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Cameron Cyr and Dustin Dorsey

Unlocking dbt
Design and Deploy Transformations in Your Cloud
Data Warehouse
Cameron Cyr
Chapel Hill, TN, USA

Dustin Dorsey
Murfreesboro, TN, USA

ISBN 978-1-4842-9699-8 e-ISBN 978-1-4842-9703-2

https://doi.org/10.1007/978-1-4842-9703-2

© Cameron Cyr and Dustin Dorsey 2023

This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively
licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is
concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of
illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in
any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and
retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or
dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed.

The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks,

service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the
absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the
relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general
use.

The publisher, the authors, and the editors are safe to assume that the
advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate
at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the
editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the
material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have
been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional
claims in published maps and institutional affiliations.
This Apress imprint is published by the registered company APress
Media, LLC, part of Springer Nature.
The registered company address is: 1 New York Plaza, New York, NY
10004, U.S.A.
To my wife Tristyn, your belief in me has fueled my ambitions and pushed
me to achieve more than I ever thought possible. I have found strength
with you by my side, and I have discovered a love that knows no bounds.
—Cameron
To my wife Sarah and my wonderful children Zoey, Bennett, and Ellis, the
unwavering pillars of my life. I dedicate this to you all for your endless
patience, encouragement, and belief in me as I went through this journey.
—Dustin
Preface
In this book, we embark on a journey to explore the powerful world of
dbt and its transformative potential in the realm of data and analytics.
Whether you are a seasoned data professional or someone just starting
to dip their toes into the vast ocean of data, this book aims to equip you
with the knowledge and skills necessary to leverage dbt effectively.
Data is the lifeblood of modern organizations, driving informed
decision-making and enabling businesses to stay competitive in a
rapidly evolving landscape. However, the process of transforming raw
data into actionable insights is often complex and time-consuming. This
is where dbt comes into play: it provides a robust framework for
managing and executing data transformations in a more efficient,
scalable, and collaborative manner. While there are many tools and
services available that can do this, none utilize the foundational skill of
writing SQL as effectively as dbt does.
Our primary objective with this book is to demystify dbt and
empower you to unlock its full potential. While growing astronomically,
the product is still relatively new as far as technology goes, so finding
information can sometimes be difficult. We feel like some areas of
content creation are still growing and working to catch up, especially as
it relates to getting started or building understanding around
everything the product is capable of. When we started writing this
book, there were no books on dbt, sparse blogs and video creators, and
limited information outside of the content dbt Labs produces. This
book was our attempt to change this and provide users of dbt with a
new resource to help them on their journey.
Whether you are looking to design data models, orchestrate
complex workflows, or automate data pipelines, this book serves as
your comprehensive guide. Through a combination of practical
examples, best practices, and real-world use cases, we aim to make the
learning process engaging, interactive, and applicable to your own data
projects. This book is not a rehash of vendor documentation and
training videos, but it is based on our real-life experiences of using dbt
to build production enterprise data warehouses that are powering real
businesses today.
 Chapter by chapter, we delve into the key concepts and techniques
that underpin dbt and use them to continually build on each other. We
start by laying a strong foundation, covering the core principles and
architecture of dbt. We then move on to exploring the different
components and features of dbt, including setting up your project,
building models, testing, documentation, and deployments. Along the
way, we address common challenges and provide insights into
optimizing performance, ensuring data quality, and promoting
collaboration within your teams.
Moreover, this book acknowledges the growing trend of cloud data
warehouses and their integration with dbt. We delve into the nuances
of deploying dbt on popular cloud platforms such as Databricks,
Amazon Redshift, Google BigQuery, and Snowflake. With step-by-step
instructions, we guide you through the setup and configuration process,
enabling you to harness the full potential of dbt within your cloud
environment. All examples throughout the book were created using a
Snowflake instance but are simple enough that most will work with any
cloud data warehouse with minimal or no changes. We do not seek to
push you in a certain direction, but instead provide you with the know-
how to enable you on whatever direction you choose.
Throughout this book, we aim to foster a sense of curiosity,
experimentation, and continuous learning. The field of Data
Engineering and Analytics is constantly evolving, and dbt is at the
forefront of this revolution. By the time you reach the final page, we
hope that you will have acquired the necessary knowledge and
confidence to embark on your own dbt journey, unlocking the true
potential of your data and transforming the way your organization
operates.
So, let’s embark on this exciting adventure together and dive into
the world of dbt. Let’s unlock the transformative power of data and
revolutionize the way we build, analyze, and leverage it. The
possibilities are endless, and the time to start is now!
Any source code or other supplementary material referenced by the
author in this book is available to readers on GitHub
(https://github.com/Apress). For more detailed information, please
visit https://www.apress.com/gp/services/source-code.
Acknowledgments
The opportunity to write this book is not something I anticipated, but I
have much to be thankful for because of and about this opportunity. To
start, I want to thank my wife, Tristyn, who always pushes me to grow
personally and professionally. More than anything, I want to thank her
for supporting me as I spent countless nights and weekends locked
away in my office writing. Tristyn, I thank you for your unwavering
love, for being my confidante, my best friend, and my beloved partner. I
love you more than anything.
Of course, I also want to thank my coauthor, Dustin Dorsey. From
the first time we met, Dustin has continuously challenged me to grow in
ways that I never thought were achievable. One of those challenges that
Dustin presented to me is this book, and I am eternally grateful that
together we were able to seize the opportunity to publish one of the
first books about dbt. As a colleague, Dustin is the most brilliant data
architect that I have ever had the pleasure to work with. As a friend, I
thank him for encouraging me during the times that writing became a
struggle.
To conclude, I want to also thank the many colleagues that I have
worked with throughout my career or within the data community.
Without the individual contributions that you all have made to inspire,
encourage, and motivate me, I wouldn’t be where I am today: Christy
Merecka, Carlos Rodriguez, Ericka Pullin, Trey Howell, Nick Sager,
Randall Forsha, Paul Northup, Ed Pearson, Glenn Acree.

