She appeared that evening in a rose-pink gown with diamonds blazing in her hair and on her breast--the diamonds Gipsy had saved to her at such bitter cost--and at Laurie’s glance of cold surprise, she exclaimed excusingly: “A bride must not go into mourning, you know, dear Laurie. It would seem ill-omened.” She wondered why he started slightly and grew so pale at her words. The truth was that every now and then Laurie, in his perturbation of mind, would forget Lelia’s claim on his name and love, and regard her as his cousin only until one of her pointed reminders would recall him to the hateful truth. He would pale with regret and writhe in disgust every time he remembered that she had a wife’s claim upon him now that nothing could induce her to forego. For even though she had lost the fortune, she had captured Laurie, whom she loved with jealous passion, and whose coldness, so unlike his former tenderness, nearly drove her mad with jealous anger. She had this triumph at least, and she was not going to let him forget it. Several days passed away, but she could see no sign of returning love in her indifferent husband. He remained coldly aloof, avoiding her strictly by night and day, seemingly absorbed in business cares. Still, there came no tidings of Gipsy, until at length he received a note written in a cramped handwriting on coarse paper without a signature: “You will find the body of Gipsy Darke in the old mineral well on the grounds among the thickest shrubberies.” Laurie Willoughby was like a man stunned by a heavy blow as he read, and staggered to a chair. CHAPTER XXXI. THE DEAD ALIVE. He sat there, helplessly, for some time like one dazed, so terrible was the shock of knowing that Gipsy was really dead. Up to this time he had secretly cherished a faint hope that the dark clouds of mystery might clear away and show that she was yet alive. Although his love for her was all in vain, and she could never belong to him now since Lelia had bound him with hated fetters, he could not bear to think of her as dead, all her wondrous beauty faded, her voice of music stilled, her presence vanished from the earth forever. His father came into the library and found him there in the armchair with the paper clenched in his hand. “What is the matter? Are you ill?” he asked, in surprise. “I have just had a great shock! Read this note that came with my mail this morning.” The general was so shocked that he also sat down, trembling. “Can it be true? Her body in the old well, poor girl? Perhaps it is only a hoax, Laurie.” “There is no signature, you see. Some heartless wretch may be amusing himself at our expense!” the young man cried, with a gleam of hope. His father arose, saying: “It will be easy enough to verify, anyhow. Shall I send the men servants to search the well, Laurie?”