“How strange!” said Lord Arleigh.  “Did you not know the name of the nurse?”

“Yes, she lived at a little place called Ashwood.  I advertised for her, I offered large rewards, but I have never gleaned the least news of her; no one could ever find her.  Her husband, it appeared, had been guilty of crime.  My opinion is that the poor woman fled in shame from the neighborhood where she was known, and that both she and my dear child are dead.”

“It seems most probable,” observed Lord Arleigh.

“If I could arrive at any certainty as to her fate,” said the earl, “I should be a happier man.  I have been engaged to my cousin Lady Lily Gordon for four years, but I cannot make up my mind to marry until I hear something certain about my daughter.”

Chapter XXXIV.

Winiston House was prettily situated.  The house stood in the midst of charming grounds.  There was a magnificent garden, full of flowers, full of fragrance and bloom; there was an orchard filled with rich, ripe fruit, broad meadow-land where the cattle grazed, where daisies and oxlips grew.  To the left of the house was a large shrubbery, which opened on to a wide carriage drive leading to the high road.  The house was an old red-brick building, in no particular style of architecture, with large oval windows and a square porch.  The rooms were large, lofty, and well lighted.  Along the western side of the house ran a long terrace called the western terrace; there the sun appeared to shine brightest, there tender plants flourished, there tame white doves came to be fed and a peacock walked in majesty; from there one heard the distant rush of the river.

There Lady Arleigh spent the greater part of her time—­there she wore her gentle life away.  Three years had elapsed, and no change had come to her.  She read of her husband’s sojourn in Scotland.  Then she read in the fashionable intelligence that he had gone to Wood Lynton, the seat of the Earl of Mountdean.  He remained there three days, and then went abroad.  Where he was now she did not know; doubtless he was traveling from one place to another, wretched, unhappy as she was herself.

The desolate, dreary life had begun to prey upon her at last.  She had fought against it bravely for some time—­she had tried to live down the sorrow; but it was growing too strong for her—­the weight of it was wearing her life away.  Slowly but surely she began to fade and droop.  At first it was but a failure in strength—­a little walk tired her, the least fatigue or exercise seemed too much for her.  Then, still more slowly, the exquisite bloom faded from the lovely face, a weary languor shone in the dark-blue eyes, the crimson lips lost their color.  Yet Lady Arleigh grew more beautiful as she grew more fragile.  Then all appetite failed her.  Mrs. Burton declared that she ate nothing.