"St. Leon, you are but feigning ignorance of my meaning," she said, wistfully. "You understand me." "Upon my honor, no," he said. "Explain yourself." "You should marry." A dark-red flush crept under his olive skin. His slender, straight black brows met in a frown over the proud dark eyes. "I thought we had dropped that subject ages ago," he said, frigidly. "Forgive me," pleadingly. "I cannot help but revive it again. St. Leon, when you quoted that epicurean motto, 'eat, drink, and be merry,' you forgot that latter clause, 'for to-morrow we _die_.'" He shrugged his broad shoulders impatiently. "Well?" he said. "'For to-morrow we _die_,'" she repeated. "And oh, St. Leon, there is no heir to Eden!" "_Quelle importe?_" lifting his dark brows with a slight gesture of indifference. "Oh, my son, do not treat it with indifference," she cried. "You are the last Le Roy of your race. The fine old name will die with you, the wealth of the Le Roys will pass to strangers, unless you marry and leave an heir. I am proud. I cannot bear to have it thus. Oh, St. Leon, choose yourself a wife and me a daughter from among the fair dames of your own land." Her handsome, haughty old face was transformed with emotion, her dark eyes dim with tears. He turned from the sight of it and looked from the window again, but the slim white figure no longer gleamed among the green trees and the bright _parterres_ of flowers. It had strayed out of sight. "Where shall I find you a daughter worthy of your love, my lady mother?" he said, lightly, yet with some intangible emotion beneath his tone. She hesitated, and her glance, too, wandered from the window and came back disappointed. "St. Leon, what do you think of Beatrix Gordon?" she asked, wistfully. The dark eyes flashed. "For shame, mother! Would I steal another man's betrothed?" he said. * * * * * Meanwhile, Laurel Vane had strayed carelessly on to the gates of Eden, the light song still lingering on her lips, the light of the day reflected in her eyes and on her face. She was learning to be happy, this beautiful girl over whose unconscious head hung the shadow of long years of sorrow. She leaned her arm on the rustic gate and looked wonderingly, as she often did, across the dusty carriage-road at the beautiful river. "Should I ever be coward enough to throw myself into its dark depths, and 'so end all'?" she asked herself, with sudden gravity. A sudden step, the dark figure of a man looming before her, made her lift her wide, dark eyes. A cry of mingled horror, loathing, and fear burst from her lips. "Ross Powell!" CHAPTER XI. If Laurel Vane was thunderstruck at the unexpected sight of the villain who had so deeply insulted her helpless innocence in New York, Ross Powell on the other hand was delighted. His bold eyes gleamed with evil joy, his thin lips curled in a mocking smile.