—Cameron Cyr

I have a lot to be thankful for in my life, and the privilege to be able

to write this book is one of those. I want to first thank my beautiful
wife, Sarah, without whom none of this would be possible. While I
spent evenings after work and long weekends writing, she took care of
our newborn and other two kids and kept things running in the house.
She has been there every step of the way and has had to tirelessly listen
to all my complaining. I also want to thank my kids Zoey, Bennett, and
Ellis for giving up some of their time with Dad to allow me the time and
 Visit https://ebookmass.com
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space to do this. I love you all more than anything and hope this book
inspires you all to dream big.
With regard to the book itself, I cannot thank my coauthor Cameron
Cyr enough. Cameron is one of the smartest people I have ever met, and
his adaptability to new things, eagerness to learn, and drive to grow is
awe-inspiring. He is the most knowledgeable person I have ever met in
regard to dbt, and I am so thankful that he was part of this book. I have
learned so much from him over the past couple years, and he has
helped make me a better engineer and a better person. I hope this book
is a platform that helps show the world the incredible talent and person
he is.
Throughout my career, there have been a lot of people who have
pushed, inspired, or provided me with the avenues to be able to write a
book. Jim St. Clair, Justin Steidinger, Jon Buford, Waylon Hatch, Adam
Murphy, and Randall Forsha are all former managers who gave me
opportunities, challenged, and supported me in growth and learning.
Also, numerous members of the community including Mark Josephson,
Matt Gordon, Denis McDowell, Tim Cronin, and Ed Pearson have
inspired and taught me so much over the years. And a big, special
thanks to Kevin Kline, who is a great friend and mentor to me. I would
not be an author without him. And lastly, thank you to everyone in the
data, dbt, and SQL communities for all that you do and for letting me be
a part of you.

