Meg, the fortune-teller, remained where he had left her several moments watching him with a strange, catlike intentness. Now and then she would throw a cautious glance around her, but there was no one in sight--no one but the young man yonder with the diamond gleaming on his hand, and his pockets full of gold--yes, gold, for the last piece he had thrown her was yellow and shining. A terrible cupidity was aroused in the old crone's breast. As for Dorian Mountcastle; in his careless or cynical self-absorption he had already forgotten the woman and her wild predictions--a fatal forgetfulness. For, as Meg crouched there, on the shining sands, her lean claw slipped inside the long black cloak she wore, and clutched the hilt of a sharp knife she carried in her breast. A low grating chuckle escaped her lips--the laugh of a fiend--and she began to advance upon her unconscious prey. With his back to her, and his hands in his pockets, he was watching the sea, and softly whistling a melancholy strain from a favorite opera. Meg crept close, unheard, unseen, threw out a cautious foot, tripped him, and he fell backward on the wet sands, ere he could extricate his hands from his pockets. That instant she sprang upon her helpless victim. The murderous knife glittered in the moonlight, then descending, sheathed itself deep in his breast. Dorian Mountcastle quivered all over, like one in the agonies of a violent death, then lay quiet, at the mercy of the murderess. CHAPTER VII. FORGOT SHE WAS A WIFE. And so Dorian Mountcastle, saved from death by Nita's brave efforts, lay ill beneath the roof of Gray Gables--the house of all others that the murderous old sibyl had warned him to avoid. And very pale he looked that morning when the housekeeper entered, bearing a fancy basket, heaped high with dew-wet roses of all colors, whose fragrance filled the air of the sick-room with the perfumed breath of rosy June. "From Miss Farnham, with her best wishes for your recovery," she said graciously. She saw his eyes light up with eager pleasure as he placed the flowers close to his pillow, and inhaled their spicy fragrance. "My mistress gathered them for you herself," continued Mrs. Hill, and he looked at her in surprise. "Impossible! Why, I was told that she was too ill to leave her bed for weeks!" he exclaimed. Mrs. Hill tossed her head with a knowing air, and answered: "Them that told you that, Mr. Mountcastle, wished it might be the case, no doubt, but Miss Farnham is up and dressed, and took breakfast with the family this morning." "Happy, happy news!" murmured the young man, gladly. "She is better, thank Heaven! Oh, Mrs. Hill, will she be kind enough to come to me and let me thank her for so nobly saving my life?"