She was dead, sweet Gipsy, and she would never know how he loved and adored her, how he would mourn for her to the last moment of his life. Nothing was left but to avenge her death, and he swore to himself that he would never relax his efforts till he brought home the crime to the guilty party. Slowly and with a sinking heart he went up the graveled walk to the broad, Colonial porch, and then the odor of a cigar was wafted through the sultry night air, and a stately, white-haired man rose out of the shadows to greet him. It was his father, old General Willoughby. “I waited up for you,” he said. “Aunt Cyrilla?” “Is still lying in the same comatose condition, resulting from shock. She must have been very fond of her protégée.” “I am sure that she was,” Laurie answered earnestly, and almost added: “She was not the only one who loved that noble girl;” but he checked himself in time. What was the use of proclaiming his feelings now? He would get no sympathy from this stern, proud old man, who was already leading the way to his aunt’s room. “See if you can rouse her from her stupor, Laurie,” he said anxiously, as they stepped lightly over the threshold where the sick woman lay upon her bed, under a light counterpane, her limbs extended stiffly beneath it like one already dead. Laurie shuddered as he made his way to the bed, seeing, vaguely, the forms of several watchers in the room. He took one cold, limp hand from the bed and pressed it warmly in his own, calling tenderly to the invalid lying with closed eyes: “Don’t you know me, dear Aunt Cy? Won’t you speak to Laurie?” There was no reply, no movement of the still and pallid face, not the flutter of an eyelid to show that she heard or understood, and her breathing was so faint it scarcely stirred the white linen over her breast. All the tender love he bore her surged into his breast, and forced a groan from his lips. He had scarcely heeded a white figure in a chair, close by, but as he groaned, it started suddenly forward; it threw two warm white arms about him, it drooped a beautiful golden head against his breast, sobbing: “Oh, Laurie, darling, it is heartrending, is it not? Will she never speak to us again, our dear aunt, who loved us so dearly? But I can do as she bade me, that last night, in her last words to me: ‘Lelia, write to Laurie to-morrow, tell him you were in the wrong, and that he must forgive you!’” CHAPTER XX. NEVER MORE HER LOVER. It was dramatic, touching, this seemingly impetuous, unstudied outburst from a sore heart, in this moment of sorrow and distress. It conveyed sympathy, repentance, and love all in a breath, and for a moment it swayed Laurie to pity and tenderness. She was his cousin, after all, and both were sharing a common sorrow; they must needs sympathize with each other.