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3% "it/t TTea “Mia FYR _ "My lady," criea"the man, in great trouble, " would rather be killed " than pain you." 4 "Speak," she said in a faint voice; "I must know. Do not be afraid. ' Where did you see Sir Karl last?" "At the end of the wood, my lady. at the white gate. I had put up the ponies, and was going, where I do go sometimes to smoke my pipe, to the ‘lodge. At the white gate I saw my master standing talking to a lady. I could not help seeing that her hands were clasped around his arm, as though she was begging of him to do something, He was talking very ear- nestly to her. After a time she smil- ed and looked pleased; then they walked' away together." In spite of the details she had heard, of the' gossip to which she had been an unwillingllstener, ot the cruel rFtmtspaper' reports, Dolores still enter- tained a, glimmering hope that there might be some mistake. But, as day after day passed and no man came of Sir Karl, that hope trfew less and eventually died out. _ "I could almost pray that she might die in her unconsciousness," said the Squire,.with a. heavy sigh. "Great Heaven, how little did I ever think that such a fate would over- take my child?” "Do you really believe that Sir Karl has been' foolish and wicked enough to elope with that wretched _ girl?” asked Lord Rhysworth. “Knowing what we do, I see little reason' to doubt it," answered the Squire. "I would give my life to find that he was innocent, to see him back the upright, honorable man I have hitherto believed him to be. I cannot help thinking him guilty. There is no doubt the girl loved him; and no one knows what a woman can per- suade even the most sensible men to do." ", 'r/Tito Squire took up his abode at :Scarsdale; it was quite impossible to leave Dolores. The house, too, was besieged by visitors, old friends and new friends, some to console, some to gratify their curiosity. The Squire {received them with great dignity; he would spare Dolores in every way that lay in his power. It was almost a relief to them when at length .insensibility deprived her for a time of all knowledge ot the trouble which had fallen upon her. "And the children!" she cried aloud; "Do, you think that even it Karl could leave me, he would leave them? Ah, never, papa! There is some treachery, some mistake.' He has not left me, my darling, my husband, my love.' Oh, come back to me, Karl, or I shall die!" t 'Tola told me to remember that he; heart was always aching," she said to herself. "Can it have ached Worse than mine?" But "Dolores, who lay seriously ill, still retained her faith in her hus- band. 3, '_,,Th9y tried to keep “he newspapers "from Dolores, but she ins‘ste’l on see- mg tnem; and every l-ne she read but added to the poignancy of her grief.) “I shalt never believe it," she said, “until I hear it from his own lips or from hers/l _ In 'the maiisttme the news had Spread that thy barortet had disap- pared. The Wli'oze rsighborho r'l wan in a commotion about it. Nu one would credit the story. It seemed ut- torly impossible that Sir Karl, whose marriage. had ban a perfect low-- ttiatrh, who had been laughed at for his adoration of the mo children, should have left them deliberately. "I will not believe it," she cried - "not from any evidence, not from any person but himself or her! Why should he run away with her? He never loved her; he loved me." And then she recolleeted Lola's threat - f'When he has grown tired of you and your washed-out, faded kind ot beauty, his heart will turn to me, and then I shall take my revenge." The Squire, watching her as she obeyed, thought that it would have been easier to see her die than to Witness such unutterable anguish creep into her face. "I have read it, Dolores," he said; "and, my dear, I am afraid the sim- ple but shameful truth is, that Lola de Ferras has persuaded your hi1s- band to go away with her. Read the letter yourself." » He was not absent long; and he returned with the letter in his hand. He had found it just as Sir Karl had thrust it into the pocket ot his coat. He held it out to his daughter. "I have not the strength to walk rrp- stairs," she replied; and her pallid face showed how true the words were. Squire "Don't ask me, sir," he said, "to mistress my lady, I cannot speak be- fore her." Like every other servant in the house, he almost worshipped his beautiful, gentle mistress, who never spoke sharply, and who was so unexacting. "I cannot distress