ETHEL VANE made a beautiful picture as she leaned back among the climbing vines about the homestead porch and let her gold-tinged hair mingle with the glossy leaves and float in airy, shining waves upon her pure white forehead. Standing as she did, with her fair young beauty outlined by the dense, green foliage and heightened by the sunlight that fell so gloriously about her, it was no wonder that the neighbors stopped and stared a little as they passed.

      Stopped and stared, but did not speak — only passed on, sadly and with heavy hearts, as they noted her expression.

      For only since yesterday the beautiful young face had grown strangely old, and the lines so lately formed around her rosy lips changed their naturally sweet expression to one of bitter sadness.

      It was not her radiant beauty alone that attracted every eye in her direction this morning as she stood so conspicuously among the rose vines, never moving a muscle or raising her eyes to give her friends an opportunity of speaking if they so desired, but they were prompted in great measure by morbid curiosity to see how she had borne the blow so recently fallen upon her.

      Then, when they had seen the woeful change upon the bright young face, not a soul among them but pressed back the tears and wished they had not been so curious.

      Four months before, when Ethel Anerton was married to Richard Vane, every sincere friend she had in the village urged her to wait and consider well the step that she was taking, and even the gossips, who envied her her face and fortune, were shocked out of themselves and really felt a throb of pity for the orphan girl who was being wed (as everyone but herself knew well) for nothing but her magnificent fortune.

      While she was single good old Lawyer Jones looked after her estates and guarded her interests as faithfully as if they were his own, and even after her rash, hot-headed marriage to the dashing Captain Vane (captain of something — no one knew just what), the honest lawyer falsified a little for her good (if such thing could be done), and only turned one-half her fortune over to the man who so blandly called and offered to relieve him of all further duty. Everyone was a little surprised at this sudden decrease in Ethel's dowry, her husband most of all.

      A few of the wiser heads in the village held their peace and winked at Lawyer Jones in a way that left no doubt of their appreciation of his methods, but the shrewd old lawyer would not understand the wink, and so the matter rested — an uncertainty.

      But of one thing they were positive, and that was, that Richard Vane had squandered all he had received in just four months from his wedding day, and this morning, while his dutiful wife stood silently among the rose vines of the home that she supposed was now her only possession, he, the dashing Captain Vane, was sailing across the water with a loud-voiced, vulgar woman by his side and a generous supply of Ethel's inherited bank notes in his pocket.

      Ethel knew all this at last, and had rushed from the stifling heat of the house, out upon the rose-covered porch, where she could get her breath and think, for a few short moments, what it was best to do.

      The revelation had come upon her like a thunderclap, for she had loved and trusted this man with all the fervor of her innocent young heart.

      So she stood there, motionless as death, among the roses, and never knew that anyone had passed, or dreamed for a moment of the picture she was making.

      After a little an artist came along with his camera on his arm.

      He glanced up at the rustic porch, and gave a low whistle of surprise as he noticed the silent figure and the perfectly molded face.

      "By Jove! but she's a beauty!" he muttered, under his breath. "I'll have that, if they lynch me for my pains," he said, as he swung the camera from his arm and rested it upon the fence not thirty feet away.

      The young girl did not move, although a falling rose leaf lightly touched her cheek and rested on the dainty, close-clasped hands.

      The street was clear of passers-by, and in another moment the artist, with his box upon his arm, trudged onward toward the village.

      Just then a kitten ran out upon the porch and caught playfully at its mistress's dress.

      The motion roused her, and she looked around a little nervously at first; then looking down at her little pet, she bent and raised it from the porch, and with the first tears she had shed rolling rapidly down her cheeks she entered the house and closed the door behind her.

      That was the last time for five long years that Ethel Vane was ever seen by any of her neighbors.

      Butchers and bakers called and received their written orders from a broken pane; postmen came and went, delivering and receiving letters, but not once did they see her face in all these necessary transactions.

      Her bills were paid by Lawyer Jones, who wrote immediately and told her she still possessed a modest fortune, but one by one the neighbors rang her bell, and after repeated trying were forced to give it up and let her have her own way, never for a moment dreaming that she would pursue it to the bitter end.

      Ethel was proud, that they all knew, but why should she persist year after year in refusing their well-meant sympathy they could not understand. She was young, and they were willing to forgive her for not heeding their advice in her matrimonial venture, so why she should insist upon burying herself alive in the little cottage, and denying herself the pleasures of society and the opportunity of trying again and winning a most desirable husband, was beyond their wildest comprehension.

      For everyone in the village knew that Maurice Osborne loved her. Had he not offered her his hand before this Richard Vane was ever heard of, and been rejected by the proud young beauty merely because she did not know her girlish mind at that time?

      And during her brief married life did not Maurice leave the village because he could not bear to see her joy? — not that he begrudged Ethel her happiness, but because he knew in his inmost heart that it could never last, and because he felt he could not bear to witness her distress when the hour of that man's perfidy arrived.

      And yet he had hurried back the very hour that he received his sister's message telling him what had happened, and not a day passed in those five long years that he, accompanied by his sister, did not ring at Ethel's door, and, finding themselves refused admittance, persist in leaving a note filled with loving, friendly words, or a basket of fruit or bunch of fragrant flowers as a token of their faithful friendship. But their eyes were never gladdened by the sight of her face, and every effort by which they sought to gain admittance proved as futile as the rest.

      Sometimes they heard her singing a little plaintive air or playing some sad, wild strain upon her favorite harp, and by the sadness in her voice they judged the changes in her face, and realized at each occasion how cruelly she had felt the blow upon her heart's affections.

