"How handsome he is!" she exclaimed. "And oh! what can I do to restore him to consciousness? Poor fellow! he will freeze."
The cold, chilly winds of November were straying about through the bare, bleak country-side; they swept over the drenched form lying upon the cold ground. And Beatrix's heart grew chill as a horrible fear assailed her that he would soon be frozen to death. His clothing was literally freezing upon his body. Her shawl, the only warm garment which she possessed, was dripping with water; she wrung out its folds as well as she could, and hung it upon a neighboring bush to dry. Then she glanced around her; she must find some way to warm him, or he would perish there before her. Her eyes fell upon the package which lay upon the ground near by; the package containing the material for her new dress—the first new dress that she had had in a whole year. The soft, warm folds of merino would help to keep the life within his chilled frame. There was no help for it, the dress must go. Tearing open the wrapper, she drew forth the pretty garnet merino, and not without a little pang, as she remembered the rebuke which Mrs. Lynne would have in store for her, she wound the warm folds about his neck and chest.
Utterly unprotected herself, she stood shivering beside the unconscious man, chafing his numb hands and wrapping them in her skirts to try and restore the circulation.
The sun had long since set; night was coming swiftly down. But she could not leave him to certain death, even were it possible for her to cross the bridge herself. A thought struck her; she ventured to slip her hand timidly into the pocket of the young man's coat. If she could find a few matches! Yes; how fortunate! There, in a tiny metal safe impervious to the water were plenty of lucifers. She heaped together a quantity of brushwood and soon had lighted a fire. All at once, she saw that the stranger's eyes were open and fixed upon her face with a strange, questioning expression—great dark eyes ideally beautiful. He struggled to a sitting posture, his form trembling like a leaf.
"What has happened?" he faltered, feebly. "How came I here? And you—who are you?"
"My name is Dane," the girl replied. "You fell through the bridge, and I helped you out of the water."
"You saved my life? Ah, yes! I remember now. You are a brave girl. And, by Jove!"—as his glance wandered to the slight, shivering figure—"you have no wrap. What is this?" trying to start to his feet, but falling back once more with an involuntary cry of pain. "I—I fear that I am going to faint!" he murmured, feebly. "Miss—Dane, will you please—look in my coat-pocket for a flask—of—brandy?"
She obeyed him in silence, and fortunately found a flask nearly filled with brandy. She forced him gently to a seat which she had prepared of moss and dry brushwood. Then, with deft fingers, she removed the drinking-cup attached to the flask, and poured it nearly full of the liquor. She held it to his lips, but he motioned it away.
"You must drink some first," he said, in a tone which she never once thought of disobeying. "Oh, yes! you must! It may help to save your life. No matter though you do not like it, you must drink it."
With a wry face the girl obeyed him, and drank some of the fiery liquid, after which the stranger followed her example. Then they crouched before the fire to await the next move in the little romance.
An hour passed, and then relief came. Two men in a boat, rowing swiftly down the river, saw Beatrix standing in the light of the brushwood fire. A few vigorous pulls and the boat was landed, and the story told. It did not take long to assist the stranger into the boat, and Beatrix was safely seated in the stern before it occurred to her that she had not inquired his destination.
"I was on my way to Doctor Frederick Lynne's," the young man explained. "My name is Keith Kenyon, and my home is in New Orleans."
Keith Kenyon! The name fell upon the girl's ears like a strain of half-forgotten music. Her great dark eyes met his with a startled glance of surprise.
"Why, you were going to my home!" she exclaimed. "I am Doctor Lynne's adopted daughter—Beatrix Dane."
As the words passed her lips their eyes met, and a strange, subtle thrill went through Beatrix Dane's heart at sight of the strange expression in his dark eyes.
But they had now reached the opposite shore, where a team and light wagon were speedily procured, and the kind-hearted men who were acting the part of good Samaritans to the two so strangely thrown together, drove them at once to Doctor Lynne's—the old, weather-beaten, unpainted house where Beatrix Dane had passed her childhood and youth, and where the strange romance of her young life was destined to begin.
CHAPTER III.
LIKE A THIEF IN THE NIGHT.
"I wonder what keeps Beatrix so late? I am getting very uneasy about her. It is after dark, and snowing hard. I am very anxious, and besides I've been thinking of the bridge over the river. I don't believe from all accounts that it is half safe. Serena, go to the door and see if she is coming."
Doctor Lynne had grown quite old and feeble in the years that had elapsed since that night of mystery—that momentous tenth of November. He leaned heavily upon his cane, without which he could not walk at all, and turned from the window where he had been stationed for the last half hour.
Serena Lynne glanced up from the depths of the big arm-chair where she sat absorbed in a novel, and a frown disfigured her not very attractive face.
"Why do you bother so about Trix, papa?" she asked, sharply. "The girl is able to take care of herself. It is scarcely dark, and she will be home directly. And she would go, you know, although mamma tried her best to prevent her."
"Go to the door and see if she is coming," repeated Frederick Lynne sternly. "Serena you are utterly devoid of heart. Trix is ten years younger than you and but a child. Poor little thing! if anything has happened to her I shall never forgive myself for permitting her to go."
Serena Lynne laid her book aside with a gesture of impatience, rising to her feet slowly and unwillingly. A tall ungraceful young woman of some six or seven-and-twenty with flaxen hair and pale blue eyes—not a beauty by any means. And it was the sight of her adopted sister's fair young beauty that made her invariably ill-tempered and unkind to Beatrix. She moved slowly and ungraciously to the door, and opened it, making an unlovely picture as she walked, trailing the folds of her slatternly blue serge wrapper over the faded carpet, her feet thrust into a pair of ragged slippers, her hair in an untidy little knot at the back of her head. She wore no collar, none of the pretty little devices which a neat woman always affects, but a soiled white Shetland shawl was huddled about her shoulders, and her sharp, peevish face, with its sallow complexion and wide mouth, did not make a pretty or lovable picture. For a time she stood peering out into the darkness. At last:
"Papa!"—in a tone of suppressed excitement—"I hear the sound of wheels. I think—I believe—yes, it is a wagon, and it is stopping at the gate. There, I suppose your pet Beatrix is home at last, and no harm done."
Doctor Lynne hobbled slowly to the open door. His wife, the personal counterpart of her daughter, glanced up from the pile of mending with which she was occupying herself, and a disagreeable expression settled down upon her hard features.
"Thank Heaven if she has really come at last!" she ejaculated; "that girl is the curse of my life! I only wish that we could get rid of her! I don't see how we are going to support her, now that the money has ceased to come!"
"Silence!"
Doctor Lynne turned sharply upon his wife.
"I will hear no more of this!" he said, sternly. "Beatrix Dane shall stay here as long as she sees fit. Poor child! I imagine that she would not remain long if she had her own way in the matter. Serena,"—making his way to the door as swiftly as he was able—"what is the matter?"
There was a slight bustle upon the broad veranda