a pretty villa just outside Castledene. He had furnished it nicely--white lace curtains were no longer an unattainable luxury; no house in the town looked so clean, so brig

d been called abruptness now became truth and sincerity He was declared to be like Dr. Abernethy--wonderfully clever, though slightly brusque in manner. Patients began to admire him; one or two instances of wonderful cures were noted in his

it. It was pleasant to be able to pay his bills when they became due, to be able to help his poorer neighbors, to be able to afford for himself little luxuries such as he had long been without. The greatest happiness he had now in life was his love for little Madeline. The hold she had taken of him was marvelous from the first moment she held out her baby-hands until the last

like sunshine; her hair had in it threads of gold; her eyes were of the deep blue that one sees in summer. It was

en intoxicated--heard that he was abusive, violent. He went afterward to the cottage, and saw bruises on his wife's delicate arms and hands--dark cruel marks on her face; but by neither word nor look did she ever betray her husband. Watching that silent, heroic life, he became interested in her. More than once he tried to speak to her about her husband--to see if anything could be done to reclaim him. She knew that all efforts were in vain--there was no good in him

o claim her?" she would say to the doctor. "I shall never be able to p

ed that there was a

d Dr. Letsom. "It may be hard for us

her as I do," observ

est suspicion. He had money, she knew; but that was all she knew--

at child," thought the doctor. "She is good, earnest, tender, true,

light of those two lonely lives. In another six months they would have to lose her. Dr. Letsom knew very we

er to Ashwood. He had a little packet of fruit and cak

him, "should you like a drive with me to-morrow?" he asked. "I am going

with the doctor was her

orrow afternoon, Mrs. Dornham," said Dr

e, dressed in her pretty white frock; and as they sat in the

ed him. In the loft was an open trap-door, through which trusses of hay and straw were raised and lowered. No one warned Dr. Letsom about it. The aperture was covered with straw, and he, walking quickly across, fell through

ild sat waiting for him when the s

d!" was the cry fr

ly man, who had been her only friend, dead! Then perhaps the

d rob her of the child. Quick as thought, she seized the box--which always stood on a bracket in the drawing-room--and hid it under her shawl. To the end of her life she was puzzled as to w

hild in her arms, lest she should see the dead face, Margaret Dornham hurri

ess; but Stephen Letsom had been faithful to his promise--he had kept the secret. There was nothing that could give the least clew. There were no letters, no memoranda; and, after a

ree years had elapsed since Lady Charlewood had died; and t