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"Pluma!" he cried, hoarsely, rising to his feet and drawing his stately, commanding figure to its full height, "I will not brook such language from a child who should at least yield me obedience, if not love. You are not the heiress of Whitestone Hall yet, and you never may be.

At the distance of a woman's walk of a day from the mouth of the river called by the pale-faces the Whitestone, in the country of the Sioux, in the middle of a large plain, stands a lofty hill or mound.

"The heiress of Whitestone Hall has played me false, take to your heart your fair, blushing bride, but remember hers is a perilous love." The letter contained much more, explaining each incident in detail, but Rex had caught at one hope, as a drowning man catches at a straw. "Merciful Heaven!" he cried, his heart beating loud and fast. "Was it not a cruel jest to frighten him on his wedding-eve?

Tudor, briskly, noting the thoughtful expression of the fair young face. "Such cases as I have just read you are fortunately rare. I should not have read you the scandals. Young girls like to hear about the marriages best. Ah! here is one that is interesting a grand wedding which is to take place at Whitestone Hall, in Allendale, to-morrow night.

That night a little golden-haired child was born at Whitestone Hall, and I knew it would live to divide the honors and wealth of Whitestone Hall with you my child. "The thought maddened me. I stole the child from its mother's arms, and fled. I expected to see the papers full of the terrible deed, or to hear you had betrayed me, a stranger, wanting the key of the gate."

How he came in that locality I do not know. I found, by some strange freak of fate, he had taken the child home to his aunt Taiza, and there the little one remained until the spinster died. "Again, a few years later, I determined to visit Whitestone Hall, when a startling and unexpected surprise presented itself. Since then I have believed in fate.

Outside of Whitestone Hall a motley throng was gathering with the rapidity of lightning the story had gone from lip to lip the wonderful story of the long-lost heiress and the double romance. Cheer after cheer rent the air, and telegraph wires were busy with the startling revelations. The throng around the Hall pressed forward to catch a glimpse of the pretty little bride.

No one guessed that beneath his winning, careless smile his heart was almost breaking. One morning Pluma was standing alone on the vine-covered terrace, waiting for Rex, who had gone out to try a beautiful spirited horse that had just been added to the stables of Whitestone Hall. She noticed he had taken the unfrequented road the magnolia-trees shaded.

At the distance of a woman's walk of a day from the mouth of the river, called by the pale-faces the Whitestone, in the country of the Sioux, in the middle of a large plain, stands a lofty hill or mound.

How little they knew, as they stood there, of the terrible tragedy the cruelest ever enacted those grim, silent walls of Whitestone Hall were soon to witness, in fulfillment of the strange prophecy.