my lady," he said again; but the Squire answered him sternly: "It wa-s madame's daughter, the young Frene,h lady who lived at Beau- lieu." -srihit" will do; you may go," said the Squire; and the three were left alone again. _ “I am afraid," he said gravely, Ythat this is a bad case. I hate to sit in judgment upon any man, much less a man Whom I loved so well as Karl. Dolores, your best plan will be to go to your husband's room, and see if there is any trace of that letter." _ " Yo u are Rhysworth. "Quite sure, my lord. I have often driven her home from Deeping Hurst to Beaulieu. I was groom there, my lord, before I came here." "Who was the lady, James?" ask- ed the Squire. - "We have inquired at the station," observed Lord Rhysworth, "but nei- ther Sir Karl nor the lady was seen there." "In what direction?" asked the Squire. -“Toward the Deeping road; and I thought that perhaps the master was taking the lady to the station." "You must speak the truth. Where did you see Sir Karl last?" here," he said to the servant who an- swered the summons. In a few minutes the groom stood before them. He looked pale and agi- tated. PAGE SIX V“Then I will go for you," said the Continued from last week quite sure?" said Lord --hills that were covered with vines and olives, and groves of orange and lemon trees, round the stems of which scarlet Creepers clung in rich abun- dance, and masses of passion flowers of every hue, from deepest crimson to creamiest white. Red ”poppies peeped from among the grass, lilies grew' in Wild luxuriance, and the air was filled with a delicious perfume. The groundsof the villa sloped down to the river. There was no wall or railing at the brink, and some per- sons said it was not safe; but the mis- tress of the house had ah artist's soul, and loved to see the water lave the bank. The trees by the river ech- oed with the liquid notes of night- ingales, and birds of sweetest song haunted the orange groves. A long, sheltered walk led from the Villa to the edge of the river, the trelliswork of which was covered with an endr- mous vine, which branched out on all sides, and just now was laden with hundreds of bunches of rich, dark, purple grapes. Oddly enough, not a rose was to be found in the gardens, neither white nor red. The mistress of the place was English, and had a strong repugnance to the odor ot POS- es. If the surroundings of the house were attractive the interior was a marvel of comfort and luxury. The rooms were large and lofty, the win- dows were framed in passion flowers. The ceilings were painted, and the walls, either panelled or narmonious- Ly tinted. The furniture was English. There were Chippendale chairs and tables, superb marquetry work and tine, old china. Italian art and English ideas of taste and comfort combined could scarcely fail to have a pleasing effect, On this fair evening'a lady stepped trom the open drawing room window, and slowly‘and thqughtfully warmed her way through the gardens skirting the avenue of beech and chestnut trees. She passed down the long, Vine-shaded path till she reached a Spot where the river rippled over the grass, which was studded with violets. The city of Florence lay smiling in the golden light of the setting sun. Never perhaps had the home of the poets looked more lovely. The sun- beams fell upon its domes and pal- aces, upon its magnificent churches and bridges, upon its countless works of art. On the banks of the Arno not far from the city, stood a house known as the Villa Baira, surround- ed by tall trees and brilliant flowers. No spot could be more favored. On one side of the villa rose purple hills She looked slowly up and down the Arne, flushing red beneath the last kiss of the syn. Time had dealt trent- ly with, Dolores. Sixteen years had passed Since her father had died so suddenlw leaving her alone in the wide world. It had been a terrible shock to her. For many weeks they When they went to his assistance they found that the Squire was dead ---dead, with the letter open in his hands. Was it retribution? Had it brought back to his memory some long-past sorrow of his own? Who should tell? Would time ever unfold the mystery? The name came from his lips with a long drawn sigh as his head fell upon his breast-the bitter sigh with which he had, during the long ill- ness of many years before,, constantly reiterated the name while his unsus- pecting Wife knelt by his side and wondered who «Dolores was. Wheth- er he now referred to his daughter