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 of staggering limbs and wandering brains, since which time not a drop of champagne had passed his lips, he hastened by to a private entrance through which he gained access to his own room. Refreshing himself a few moments after the heat and dust of the day, he soon traced his steps in the familiar direction of Orange Grove.

When Mr. Claremont was married he built a large and elegant mansion on a landed estate formerly the possession of one of his wife's ancestors. He laid out the grounds according to his own taste, preserving one old oak tree for its antiquity, which stood near the house. Mrs. Claremont had a great passion for orange trees, some half dozen of which were in full bloom at one time. From this circumstance he gave their residence the poetical name of Orange Grove.

As Mr. Livingston walked up the shaded avenue in the dusk of evening, a perfect silence reigned throughout the house and over the grounds. The rooms were not yet lighted, and there was no sign of any living thing save the little white-footed kitten capering in the flower circle, who signified her welcome by scampering off as fast as she could go when ho came up, unconscious of the invisible fibres of the human soul she had in her power to twinge with unutterable pain! She called up so vividly the memory of that other morning, as to unsettle for a moment the confidence with which he had looked forward to this hour, but quickly, reassuring himself and banishing his fears, he ascended the steps and pulled the bell. Kate fancied there was a slight