rustle of a woman's dress as she halted on the threshold.

A fair and stately lady, with a proud, colorless face lighted up with
pale-blue eyes, and with bands of pale flaxen hair pushed away under a
dainty lace cap--a lady who looked scarce thirty, although almost ten
years older, unmistakably handsome, unmistakably proud. It was Olivia,
Lady Kingsland.

"Alone, Sir Jasper!" a musical voice said. "May I come in, or do you
prefer solitude and your own thoughts?"

The sweet voice--soft and low, as a lady's voice should be--broke the
somber spell that bound him. He wheeled round, his dark, moody face
lighting up at sight of her, as all the glorious morning sunshine never
could have lighted it. That one radiant look would have told you how
he loved his wife.

"You, Olivia?" he cried, advancing. "Surely this is a surprise! My
dearest, is it quite prudent in you to leave your room?"

He took the slender, white-robed figure in his arms, and kissed her as
tenderly as a bridegroom of a week might have done. Lady Kingsland
laughed a soft, tinkling little laugh.

"A month is quite long enough to be a prisoner, Jasper, even although a
prisoner of state. And on my boy's christening fete--the son and heir
I have desired so long--ah, surely a weaker mother than I might essay
to quit her room."

The moody darkness, like a palpable frown, swept over the baronet's