resting upon one hand; the other held the letters.

She went slowly and thoughtfully upstairs back to her own room, and, retiring, was soon sound asleep.

She was aroused from slumber by a shrill shriek which resounded through the silent house. Starting to her feet, Beatrix threw on a loose wrapper, and thrusting her bare feet into a pair of slippers, left the room and flew swiftly down-stairs. She made her way instinctively to Doctor Lynne's room. He was seated in his arm-chair before the fire, just as she had left him, while his wife, whose cry of horror had aroused the house, stood near, pale and terrified. One of the letters which he had received had been destroyed by fire—only a heap of smoke-blackened fragments upon the hearth remained to tell the tale; but one hand clutched the other letter in a convulsive grasp, as he sat there, white, and still, and dead. Death had stolen in like a thief in the night, and he was gone forever.

The letter which that cold, stiff hand clutched tenaciously, was found to contain these words:

"Doctor Lynne,—The time has come for you to know the truth concerning the child of your adoption, Beatrix Dane. The accompanying letter contains a full explanation. When you have read it, you will see that it is best for you to send her to me now. Let her come to New Orleans, to the inclosed address, as soon as possible. You will receive a remittance for all her necessary expenses, by registered mail, in a few days. When that arrives, send Beatrix Dane to me. The time has come when she must learn the hideous secret connected with her birth—when she must face her own future, and enter upon her heritage of woe.

"Bernard Dane."

CHAPTER IV.

A MAD PASSION.

Cold and still in death, Frederick Lynne sat in his big arm-chair, one icy hand clutching the letter which bade Beatrix face an unknown and dreaded future—face it all alone. Mrs. Lynne stood near, crying aloud in terrified accents for help, for succor, her face as white as the dead man's, when Beatrix entered the room. One swift glance, which did not comprehend the situation—for poor Beatrix knew nothing of the horrors of death, and had never faced it before—one swift, terrified glance, and she flew to the dead man's side.

"Papa! oh, papa!" she cried in an agonized voice, "what is the matter, dear? Are you ill? Are you—"

"Hush!" Mrs. Lynne's bony hand came down upon the girl's arm with emphasis. "Be quiet, you baby!" she panted. "Can't you see that he is—is dead?"

The girl fell back as though the heavy hand had struck her a blow; her great dark eyes dilated with horror; the small hands clinched each other spasmodically; her breath came and went in short, panting; gasps. Could it be true? Was this grim death before her? Was the kindly heart—the heart of her only friend—cold and still forever? It could not—could not be!

"Dead?" she repeated, blankly, her lips quivering over the awful word—"dead? Oh, no, Mrs. Lynne! surely you are mistaken! Let us try to do something for him. I will call Serena to stay with you, and I will go for help. I can ride the gentleman's horse—Mr. Kenyon's—it is here, you know. I will go over to town and get Doctor Stone."

"Humph! You can not. The bridge is gone; and, besides it is utterly useless. I have seen death too many times, Beatrix Dane, to be mistaken. I tell you he is dead and has been for hours; he is quite cold. See!"

With a slow, reluctant movement Beatrix ventured to lay her trembling fingers upon the cold, rigid hand of the corpse. She drew back with a low cry of terror.

"Oh! how cold—how cold!" she moaned. "Oh, papa! papa! papa! cold and dead! It is true—it is indeed true. Oh, Mrs. Lynne! what shall we do without him?"

Mrs. Lynne's thin lip curled.

"What will I do, you mean?" she retorted. "It can have no effect upon you. See! that letter in his hand is a message for you. You are to go away at once to your own home, thank goodness!"

The great brown velvety eyes met the cold orbs before her with a stare of astonishment.

"Go home—to—my—own home, Mrs. Lynne?" she repeated, blankly. "Why, I have no home but this!"

"Indeed! And pray, who gave you a right to call this home? Such as it is, it is the only shelter that you have had for sixteen years. You ought to be ready to leave it now. You are nearly seventeen years old, and able to take care of yourself. Ah! there is Serena at last!" as a limp figure made its appearance in the open door—a tall, ungraceful figure in a calico wrapper, and muffled in a huge woolen shawl.

"Mamma"—in a tone of consternation—"what has happened? What is the matter with papa? Is he ill?"

Mrs. Lynne wound her arms around the angular form of her daughter, and burst into tears—the first real emotion which she had ever betrayed before Beatrix.

"He is dead, Serena!" she faltered—"dead and gone! And Heaven only knows what is to become of you and me! Not even sufficient means in the house to defray the funeral expenses; and, of course, with his death, the small pension which he received from his professional brethren of the Medical Club expires also. Oh, dear—oh, dear! it was an unfortunate day when I married Fred Lynne and tied myself down to poverty!"

"Well, well, that was long enough ago for you to forget it now," interposed her dutiful daughter. "Mamma"—putting away her mother's arms from about her neck—"whatever you do, don't be foolish. Have you tried to restore him? He may not be dead, after all."

"He is dead. I have done everything that I possibly could before I called any one. When I found all my efforts useless, I gave up in despair, and I screamed so loudly that it awoke Beatrix, and she came to the room."

"Beatrix! Ah!"—with a swift glance of malice into the girl's white face—"and so she heard you? She is always sneaking around where she is not wanted. Mamma, have you—have you read that letter?" pointing to the crumpled sheet of paper which Mrs. Lynne had with great difficulty succeeded in removing from the cold hand of the dead man.

"Yes. It contains the very best news imaginable. It is a letter from that girl's people sending for her at last."

"Impossible! Why, I did not believe that she had any people. But—there is another letter upon the hearth. See! it is burned. I believe papa destroyed it as soon as he read it, for some purpose of his own. How very exasperating!"

Serena was on her knees now upon the hearth, eagerly but carefully turning over the blackened sheet of paper which had been torn in four pieces and cast upon the fire. But the fire was at its last gasp when the deed was done, and the paper had not burned—only blackened and scorched until the contents of the letter were perfectly undecipherable. Serena examined the written sheet attentively, and her face grew dark with intense disappointment.

"How provoking!" she muttered, savagely. "There was, no doubt, something of importance in that letter. I believe in my heart that the news it contained has killed my father. Yet he has destroyed the letter, and there is nothing left to tell the tale."

She rose to her feet and glanced furtively around. Beatrix had thrown herself upon the faded sofa, and was sobbing softly, her face hid in her hands. Mrs. Lynne was beginning to make some attempt at arranging the poor body—an attempt which must be made alone since they were so isolated from neighbors. No