“Yes! gie me the paper,” cried Rose, snatching it from the housekeeper before the latter could hand it.

“Where’s the place?  Where’s the place?” cried the impatient young woman, wildly turning the pages.

“Here it is ma’am.  At the top of the ‘FASHIONABLE NEWS,’” said the landlady, pointing out the item.

Rose pounced upon it, and read aloud: 

“The marriage of His Grace, the Duke of Hereward, with Miss Levison, only daughter and heiress of the late Sir Lemuel Levison, will be celebrated at twelve, noon, to-day, at St. George’s, Hanover Square.  After the ceremony the noble party will adjourn to Elmhurst House, Westbourne Terrace, the home of the bride, to partake of the wedding breakfast, after which the happy pair will leave town by the tidal train for Dover, en route for their continental tour.”

Rose Cameron threw down the paper and sprang to her feet with the bound of a tigress.

“Oh, the villain!  Oh, the shamfu’, fause, leeing villain!  This wad be the important business that kept him awa’ frae me!  This wad be the reason why he got me lockit up in prison here—­for I ken weel that he pit the dogs o’ the law on my track noo, if I dinna ken before—­to keep me fra getting out to ban his marriage noo, as I wad ha banned it then hadna something else dune it for me.  But it isna too late yet!  I’ll ban his wedding travels, gin I couldna ban his wedding!  I’ll bring him down to disgrace and shame afore a’ his graund wedding guests—­the fause-hearted, leeing, shamefu’ villain!  I will pu’ him down frae his grandeur yet, gin ye will only help me!” exclaimed Rose Cameron, pouring out this torrent of words, as she strode up and down the narrow floor of her cell with the stride of an enraged lioness.

“My dear, good young lady, I don’t know, the least in the world, why you should get so excited over the young duke’s marriage,” said the housekeeper, gazing in amazement and terror upon the face of the infuriated young creature.

“Why suld I get excited o’er it, indeed?” exclaimed Rose, stopping suddenly in her furious stride, and confronting her unoffending visitor with a scowl of rage.

“Come now; come now;” murmured the woman, soothingly, for she began to fear that she was in the presence, and in the power, of a lunatic.

“Dinna yo ken then, ye auld fule, that the Dooke o’ Hareward is my ain gude mon?” imperiously demanded Rose.

“Oh, her poor head!  Her poor head is going, and no wonder, poor lass!” murmured the old woman, compassionately.

“But how suld ye ken?” cried Rose, scornfully throwing herself down into her seat again.  “He ca’ed himsel’ Mr. John Scott.  Mr. John Scott!  And mysel’ Mrs. John Scott.  And sae ye kenned us, and nae itherwise.”

“Poor girl!  Poor girl!” murmured the housekeeper.  “She’s far gone!  Far gone!  Poor girl!”

“Puir girl, is it?  It will be puir dooke before a’ is ended!  I’ll hae him hanggit for trigomy, or what e’er ye ca’ the marryin’ o’ twa wives at ance.  Twa wives!  Ou!  I’ll nae staund it!  I’ll nae staund it!” cried Rose, suddenly bounding to her feet.