—Dustin Dorsey

Together we want to acknowledge some people who helped make

this book a reality, starting with our amazing technical reviewer, Alice
Leach. When we thought about whom to reach out to about this project,
Alice was one of the first people who came to mind. We met her at the
Nashville Data Engineering meetups and quickly learned that she was
as passionate about dbt as we are and very knowledgeable about the
subject. Her comments and feedback really helped shape a lot of the
content you are reading today, and we are very thankful for her
involvement. We also want to thank Apress for giving us the
opportunity to write for them. Thank you Jonathan Gennick and Shaul
Elson for all of your involvement throughout the process and your help
in making this book a reality.
Next, we want to thank dbt Labs and their team for the incredible
product that they produced. Without them, there is no content or book
to write. We truly believe dbt is one of the greatest data tools created in
recent memory and is one that will be used for years and years to come.
Also, we want to thank the dbt community, and particularly those in the
dbt Slack channels, who are always willing to share their experiences
and knowledge and answer questions. You all are amazing and continue
to be our go-to source for anything dbt related.

—Cameron and Dustin

Table of Contents
Chapter 1:​Introduction to dbt
What Is dbt?​
The Analytics Engineer
The Role of dbt Within the Modern Data Stack
Modeling Your Data
The Skills Needed to Use dbt
Skill #1:​SQL
Skill #2:​Jinja
Skill #3:​YAML
Skill #4:​Python
Skill #5:​Data Modeling
Skill #6:​Source Control
The Benefits of dbt
Connecting to Your Database
dbt Cloud vs.​dbt Core
Project Structure
Directory #1:​Analyses
Directory #2:​dbt_​packages
Directory #3:​Logs
Directory #4:​Macros
Directory #5:​Models
Directory #6:​Seeds
Directory #7:​Snapshots
Directory #8:​Target
Directory #9:​Tests
 Supported File Extensions
Types of Models
Snapshots
Executing dbt Commands
Supported by Both
dbt Core Commands
dbt Command Flags
Case Sensitivity
What Is YAML?​
The Role of YAML with dbt
The Semantic Layer
Setting the Stage for the Book
Summary
Chapter 2:​Setting Up a dbt Project
Comparing dbt Core and dbt Cloud
Installing dbt Core
Installing dbt with pip
Installing dbt with Homebrew
Installing dbt Using Docker
Installing dbt from GitHub
Initializing a dbt Core Project
Configuring a dbt Cloud Project
Plan Structure
Getting Started
Connect to Snowflake
Connect to Postgres or Redshift
 Connect to BigQuery
Connect to Databricks
Connect to Spark
Set Up a Project Repository
Initializing a dbt Cloud Project
Project Structure
Models Directory Structure
Staging
Intermediate and Marts
Masterdata
Summary
References
Chapter 3:​Sources and Seeds
What Are Sources?​
Complete Source Properties Syntax
Benefits of Sources
Referencing Sources in Models
Source Freshness
Configuring Source Freshness
Executing Source Freshness Checks
Other Source File Options
Utilizing Sources in Multiple Environments
Generating Your Source File
What Are Seeds?​
Executing Seeds
Summary
Chapter 4:​Models
SQL Models
View (Plus, Model Basics)
Table
Incremental
Ephemeral
Python Models
Writing a Python Model
When to Use Python Models
Modular Data Transformations
Node Selection
Model Configurations
Summary
Chapter 5:​Snapshots
When to Use Snapshots
Example One
Example Two
Snapshot Meta Fields
Why dbt Adds These Fields
Monitor for Row Changes
Timestamp Strategy
Meta Fields with the Timestamp Strategy
Check Strategy
Check All Columns
Check Columns in a List
Check a Hash Column
 Additional Configurations
Hard Deletes
Target Database
Setting Snapshot Configurations
Setting Required Configurations
How dbt Handles Schema Changes
Adding New Columns
Removing Columns
Data Type Changes
Using Snapshots in Downstream Models
Referencing Snapshots
Query for the Active Record
Query for a Record at a Point in Time
Potential Issues with Snapshots
Summary
Chapter 6:​Jinja, Macros, and Packages
Jinja Basics
Common Syntax
Expressions
Variables
Conditionals and For Loops
Filters
Whitespace Control
Building Macros
Phone Number Formatter Macro Example
Return a List from a Macro Example
 Generate Schema Name Macro Example
dbt-Specific Jinja Functions
Target
This
Log
Adapter
Var
Env Var
Useful dbt Packages
Add a Package to Your Project
dbt Utils
Codegen
dbt Project Evaluator
dbt Artifacts
dbt Expectations
Summary
Chapter 7:​Hooks
Pre-hooks and Post-hooks
Change Database Role with a Pre-hook
Mask Sensitive Data with a Post-hook with Multiple SQL
Statements
On-Run-Start and On-Run-End
On-Run-Start Example
On-Run-End Example
Supplementary Hook Context
Transactions
 Order of Operations
Run Operation
Summary
Chapter 8:​Tests
Why Run Tests?​
Types of Testing in dbt
Singular Tests
Generic Tests
Out-of-the-Box Tests
Setting Up Tests
Configuring Test Severity
Test Syntax
Executing Tests
Viewing Test Failures
Test Packages
Other Packages
Best Practices
Summary
Chapter 9:​Documentation
Understanding dbt Documentation
Adding Descriptions
Doc Blocks
Understanding Markdown
Adding Meta
Utilizing Images
How to Run
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 Local vs.​dbt Cloud Documentation
Value of Reader Accounts in dbt Cloud
Navigating the Documentation Web Page
Project Tab
Database Tab
Graph Exploration
Searching the Docs Site
Maintaining Documentation
Codegen Package
Summary
Chapter 10:​dbt in Production
Understanding Environments
Git Workflows and dbt Environments
Environment Management with dbt Cloud
Environment Management with dbt Core
Production Jobs
dbt Cloud
dbt Core
CI/​CD
Setting Up an Environment for Continuous Integration
Running a CI Job Using State Comparison
Linting
Continuous Deployment
Final Deployment Considerations
Documentation Deployment
Monitoring and Alerting
 Summary
Index
Random documents with unrelated
content Scribd suggests to you:
 CHAPTER LIX.
Despite his stay of but a few hours in New York and his hasty
journey there and back, it was almost a week between the going
and coming of Norman de Vere, and his heart was full of anxiety as
he dismissed the hack he had hired at the station and walked up the
broad steps of his home just as the soft shadows of twilight were
settling over the beautiful Southland where his lot was cast.