or not, who could say? “I Wish I were younger; Lola's ven- geance should be short lived," said the Squire. “I wonder if it be retribution? Is this the penalty? I wonder --Oh, Heaven.' Oh, Dolores, Dolores!” "Dolores," cried the Squire, "my darling, you have the children, you have mel" But she only walled: "Oh, papa, if I might but diet. Do you think that I can ever face life or the world again? Oh, dearest and best, let me diet. Papa," she Whis- pered, when she hail grown calmer, "you may show Lord Rhysworth the letter, but no one else. He ought to know the truth." "There can be no mistake; this is proof conclusive," she replied. "I wish," she continued sadly, "that he had written to me, even had it been only to say good-by." “It appears to me," said the Squire gravely, "that you are entitled to a divorce.." "No," she replied, with a shudder, "there is no need ot a divorce. He is dead to me, he whom I loved so well; but I shall be true to him. My last faint hope is dead, papa, quite dead." She lay back on the pillow, and a deathly pallor stole over her face. "I told you," the letter began, "that I should have my revenge-and have had it. You won my lover from me, and I swore to you the time would come when you should suffer as you had made me suffer. I have kept my vow; my revenge is complete, great as was the injury I received. I knew the time would come when Sir Karl would tire of you. Women ot your type, Dolores, but seldom retain love. The time for which I waited has arrived. You have looked your last on the man you stole from me. It is my revenge, Dolores. What do you think of it?" “He is with her then; there is no mistake." Lady Allanmore’s face grew death- ly pale, and her lips trembled as she gave the letter back to the Squire. "Let us keep that, papa," she said slowly, "with the other. They may be useful some day." it!" He sat by her side while she op- ened it, and all the light faded from her eyes as they traced the cruel words. One morning, when the Squire op- ened the letter bag, he found it con- tained just such another thin, square envelope as the one which Sir Karl had reeeived on that fatal day when heu1isappeared. On this occasion the letter was addressed to Lady Allan- more. If he had followed his first impulse, he would have burned it on the spot, but he reflected that it might have some reference to the mat- ter which was engrossing all their thoughts; so he took it up to Dolores, whose face grew paler as she reC0g- nized the handwriting. "This is from Lola!” she cried. "Oh, papa, come to me while I read CHAPTER XXII LtgitiiEigr.ggiiitXWi. ©L5iiItiiTiii.r..iigLiTgg.tiitgg.it.rai.23. But she had never grown accustom- ed to her pain. It was as keen now as of old. If she woke in the mid- dle of the night, her first thought was always th1s---why had Karl left her whom he loved for one whom he had not loved'? She never grew reconciled to the loss-she never quite under- stood it. One other thing was a my- stery to her. Sir Karl had never drawn any money; and she wondered from what source he derived his in- come, and decided in her own mind that it was merely a strong sense of justice on his part that had caused him to leave his money untouched So to the Villa Baira, as to a haven of rest, she came, with her two little children and faithful, old servant, John Frodsham; and there tor sixteen years she lived. Dolores was living in Paris when she heard that the Villa Baira was to let, and it occurred to her that Florence would be a very suitable place of residence for her. There she would have every opportunity of educating her daughters, and at the same time would find a haven ot rest and the happiness to be derived from a lovely climate and beautiful scen- ery. _ Dolores had not intended to have one familiar face near her which could recall the unhappy past; but she could not refuse Frodsham, so she took him with her. She bade no tare- wells; she was tired of condolences, tired ot sympathy, tired even of kind- ness. She longed to be away. She bore the brand-so shameful to all good and pure women-of a deserted wife, and she loathed it; she shrank from the sympathetic looks she saw on the kindl5rfaces of old friends. If they would but leave her alone, [let her suffer in silence, let her bear her own griefs undisturbed! She longed with an unutterable longing to be free, to go where no one ’knew her, to take her children where their sweet lips should never learn even to pro- nounce the names that had been