small trellised arbor was at one side. Why had he been shown into the
duchess' private room? He had often heard the duke tease his wife about
her room, and say that no one was privileged to enter it; why, then, was
such a privilege accorded him?

He smiled to himself, thinking that in all probability it was some
mistake of the servants; he pictured to himself the expression of
Philippa's face when she should find him there. He looked round; the
room bore traces of her presence--around him were some of her favorite
flowers and books.

He went to the long French window, wondering at the rich collection of
roses, and there he saw a picture that never forsook his memory
again--there he met his fate--saw the ideal woman of his dreams at last.
He had treated all notions of love in a very off-hand, cavalier kind of
manner; he had contented himself with his own favorite axiom--"Love is
fate;" if ever it was to come to him it would come, and there would be
an end of it. He had determined on one thing--this same love should be
his slave, his servant, never his master; but, as he stood looking out,
he was compelled to own his kingship was over.

Standing there, his heart throbbing as it had never done before, every
nerve thrilling, his face flushed, a strange, unknown sensation filling
him with vague, sweet wonder, Lord Arleigh met his fate.

This was the picture he saw--a beautiful but by no means a common one.
In the trellised arbor, which contained a stand and one or two chairs,
was a young girl of tall, slender figure, with a fair, sweet face,
inexpressibly lovely, lilies and roses exquisitely blended--eyes like
blue hyacinths, large, bright, and starlight, with white lids and dark