“On breezy pinion mournful eve came singing

Over the silent hills, and to the glades
And violet beds a stream of odors bringing,
And waking music in the forest shades.

“A lovely length of moonlit waters lightly

Broke into sudden brightness on the strand,
While through the sky’s soft fleecy fretwork brightly
The stars looked out upon the stilly land.”

Although he had been tormented all the way by a foreboding of

indefinable evil, a moment of calm, of almost relief came to him as
he paused on the long piazza and ran his hurried gaze over the front
of the house. He saw that lights glimmered through all the windows
as usual, and it somehow reassured his mind.
“There can be nothing wrong. It was only my foolish fancy,” he
muttered; and opened the door with his night-key, anxious to
surprise his darling. “She will not be expecting me until to-morrow,”
he murmured, and thrilled at the thought of clasping her in another
moment to his wildly throbbing heart. “Oh, my love, my darling, how
happy she will be! how she will spring to my arms and clasp her
warm white arms about my neck!” he thought, with the rapture of a
lover, as he mounted the steps, and meeting no one, sought the
nursery. She would be there at this moment before she went to
dress for dinner—there in some pretty, charming déshabille—with
their child whom she worshiped with such fond maternal love.
With an eager smile upon his proud, handsome lips, Norman de
Vere turned the door-knob and entered the room.
Then he started back in surprise.
Blank silence and darkness greeted him, and a deadly chill struck
to his heart.
“Oh, Heaven! not dead—my little Alan dead!” he groaned, in
sudden anguish; but it lasted only a moment, for another thought
came to him.
“Sweetheart, dear baby that she is, has converted her own room
into a nursery in my absence, that she may have her little idol
always with her. I shall find them there.”
And turning from the dreary darkened room, he went along the
hall with rapid steps to the suite of rooms that had once been
occupied by the beautiful Camille, and later on had been refitted and
refurnished for Sweetheart when she became his happy bride.
In the subdued light that filtered softly through frosted gas-
globes in the hall, he paused, and bending down, listened at her
door for the sound of voices.
A low, smothered murmur greeted his ears, and he could no
longer restrain his impatience. He opened the door, and stepped
quickly over the threshold.
And to the day of his death he always wondered why the sight
that met his eyes did not strike him dead as swiftly as if it had been
a bolt of the most terrible lightning.
 There in Sweetheart’s sacred boudoir, from among the dainty
furnishings of blue and gold framed to shrine her fair and youthful
beauty, there glared upon him two darker faces, both distorted by
fiendish triumph—the face of Camille, beautiful still in an artificial
way, breathing, living, and behind her Finette—the artful maid.
 CHAPTER LX.
Camille began to tremble with nervous excitement when she
beheld the man she had wronged so cruelly, but she rose
immediately and made a step toward him, crying out in a tone that
was half pleading, half defiant:
“Norman, I have come back, you see. I could not bear my life
away from you any longer.”
He clutched the back of a chair for support, and stood like a
statue gazing at her with dark, despairing eyes, dazed by the
suddenness of the blow that had fallen upon him. This was Camille,
he knew, although more than four years ago he had gazed on her
dead face, as he thought, and looked down upon a new-made grave
where he believed she slept in peace after her stormy life.
He realized now that he had been fooled, duped—that a clever
plot had been devised to ward off the divorce with which he had
threatened Camille. She was here again, intent on dashing from his
lips the cup of happiness—eager to make of his life a hell equal to
that of her own.
For a moment he could not speak. A strong despair seized upon
him; he could only stand and stare in abhorrence and disgust at the
two women before him.
Camille waited a moment, then moved a little nearer to him. Her
hazel eyes began to glow with passion, and her old alluring beauty
seemed to return in the tender smile that parted the rich red lips.
Her white plush dress, falling in long, straight lines about her and
trailing far behind upon the floor, lent her a statuesque grace as she
