My Pretty Maid; or, Liane Lester

When he received the note, so neatly and gracefully written, without a mistake in wording or spelling, Devereaux was puzzled.

It was certainly not like the writing of the letter in which she had rejected him. He concluded that her mother or her maid Sophie had written it.

"Poor girl, she will have to have private instructors to repair the defects in her education," he thought.

A few days before Christmas the Clarkes bade a kind farewell to the good-natured Mrs. Brinkley and Lizzie White, and returned to Stonecliff, whither the news had preceded them in letters to friends.

Devereaux was at the station to bid them farewell, and by the most open hinting he managed to secure from Mrs. Clarke an invitation to spend Christmas with them at Cliffdene.

He arrived on Christmas morning, and was presently shown into the holly-wreathed library, where Liane was sitting alone, exquisitely gowned in dark-blue silk, from which her fair face arose like a beautiful lily.

Devereaux's greeting was joyous, but Liane was cold and constrained. She could not forget how he had snubbed her in Boston when she was only a poor working girl.

But they had not exchanged a dozen words before they were interrupted by the unexpected entrance of Dolly Dorr.

Dolly had been staying at her own home ever since Roma's flight with her husband, and she had been having a hard battle with her conscience, which culminated in the triumph of the right; hence her presence here to-day.

Dolly made her little curtsy, and began bashfully:

"Miss Clarke, and Mr. Devereaux, I have wronged you both, and I have come now to try to make amends."

They gazed at her in silent surprise, and she hurried on, eager to tell her story and escape their reproachful eyes:

"Miss Liane, when you went away to Boston, I got a letter addressed to you from the post office, and Miss Roma opened it, and we read it together. Then she bribed me to answer it, and I guess Mr. Devereaux has the ugly letter she made me write. Here's yours, and—please forgive me. I am sorry I behaved so badly," tossing a letter into Liane's lap and flying precipitately from the apartment.

Liane opened the letter bewilderedly, and read, with Devereaux's eager eyes upon her face, and her cheeks scarlet, his passionate love letter and proposal of marriage. As she finished, he said eagerly:

"I received a rejection in answer to that letter, but, Liane, dearest, may I ask you to reconsider it?"

Her lovely eyes met his in a happy, eloquent glance, and, springing to her side, he wound his arms about her, drawing her close to his breast, while their yearning lips met in a long, clinging kiss.

THE END