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For sixteen years the grand old house had remained closed the plantation being placed in charge of a careful overseer. Once again Whitestone Hall was thrown open to welcome the master, Basil Hurlhurst, who had returned from abroad, bringing with him his beautiful daughter and a party of friends. The interior of the little cottage was astir with bustling activity.
She could fancy the darkly beautiful face bending over him; her white jeweled hands upon his shoulder, or, perhaps, smoothing back the bonny brown clustering curls from his white brow. "My place should have been by his side," she continued. It hurt and pained her to hear the name of the man she loved dearer than life mentioned with the name of Pluma Hurlhurst.
The name, Evalia Hurlhurst, seemed to fall upon her ears like the softest, sweetest music. Perhaps she wished she was like that young wife, who had died so long ago, resting quietly beneath the white daisies that bore her name. "That is Madame Whitney's," exclaimed the lady, leaning forward toward the window excitedly. "Dear me! I can almost imagine I am a young girl again.
"Miss Hurlhurst," he replied, with stately dignity, "I regret, more than the mere words express, that my heedlessness has brought upon this little creature at my side an insult so cruel, so unjust, and so bitter, in simply granting my request for a waltz a request very reluctantly granted.
In the din of the excitement, Pluma Hurlhurst shook the dust of Whitestone Hall forever from her feet, muttering maledictions at the happy occupants. She had taken good care to secure all the valuables that she could lay her hands on, which were quite a fortune in themselves, securing her from want for life. She was never heard from more.
She stopped short for want of breath, and Basil Hurlhurst interrupted her. "I have to inform you you are quite mistaken there," he replied, calmly. "Mr. Rexford Lyon will not marry you to-night, for he is already married to my little daughter Daisy." He produced the certificate as he spoke, laying it on the table. "Rex thought her dead," he continued, simply.
"Stranger things than that have happened," cried Basil Hurlhurst, tremulously. "You must give me hope, Mr. Tudor. You are a skillful, expert detective; you will find her, if any one can. If my other child were living," he continued, with an effort, "you know it would make considerable difference in the distribution of my property.
The truth will lie buried in our own hearts, and die with us." Six weeks from the night his golden-haired wife had died Basil Hurlhurst awoke to consciousness from the ravages of brain-fever awoke to a life not worth the living. Quickly Mrs. Corliss, the housekeeper, was sent for, who soon entered the room, leaning upon Hagar's arm. "My wife is " He could not say more.
Not a muscle of Pluma Hurlhurst's face quivered, but the woman uttered a low cry, shrinking close to her side. "Save me, Pluma!" she gasped. "I did it for your sake!" Basil Hurlhurst slowly put back the curtain, and stepped into the room, clasping his long-lost daughter to his breast. Daisy's arms were clinging round his neck, and her golden head rested on his shoulder.
Rex did not seek to detain her; his eyes had suddenly fallen upon the golden-haired little figure kneeling by Basil Hurlhurst's chair. He reached her side at a single bound. "Oh, Daisy, my darling, my darling!" he cried, snatching her in his arms, and straining her to his breast, as he murmured passionate, endearing words over her. Suddenly he turned to Mr. Hurlhurst. "I must explain "
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