Well, I will keep it in my turn. Who knows what end it may serve yet?"

She picked up the tress of hair, and enveloped all in the silver paper
once more. Then she lifted the folded document, and looked darkly at
the superscription:

"Horoscope of the Heir of Kingsland."

"Which the heir of Kingsland shall never see," she said, grimly
unfolding it. "Now for this mighty secret."

She just glanced at the mystic symbols, the cabalistic signs and
figures, and turned to the other side. There, beautifully written, in
long, clear letters, she saw her son's fate.

The morning wore on--noon came; the house was as still as a tomb.
Rosine, my lady's maid, with a cup of tea, ventured to tap at her
ladyship's door. There was no response.

"She sleeps," thought Rosine, and turned the handle.

But at the threshold she paused in wild alarm. No, my lady did not
sleep. She sat in her chair, upright and ghastly as a galvanized
corpse, a written paper closely clutched in her hand, and a look of
white horror frozen on her face.




CHAPTER VII.