      The artist who had stolen her picture on that July morning when she stood among the roses exhibited it a few days later in the village, and because he would not give it up or promise to destroy it Maurice Osborne threatened to horsewhip him in the public street, and from that hour he was never seen in the village again, but he still retained the lovely picture.

      He strolled about the world for several years, accumulating views of all its wonders, and earning a meagre living with his camera and brush, until one night, nearly five years after he took Ethel Vane's picture so surreptitiously in the little village, he found himself the companion of a wretched-looking man in the stateroom of a European steamer.

      The man was middle-aged and gray, with a face well seamed from dissipation.

      The two sat talking late that night, and at last the artist brought out all his views, and the other idly glanced them over. Suddenly his coarse red face grew pale, his eyes bulged strangely from their sockets, and selecting a picture from the lot, he held it before the artist's face, saying, hoarsely:

      "Where, in God's name, did you get that?"

      The artist looked, and saw it was the picture of a young girl leaning back among the rose vines of a rustic porch, so he answered carelessly enough:

      "That? Oh, that's a photograph I stole away up in New England about five years ago. Do you like it?" he suddenly asked, as he noticed the man's emotion.

      "Do I like it? Yes," the man replied, slowly. "You wouldn't care to sell it, now, would you?" he asked, a little timidly.

      "Sell it! No! I'll give it away," the artist replied, promptly. "That picture came near getting me horsewhipped," he said, with a coarse laugh, as he gathered up the remainder of his views and put them carefully away in his box.

      "Now, who in the world wanted to horsewhip you on account of that picture?" the slightly intoxicated man asked, suddenly, with some show of interest.

      "A fellow by the name of Osborne," the artist replied, promptly. "I stole her picture, as I was passing by the house with my camera, and this fellow Osborne, who they said was in love with. her, told me to give it up or stand a licking. But I didn't do either," he continued, with another laugh. "I skipped the town, and took the picture with me."

      The sea was becoming calm enough for sleep, so the conversation ended there, and a little later they were breathing loud in slumber, and when, next day, they landed in New York they parted with the usual careless greeting.

      The fifth anniversary of Ethel Vane's wedding day had rolled around, and yet there was not a sound of life in the little cottage, that was fast growing dingy with decay.

      No smoke had been seen from its chimneys for two days previous, and now butchers and bakers reported that their orders had ceased, and all was consternation in the thrifty village.

      Was Ethel sick, or was she dead? The question. almost maddened Maurice Osborne, so he walked determinedly over to Lawyer Jones's office and told him emphatically that if he did not break in the door and see what ailed his client he should certainly do it, and not later than that very evening either.

      So it was arranged that they should meet at nine o'clock that night at Ethel's house, prepared for taking peremptory measures.

      The night was dark and the ground soft from the April rains, but just as they turned to enter the little gate the faintest rustle of a leaf attracted them, and pausing in the shadow of the fence, they saw a man glide slowly up the walk and creep along the porch to Ethel's window.

      Hastening their footsteps, they also vaulted the fence, and keeping closely in the shadow, followed right behind him.

      Listening cautiously, they heard a scraping, grating sound, and knew that he was filing at the rusty shutter fastening.

      A moment later, and with careful hand he swung the gray old blind back silently against the house. A very faint glimmer from within. rewarded him, and with renewed caution he began filing at the window bolt.

      The catch was old and worn, and soon gave way with a little snap that sounded loud and clear upon the silence of the night, and the man dropped noiselessly beneath the window and lay motionless for a little while.

      Then, confident that he had not disturbed the sleeper within, he raised the sash, and with a fearless hand drew back the heavy draperies and peered cautiously about the room.

      The lawyer touched his comrade on the arm, and together they crept nearer to the little porch. The man thrust one leg through the window, then forced his head and shoulders through, and stopped to note the effect.

      But the sleeper in the dainty, curtained bed did not awake, and the two men on the porch took a step nearer, and also waited breathlessly.

      The man in the window, satisfied that all was right, reached softly back and drew a knife from his leathern belt, then lifting his other leg through the narrow window, he bent himself half double, and with the blade grasped firmly in his hand crept hastily across the floor and bent above the sleeper.

      The light fell faintly on her care worn face, and for a moment the murderer paused in doubt, for it was not the face of her he sought, and, outcast though he was, he could not kill without some secret motive for the killing. A moment more and he had thought it out.

      He laid the knife upon the bed, and searching through his pockets, drew forth a crumpled picture. This he compared with the woman's face that lay before him on the pillow.

      The hair, the brow, the curving lips were hers, but the eyes — if he could only see her eyes! He raised the knife again and held it tight.

      He would waken her suddenly and watch her eyes.

      If they were different she might yet be spared; if they were Ethel's — and he gripped the knife and coughed with deadly meaning.

      The sleeper started, screamed and raised her head; her eyes flew open, and she saw the glimmer of a shining blade, and almost at that very glance the flash from a revolver blinded her, and when the smoke and noise had passed away the fiend lay dead upon the floor, with two men bending sternly over him.

      Then Maurice Osborne turned to look upon her face, and saw the picture that the man had dropped upon the pillow by the woman's head. The sweet young face among the vines 'seemed mocking the pale face upon the pillow, that now reposed in merciful unconsciousness.

      Another hour and they would have been too late to save her from her murderous husband's hand; and even had that not occurred, another day would have been too late to have saved her from the grasp of death, for Ethel had succumbed at last to loneliness and mental horror.

      They carried her to Maurice's home and nursed her back to health and happiness, and five years later, in another land, she sat and played among the roses at her door, as sweet and beautiful as ever, only now she had a baby girl to keep her company; and Maurice, standing by, with the crumpled picture still in his pocket, looked on, and felt himself amply paid for all the years of faithfulness.