creeping.

"'Man proposes,' my dear! Well, I am 'disposed of' for a time. It is only one night sooner, and, after all, what matter? Will you decide for me at once, Maidie? Nay, I see you hesitate still, and time just now is precious. Think till to-night, then; think of the lonely days here without me; think of me, alone in the big world, wishing and longing for you. I could not even write you in safety. Think fast, little woman; and when evening comes, meet me here with your answer. If it must be separation for a time, dear, tell me when I shall come back for you."

The girl drew a breath of relief. He would come back—that would be better. But seeing his anxiety to be gone, she only said: "Very well, Lucian, I will be here."

"Then, good-by till evening."

A swift kiss, and a strong hand clasp, and he strode away.

Trampling down the wayside daisies and tender Spring grasses; insensible to the beauties of earth and sky; smiling still that same queer, meaning smile, he took the path leading back to the village. Reaching the site, where the woody path terminated in the highway, he turned. Yes, she was looking after him; she would be, he knew. He kissed his hand, lifted his hat with a courtly gesture, and passed out of her sight.

"Gad!" he ejaculated, half aloud, "she is a little beauty; and half inclined to rebel, too. She won't go with me to-night, I think; but a few weeks of this solitude without me, and my Lady Bird will capitulate. The old Turk, her step-father, won't raise much of a hue and cry at her flight, I fancy. Wonder what is the secret of his antipathy to Miss Payne."

He paced on, wrinkling his brow in thought a moment, and then whistling softly as his fancies shaped themselves to his liking. Suddenly he stopped, turned, and looked sharply about him.

"I'll do it!" he exclaimed. "Strange if I can't extract from a broken down old woman any items of family history that might serve my purpose. I'll call on the nurse—what's her name—to-night."

He glanced across the meadow to where stood the cottage of Nurse Hagar, and, as if satisfied with himself and his brilliant last idea, resumed his walk. Presently his pace slackened again, and he looked at the crumpled paper which he still retained in his hand, saying:

"It's queer what sent Cora to the city for this flying visit. I must keep my Madeline out of her way. If they should meet—whew!"

Evidently, direful things might ensue from a meeting between Madeline Payne and this unknown Cora, for after a prolonged whistle, a brief moment of silence, and then a short laugh, Davlin said:

"I should wear a wig, at least," and he laughed again. "I wonder, by Jove! I wonder if old Arthur's money bags are heavy enough to make a card for Cora. Well, I'll find that out, too."

CHAPTER II.

THE OLD TREE'S REVELATIONS.

Meanwhile, strange feelings filled the heart, and troublesome thoughts the head, of Madeline Payne.

She looked about her sorrowfully. The leafy wood seemed one of her oldest, truest friends. Since her mother's death, she had lived, save for the faithful regard of old Hagar, an unloved life. In the only home she knew, she felt herself an object of dislike, and met only cold neglect, or rude repulsion. So she had made a friend of the shady wood, and welcomed back the birds, in early Springtime, with joyful anticipation of Summer rest under green branches, lulled and soothed by their songs.

Wandering here, the acquaintance between herself and Lucian Davlin had begun. Here six long, bright weeks of the Springtime had passed, each day finding them lingering longer among the leafy shadows, and drawing closer about them both the cords of a destiny sad for one, fatal for each.

Standing with hands clasped loosely before her, eyes down dropped, and foot tapping the mossy turf, Madeline presented a picture of youth and loveliness such as is rarely seen even in a beauty-abounding land. A form of medium height which would, in later years, develop much of stately grace; a complexion of lily-like fairness; and eyes as deep and brown, as tender and childlike, as if their owner were gazing, ever and always, as infants gaze who see only great, grand wonders, and never a woe or fear.

With a wee, small mouth, matching the eyes in expression, the face was one to strike a casual observer as lovely—as childishly sweet, perhaps. Yet there was something more than childishness in the broad brow, and firm chin. The little white hands were shapely and strong, and the dainty feet pressed down the daisies softly yet firmly, with quiet but steady movement.

Many a man has been mistaken in baby mouth, and sweetly-smiling eyes. And whoso should mistake Madeline Payne, in the time to come, for "just a child and nothing more," would reckon unwisely, and mayhap learn this truth too late.

Madeline sat down upon a fallen tree, where she had so often talked with her lover. She looked up into the wide spreading branches overhead. There was the crooked bough where she had, often and often, in past days, sought refuge when troubled by her father's harshness, or haunted by dreams of the mother she had hardly known. It looked cool and inviting, as if she could think to better purpose shrouded by the whispering leaves. She stepped upon the fallen trunk, and springing upward, caught a bending limb, and was soon seated cosily aloft, smiling at the thought of what Lucian would say could he see her there. Long she pondered, silent, motionless. Finally, stirring herself and shaking lightly an overhanging friendly branch she exclaimed:

"That will be best! I'll stay here for the present. I'll tell step-papa that I love Lucian, and will never marry his friend, Amos Adams, the old fright! I'll try and be very calm, and as dutiful as maybe. Then, if he turns me out, very well. If he shuts me up—" Her eyes flashed and she laughed; but there was little of mirth in the laughter—"Why, then, I would lead him a life, I think! Yes, I'll bid Lucian good-by, for a little while, and I'll try and not miss him too much, for—Oh!"

She had been very busy with her own half-spoken thoughts, else she must have sooner discovered their approach, for now they were almost underneath her, and they were no less personages than her step-father, John Arthur, and her would-be suitor, Amos Adams.

Madeline was about to make known her presence, but her ear caught the fragment of a sentence in which her name held prominent place. Acting upon impulse, she remained a silent, unsuspected listener.

And so began in her heart and life that drama of pain and passion, sin and mystery, that should close round, and harden and blight, the darkening future of Madeline Payne.

A more marked contrast than the two men presented could scarcely be imagined.

"Madeline presented a picture of youth and loveliness."—page 17.

John Arthur might have been, evidently had been, a handsome man, years ago. But it did not seem possible that, even in his palmiest days, Amos Adams could have been called anything save a fright. He was much below the medium height. His head was sunken between his shoulders, and thrust forward, and each feature of his ugly face seemed at war with every other; while the glance of his