of such evil omen to her. . ' wwopl, milsllbll; they were Ioroidden mgge iggz’iitggagh hadhbeen all thel under the.stverest. penalties ever to fo o A, t Tom t e fact that allow any introductions to the latter, rs me nine prev10us1y he had seem- no matter what their rank or posi- gd ”llltsuChl excellent health. His tion. aug er a ways believed that h . . shock of finding her husband guitlt: As the golden haired lady with the ot a great wickedness had killed him, sweet sad face stood lookmg over the although she also wondered if it Arno, the waves of.wh1ch were slowly brought back to his memory some brimming over until they reached her long-past sorrow of his own. From feet, she thought of . all those long that day, now sixteen years ago, Do- years, and wondered if her peaceful lores became an altered woman. She rest from sorrow and shame'must, accepted the fact that her husband on account ot her dear children, had deserted her for Lola. There come to an end. They would not al- Was no other solution of the mystery; ways be content here. no news came from him. He was,E Everything was so peaceful and ot course, ashamed to write; he could calm. The crimson light was lying have nothing to say to his deserted now on the river. The same thought wife. A certain hardness and cold- recurred to her which, like a poison- ness that had been foreign to Lady ous snake, had stung her every hour Allanmore’s nature gradually crept: of hervléfe since her husand had left into it, Her father was dead, and she her---" hat is he doing now? Is he made up her mind to go away trom standing by Lola's side watching with the place where she had suffered the her some scene as fair as this ?" most cruel indignity that could fall to f She turned from the river with a. a woman's lot. Everyone in the I cry of pain on her lips. She felt more neighborhood ot Scarsdale knew that l lonely than usual this evening, tor her she had loved Sir: 1Carl--every one ; children had asked tor a holiday, and knew that he had deserted her, and [ with agood-natured Neapolitan Coun.. for whom. She would go where none) tess for their escort, had gone to see ot her friends would be able to find 1 the famous Pitti palace. Dolores had her. She would leave Scarsdale, new; wished the, old butler to accompany er to relenter it. Sir Karl would come I them-he was in her eyes a bodyguard back when he was tired wandering. _ in himself; but her daughters had She would not touch one farthing ofl, laughed so merrily, and the countess his income-she was rich enough 1 had seemed so amused that she had without chut-and, furthermore, She, been compelled to abandon the idea. would renounce his name. She would Frodsham was always on the alert drop her title, and call herself Mrs. I when there were any English about, Cliefden, and Dolores knew that. She was be- _ Dolores had not intended to have’ ginning to. think that the children one familiar face near her which were rather late, when she heard the could recall the unhappy past; but! carriage stop. . had feared tor her reason as well as for her life. Lady Fielden had come to the rescue; she had gone over to Scarsdale,. and, as it were. taken pos- session ot it. She had sent the two little Children, Kathleen and Ger- trude, to her own nursery, and attend- ed to Dolores with her own kind, mo- therly hands. THE TIMES & GUIDE, WESTON, \VEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 14, 1917 "She had to drive off at onve; a message came to her at the palace. She left every possible apology and compliment for you, mamma. She has been very kind to us, and we have had a, happy day. But, oh! mamma, how am I to tell you what has hap'- pened? Kathleen says you will be dreadfully angry. I feel. that, too, "I am sure, my darlings, that you have done no wrong. But where is the Countess ?" Ah, what a difference those sweet, fresh, young voices made! She heard them in the distance, and her heart beat at the sound. "My darlings!” she said to herself. Presently Gertrude cried: "Frodsham, where is mamma?" "I saw her by the river, Miss Gertrude, not three minutes ago." "Oh, Kathleen, there she is, under the vines! I can see the gleam of her golden hair. Come, Kathleen, quick- lyl.” "She will be so very angry, Ger- trude, and we have never seriously displeased her before-never." "Yes, I am afraid she will be vex- ed. The best way will be to tell her the truth at once. We have done wrong; but how could We help it? I almost dropped when that