7]"/> an engine as the down express—having halted as usual at the station—the brief pause which was considered long enough for a dead-and-alive place like Chester—dashed madly on its way once more. Doctor Lynne's eyes sought the silent, recumbent form of the woman, and something in her attitude and the strange and inexplicable silence that she maintained struck to his heart with an uneasy sensation.

"Madame," he repeated, venturing to lay his hand upon her shoulder, "you are ill—suffering. Tell me, where is the pain?"

No answer. Something in that awful silence made his heart grow faint and cold. He lifted his hand and swiftly, reverently removed the veil from the woman's face. With a cry of horror he recoiled from the sight. The woman was dead—dead and cold, and had been for hours!

He rushed to the door, and opening it glared wildly out into the night and darkness. There was no sign of any living creature. Doctor Lynne closed the door once more and went back to the silent figure upon the sofa. The face before him was very beautiful—a woman of some five-and-twenty years. The body was attired in handsome garments, and one hand—a beautiful white hand, with a plain gold ring upon the third finger—grasped, even in death, a tiny vial. The vial was empty, but it bore the hideous skull and crossbones, together with the significant legend: "Laudanum—poison."

Clasped in the death-cold arms lay the child, a lovely little girl; while pinned to its dainty white slip was a folded paper addressed to "Doctor Frederick Lynne." Bewildered at the strange occurrences, the physician hurriedly opened the folded paper and read these words:

"Doctor Frederick Lynne,—You have wished many a time for wealth; the chance to acquire a competence is now in your grasp. Keep this child and rear it as your own, and every year a sum of money sufficient for her support and that of your entire family shall be forwarded to you, on condition that you make no effort to discover the child's parents or antecedents. Should you attempt such a discovery the remittance will cease. But remember this, she is of good family, well-born, and legitimate. You may call her Beatrix Dane."

Accompanying the letter was a crisp one thousand-dollar bill. This was all, but surely it was enough to make the worthy physician stare in surprise.

Inquiry the next morning elicited the information that a strange man had suddenly appeared at the station the night previous and boarded the down express. The carriage had disappeared as mysteriously as it had come, no one knew whither. The whole affair was shrouded in mystery.

The coroner's inquest resulted in the verdict of "Death from laudanum, administered by some person unknown." The body was buried away in the village grave-yard, and Doctor Lynne took the infant to his humble home. It was received unwillingly enough by Mrs. Lynne—a hard-featured, high-tempered woman, who ruled her husband and household with a rod of iron; but for the sake of the money she consented reluctantly to receive the child. And so Beatrix Dane grew up to womanhood; but before she reached her seventeenth year the remittances ceased, and the black shadow of poverty brooded over the cheerless home of the Lynnes. "Troubles never come singly." So just at this juncture Doctor Lynne was stricken with partial paralysis of the limbs, which would render him an invalid for life. All the future looked gloomy and threatening, and the gaunt wolf hovered at the door of the Lynnes' humble home.

CHAPTER II.

HER FAIRY PRINCE.

"Any letters, Mr. Grey?"

The voice was low and eager. The girl to whom the voice belonged paused before the dingy counter of the country store and post-office combined, and stood patiently waiting. The postmaster, a rosy-faced old gentleman, with a superabundance of bald head, glanced over the meager assortment of epistolary communications in the little lettered boxes before him, and shook his head slowly.

"No! Oh—yes, to be sure! Wait a moment, if you please, Miss Beatrix," he corrected himself, pouncing upon a large white envelope, which he placed upon the counter before her with an air of satisfaction. "Here you are! I nigh overlooked it. It's for your pa—see—'Doctor Frederick Lynne, Chester, Mass.,' and postmarked New Orleans. Now, who kin it be from? Your pa got any relative down South? No,"—(as the girl shook her head decidedly)—"I thought not. I've knowed Doctor Lynne these one-and-twenty years, and I never heerd him talk o' no relatives down South. How's your ma, Miss Beatrix?"

The girl's dark eyes flashed.

"My mother?" she repeated, with a little tinge of contempt in her sweet voice. "You mean Mrs. Lynne? You will please remember, Mr. Grey, that although I call Doctor Lynne father, his wife is not my mother."

"Eh? What? Waal, I declar'! But still, arter all, you're right. You're putty nigh always right, Miss Trix. Nothin' more today?" he added, anxiously, as having slipped the letter into her pocket, the girl was about to move away.

"No. Yes, there is. You may cut me off fifteen yards of that garnet merino, if you please, Mr. Grey. Papa said that I might, and—"

"Yes, yes, Miss Beatrix; it's all right. And mercy knows you need a new dress! Think you'll be able to carry such a big bundle all the way home? Yes? Waal, young folks orter be strong, and you always was able to take keer o' yourself. So, Miss Beatrix"—measuring off the soft folds of merino with deft fingers—"you don't 'pear to like Mrs. Lynne? Waal, 'tain't in natur' for a gal to keer as much for a 'dopted mother as she would for her own. Your mother—no one here knows who she was, Miss Trix; but when I looked upon her dead face, I declar' I thought I was a-lookin' at the face o' an angel."

The girl's dark eyes filled with tears, but she choked them bravely back.

"We will not speak of her now, if you please, Mr. Grey," she suggested. "And, really, I must make haste home, for it is getting late."

Mr. Grey took off his huge steel-bowed spectacles and rubbed them vigorously upon his sleeve.

"To be sure. The days is gettin' shorter, for a fact. November is a dreary month hereabouts; and, upon my word, Miss Trix, I really believe it's goin' to snow. And you have two good miles to walk."

"Yes, sir; I know. I would have come earlier, but Mrs. Lynne objected, and of course I dared not disobey. Then papa glanced up from his books—since his affliction all he can do is to read and write, you know—he glanced up from his books long enough to see that I was really anxious to go, and then he happened to remember that we had not heard from the post-office in three days—three whole days—and so he gave me permission. But I must make haste, for it is five o'clock, and it will be dark before six."

"To be sure—to be sure, Miss Beatrix. Good-night, my dear. I hope you'll reach home all right."

"Thank you. Nothing will harm me, I am sure. Good-night."

The door of the weather-beaten old building opened and closed behind her, and the girl stood alone under the gray of the November sky—a slight, slim figure in a dowdyish brown serge gown, and a hat of last year's fashion—a graceful little figure with a face of rare beauty. Pale, colorless complexion, with straight, delicate features, and large, velvety dark eyes, and a mass of gold-brown hair, Beatrix Dane was well worth looking at as she stood there; for even her common—not to say shabby—attire did not conceal the exquisite grace and beauty of her face and form. For a moment she stood