extended her round, white arms with a yearning cry:
“Oh, Norman, say that you are glad to have me back! You loved
me once, and the old love can not all be gone. You must have felt a
pang when you thought me dead, knowing how madly I had loved
you in the old days when you loved me, too. Oh, forgive the past! I
have suffered so much I have surely atoned for everything. Oh, pity
me—love me—take me back to your heart!”
When she advanced toward him, he recoiled in disgust, when she
flung herself on her knees and clasped his feet in her mad longing to
regain her old power over him, he spurned her firmly though not
rudely, and made a gesture to Finette.
“Take her away!”
“Monsieur, you are cruel!” the maid cried, malevolently.
“Obey me!” he repeated, sternly; and the fire in his eyes cowed
her so that she dared not refuse. She bent over Camille, who was
taking refuge in hysterics as usual, and putting her arms about her,
drew her gently to a sofa, begging her to be calm.
Camille lay still for a moment, her hand over her eyes, breathing
heavily, and Norman turned to Finette.
“Fiend!” he said, hoarsely, “you have been the prime mover in
this hellish plot, by which I was made to believe yonder woman
dead. But you shall no longer escape punishment for your
wickedness. I will denounce you both to the authorities, and you will
find that Nemesis has overtaken your wrong-doing at last!”
Finette looked at him, a little startled by the threat, but
answered, recklessly:
“I have done no more than my mistress bid me. Her will has
always been my law.”
“Do not think to place her between us as a shield for your
wickedness, cowardly wretch! I shall spare neither of you now, and
my vengeance will recoil in most terrible fashion upon your heads!”
A stifled shriek came from the sofa. Camille glared in fury at him.
“You can not divorce me!” she cried, exultantly. “You have no
cause. I can prove by Finette that I have been willing and anxious to
return to you ever since you sent me away, but you would not
permit it. I will fight the application for divorce every step. I will hold
you apart forever from the doll-faced girl that stole your heart from
me!”
She laughed aloud at the spasm of bitter agony that convulsed
his features at the thought of Sweetheart and of all the woe this
fiendish woman had brought on her and little Alan, her darling. At
the echo of her fiendish merriment the last vestige of pity faded
from his heart and left in its place only a keen thirst for revenge
upon the demoniac creature who had so cruelly desolated his life
even while with the most noble forbearance he had kept his lips
sealed upon the hideous secret of her crime.
He glanced at Finette, who stood apart, angry, yet alarmed in
spite of herself at his strange threats; then he answered Camille in
low, hoarse accents of determination:
“I shall make no application for a divorce. The dark secret of your
past, which I have mercifully kept so long, shall now be given to the
world, and to the verdict of a jury I look for final release from the
fetters that cursed my boyhood and manhood—the fetters of a
mature siren whose smiles hid a shameful past. But the veil shall be
torn away at last, and the world shall know you as you are,
murderess! The vengeance I scorned to take for myself, I take for
my outraged wife and child!”
Camille cowered under the flash of his eyes, but she did not yet
believe he would betray her crime to the world.
“Wife and child!” she uttered, scornfully; and some epithets fell
from her lips that made him turn deathly white with fury.
“Were you a man, you should not live to repeat those words!” he
warned her, bitterly; and then he turned to Finette, who, ever since
the utterance of that word murderess by his lips, had stood quaking
with fear and astonishment. “Where are they—my wife and child?”
he asked, sternly.
“They went away the morning after we came,” sullenly.
 “After you two had poured your poisonous story into her ears?”
“After my mistress had told her the plain truth—that you never
loved her, and only married her to quiet the scandalous story that
she was your illegitimate child!” defiantly.
“My God!” he groaned, and for a minute she feared he would
murder her, so terrible was his aspect.
But he controlled himself with an effort, and asked:
“Where did they go?”
“I do not know.”
“But my mother accompanied them?” he went on.
“They went alone. Mrs. de Vere was not here when we came.
