Roy?" "He has had a relapse--he is quite unwell to-day," Mrs. Le Roy said, tremulously. "He has been very ill since we brought him from the seashore. He makes no effort to recover. He does not seem to care to live." She looked at Laurel as she spoke. "It is all your fault, dear!" she said, gently. "Life has never been the same since you were lost to him. Only this morning the physician told me that without some object in life, something more to live for than he has now, my son would never get well." Laurel's face was very pale. She drew her arm tightly around her son as he stood by her side. "May I--see him?" she asked, in a faint, trembling voice, without lifting her eyes. "He is in his own room, dear. Go to him as soon as you please," Mrs. Le Roy answered, gladly. Laurel did not wait for another word. They saw that she was very pale, that she trembled very much, and their hearts went out to her in silent sympathy for her suffering. She rose, took her little son by the hand, and silently left the room. CHAPTER LXVIII. St. Leon Le Roy lay among the lace-fringed pillows of his luxurious bed that morning alone and lonely. It was a beautiful room where he lay, but the invalid took no pleasure in it. It was large and lofty, with a lovely painted ceiling, and the walls were hung in beautiful draperies of rose-hued silk and snowy lace. The furniture and carpet were upholstered in pink velvet, the carpet had a pattern of roses upon it, the vases on the marble mantel were filled with exquisite flowers. St. Leon had been surrounded by beautiful things all his life. They did not add to his pleasures nor detract from his pain.