with a silent tread, like some noiseless Oriental, and, putting her
ear to the keyhole, listened outside the door in profound suspense
for several minutes.

Not a sound from within; not a gentle footfall on the carpeted floor.
For a moment she hesitated; then she turned the handle slowly, and,
peering before her, peeped into the room. Thank Heaven! no snake
signs. Elma lay asleep, with one arm above her head, as peacefully
as a child, after her terrible adventure. Her bosom heaved, but
slowly and regularly. The mother drew a deep breath, and crept down
the stairs with a palpitating heart to the drawing-room again.

"Reginald," she said, with perfect confidence, relapsing once more
at a bound into the ordinary every-day British matron, "there's no
harm done, I'm sure. She doesn't think of this young man at all.
You may dismiss him from your mind at once and for ever. She's
sleeping like a baby."






CHAPTER VI.

TWO STRANGE MEETINGS.