The Soul Stealer

n living in rooms in the great Pala

r, and shrinking from the fierce light that began to beat upon the deta

, the day after Marjorie had written to Sir William Gouldesbrough telling

he pleasant and easy-going society dame into something hard, furious, and even coarse. Marjorie had shrunk in amazement and

ed to Sir William. The revelation that, after all, the engagement was now broken, was nothing more than a delusion, and that a younger and ineligible man, from the worldly point of view, had won Marjorie'

ady Poole had been frightened at her own violence, and repented bitterly for what she had said. She tended and soothed the girl in the sweetest and most motherly way. And without d

tery of Guy's utter vanishing f

centred, the old lady was terribly and genuinely affected at Guy's disappearance. No one could have been more helpful or more sympathetic during these black hours, and she gladly left

William, Lady Poole had received a reply from the

t he could not disguise from himself that he had se

aughter if you and she will permit me to be so. I have told her so often how I love her, and I tell her so even now. But love, as I understand it, should have the element of self-sacrifice in it, if it is true love. I will therefore say no more about my personal feelings, except in one way. Just as my whole life would have been devoted to making your daughter happy, so I now feel it is my duty to devote myself as well as I can to making her happy in another way. She has chosen a man no d

her more, until perhaps some day in the future we may still be friends, though f

e, my dear

ow and in sinc

Gouldes

people were endeavouring to solve the terrible mystery of Guy Rathbone's disappearance, the girl more nearly interested in it tha

pallor was constant and unvarying. She drank in the keen sea breezes, and they brought no colour to her cheeks. She walked upon the white chalk cliffs and saw nothing of the shifting gold and shadow as the sun fell upon the sea, heard nothing of the

rm than any woman can provide, to help and comfort, to keep awake the fires of hope within her, and nothing of the sort was hers. In all the worl

h her mother only just referred to the matter, that let

p the news from her daughter any long

I can only guess at, he is moving heaven and earth to discover what has become of your poor boy. He is daily writing to me to tell me what he is doing, to inform me of his hopes, and I tell you, Marjorie, that if human power can discover what has

, and it was after the meal. Her head was in her hands and her eyes were f

intellect. He is indeed one of the chosen and best. Don't think I don't realize it, mother, now you've told me, indeed I

t, do you, dear?

that even he, great as his intellect is, will ne

her daughter was sitting. She put her ha

nk that you could

answered quickly with a c

William. Would it gi

, why, w

om his thoughts. But this morning he wrote me the very sweetest letter,

d anything, then?

roken you are by it all, and he thinks that perhaps you might like to hear what he is doing, might like to confide in him a little. 'If,' he says in his letter, 'she w

ervous and weak condition the gentle and kindly mess

"Yes, mother, if only he would

ed, "that is very easily arranged

the receiver to her ear, and when the clerk from the down-stairs office replied, asked that Sir Wil

her, her hands twitched, her eyes were dilated. Perhaps she was at las

waiter opened it, and Sir William