dear old lady caught hold of me. Why, Kath- leen, it ‘is quite an adventure! Come and let us tell-our mother all about it." "Darling mamma,” she said, "do not kiss us until you have heard what we have done." Dolores was somewhat startled, and her face paled a little, but she answer- ed quietly: But the elder sister drew back, as though reluctant,. which was some- thing unusual. They hastened to the vine walk. Dolore's fair face brightened as she saw them, and the sadness died out of her eyes. Gertrude went up to her. for his wife ’and, child. Then her heart rebelled against the notion that he was living on Lola’s money. It was so unlike the brave, generous, manly husband who had been her hero. As the golden haired lady with the sweet sad face stood looking over the Arno, the waves of which were slowly brimming over until they reached her feet, she thought of all those long years, and wondered if her peaceful rest from sorrow and shame must, on account of her dear children, come to an end. They would not al- ways be content here. Everything was so peaceful and calm. The crimson light was lying now on the river. The same thought recurred to her which, like a poison- ous snake, had stung her every hour of her life since her husand had left her---'Nrhat is he doing now? Is he standing by Lola's side watching with her some scene as fair as this?" Kathleen was over twenty now, and Gertrude a beautiful Iblooming girl of seventeen. They had not suf- fered by their mother's voluntary ex- ile. They had received an excellent education; masters came every day from Florence to instruct them. They could not fail to imbibe every pure, high" and holy principle from Dolores; and from hetCthey inherited also that high-bred grace of manner and refinement of taste that made her one of the most charming of women. They moved in the highest society. Dolores made but one stipulation. They might make the acquaintance of Italians, Austrians, Spaniards-- people of every and any nationality except English; they were forbidden under the severest penalties ever to allow any introductions to the latter, no matter what their rank or posi- tion. "It you have a long story to tell me," said Dolores, "let us sit down here; these bamboo chairs are quite inviting," yet I Cannot see how We could possi- bly have avoided it." "My dear Gertrude, you forgot that all this time you are keeping me in suspense," her mother said, half smil- ing. "I will tell you at once, mamma," she said, "and you must promise me not to be very angry." Mother and daughter walked down to the water's edge. They made a striking group, these three fair women-Dolores in the fair splendor of matronhood, Kathleen with her pathetic beauty, and Ger- trude in the freshest bloom of her girlhood, dainty, delicate and lovely. fsi4ii1,)_"'t_t)--r,ii_i__skii) Carton, Dealers, Weston. CHAPTER XXIII, "Mamma," began Gertrude, "it is better to tell you the truth, though I am afraid a great deal of mischief has been done. You know that Kath- leen and I have not asked you any questions about England; we both knew that if there was anything to tell you would tell it in good time. But, mamma, to-day, for the first time, we have heard that there is something strange-" _ She did not feel- alarmed. Her chit.. dren had not hitherto caused her any uneasiness. Still it was plain that something out of the usual current of events had happened. Kathleen had grown pale, and Gertrude rosy red. "Strange, Gertrude ?"-and Dolores' face was troubled. "Yes; but, darling mamma, never mind what comes of it. Kathleen and I are your devoted children; if you say that we are to forget this, and never ask any questions about it, we will do so." "I know that you are the best chil- dren in the world," said Dolores; "but what is it you have heard, my dear?" "You know we went with the Count., ess to see the Pitti palace, and I'd? room in it delighted us above ll others. Some of Raphael's most beau- tiful Madonnas are there, and a love.. ly 'Dolorosa'--ah, mamma, how like your name-by Fra Angelica. Kath- leen and I stood before it for a, long time. Other people were in the room; and at last I saw a group that I felt sure were English. Presently we heard the sound of their voices. I was right in my surmise, tor they spoke pure, beautiful English. The young gentleman walked away to look at a. picture at the other side of the large saloon, so that he was at some dis.. tance from his mother. I think she To be continued Ely?,: l 1