She has never returned.”
“And the fraudulent telegram that summoned me to New York?”
he said, beginning now to understand the whole diabolical plan.
“I sent it,” Camille answered, lifting her head with a gesture of
triumph. “I planned everything. I got you out of the way so that I
would have no trouble in getting the girl’s ear. After she heard all I
had to tell, she was glad to go. I told her I had come to stay, as I
mean to do. I shall never allow you to drive me from Verelands
again.”
“I shall leave you in full possession for a short time,” he replied,
with so strange and meaning a smile that she trembled in spite of
her bravado.
“But he would not dare,” she thought, uneasily.
“If you will tell me now what device you used to lure my mother
away from her home that night, I will go in search of her at once
and leave you to the enjoyment of your triumph,” he said, icily.
“I got Nance to send for her to come to her death-bed. With all
an old woman’s curiosity, she went, and once there she fell sick and
had to remain a few days to recuperate,” Camille answered, with
heartless mirth.
Her last coup had failed. He despised her as heartily as ever; he
would never be lured by her siren wiles again. Her love turned at
last to hate. She became reckless.
“I have triumphed over you completely!” she cried out, wildly.
“You have forever lost the girl for whose love you deserted me. You
will never see her face again. Doubtless she and her nameless brat
are at this moment lying at the bottom of the river!”
He did not look back at her, for he was already crossing the
threshold; but with that awful taunt ringing in his ears he staggered
from her presence, leaving her to the mingled sweet and bitter of
her triumph and defeat.
Camille flung her arms over her head with a piercing shriek of
rage that died into silence a minute later, for she had grown rigid
and unconscious. It required all Finette’s art to bring her out of that
long, death-like swoon.
She was lying, white and exhausted, when Finette bent over her
with menacing eyes.
“He called you murderess. What did he mean?” she asked,
sharply.
Camille cowered, and protested that the maid had not
understood Norman; he had uttered no such word.
“I do not believe you. I heard him distinctly. Come, I thought I
knew the worst of you, but I did not believe you were as bad as
that. I understand much now that used to puzzle me. I have a mind
to leave you forever.”
“‘Rats always desert a sinking ship!’” Camille quoted, scornfully.
“And very sensible in them, too,” Finette muttered. She rose
suddenly to her feet. “I’ll follow their example, and let you go to the
gallows by yourself, miladi,” she said, heartlessly.
 But Camille clutched her skirts with a shriek, as she turned to go.
“Stay with me, Finette, and I will make you rich,” she cried,
pleadingly. “You shall have another one of those uncut gems—that
great emerald that cost me many thousands. Only stay with me! You
are the only friend I have in the wide world!” hysterically.
“You may thank your own folly for that,” the maid said, bluntly.
“You are a she-devil, if ever I saw one, and I don’t know as even
that emerald will tempt me to stay long with you unless you try to
be more agreeable,” insolently.
 CHAPTER LXI.
Yes, Sweetheart had gone away from Verelands, where she had
been so unutterably happy, and where such blighting sorrow and
disgrace had fallen upon her life.
She had not waited to be thrust out-of-doors by the hands of her
vindictive foe; she had gone herself, creeping forth with bowed head
and unsteady steps at the earliest dawn of day. In her arms she
carried her sleeping child; but she did not go to the river, as Camille
ardently hoped she would; and the fear of such a tragedy was soon
dissipated in Norman’s mind by the reception of a letter which
Sweetheart had left for him with one of the servants—a letter
scrawled in a trembling hand, barely like her own, so terrible was
her agitation. Sweetheart had written it upon her knees, being so
weak that she could not sit upright to pen the incoherent lines to the
man of whom she was taking so bitter a farewell. In it she had
inclosed her unfinished verses, and Norman read them through a
mist of tears, the bitterest he had ever shed in his shadowed life.
“This is what I was writing, when she—your wife,
whom we thought dead—came back and set the seal of
shame and despair on the short story of my life:

“’Tis midnight, my darling, the house is so lonely—

All, all are asleep but me;
I waken to weep, ah, beloved, if only—
If only I were with thee!
But the swift hours are bearing thee further away,
The swift hours whose flight my poor heart can not
stay;
Come back to me, darling, my eager heart cries,
And the bitter tears rush from my heart to my eyes.”
 “You see, Norman, I was feeling very, very unhappy
over your absence. It must have been a presentiment of
evil. When she first said that she was your wife, I could
not believe it. But when Nurse Mary came home from the
party, I told her all. She had seen your wife when she
lived at Verelands long ago. She went upstairs and looked
at the two women, and she came back to me weeping.
She had recognized them both. There was no longer any
doubt, no longer any hope for me.
“So I am going away, Norman, but do not add to your
troubles the fear lest I shall drown myself, as your wife
advised me to do. I am quite wretched enough to do it,
but you will have sorrow enough to bear without that. And
I can not throw away my life, because you saved it, and I
hold it sacred to you. But you will never see me again. I
shall go far away with my child, and live out my unhappy
life in silence and obscurity. I have given trouble enough
to that poor creature upstairs. Be kind to her, Norman, for
the loss of your love seems to have driven her mad.
“Oh, how good you have been to me, Norman! She
told me all. Even in my babyhood it was my fate to come
between your heart and hers. How could she believe that
cruel story, and you so noble and so good? But it was her
jealous nature. For me, I could not see a fault in you if the
whole world bore witness. I have loved you and believed
in you always. My heart went to you the first time I saw
you on that mysterious journey when you saved my life. It
never left you. It remains with you now, while I go out of
your life forever. May it be a talisman to guard you from
all evil.
“I have no fault to find with you, Norman, although
you did not marry me for love, but to shield me from a
hideous slander. It was very noble in you, and you carried
out the farce of love so well I never knew the difference. I
 shall try to cheat my heart with the fancy that you did
learn to love me a little—at least, after Baby Alan came, of
whom you were so proud, and now, alas! poor little one.
“Farewell, Norman. Perhaps you may learn to forgive
her and love her again. I shall pray always for your
happiness, but you must forget poor
“Sweetheart.”
“My God, I must find her! She can not go out of my life like this,
my love—my wife in the sight of Heaven, whatever man’s laws may
say to the contrary! Our child, our darling, puts a holier seal on our
marriage—makes it more binding than the irksome time that bound
me to that fiend Camille,” the stricken man raved aloud in his agony
of despair.
 CHAPTER LXII.
If Norman believes that the spell of his love is strong enough to
trace Sweetheart in her flight, he is mistaken. Days elapse, and he
has not found the first clew. If she has left the city, he can not
ascertain by what route, and if she is still in Jacksonville, she is
hidden so cleverly that a private detective can not find her out. She
is quite gone out of her husband’s life—gone as mysteriously as she
had come into it first sixteen years ago a little golden-haired fairy.
A chill runs over him as the fact strikes him. There had always
been a mystery about Sweetheart’s origin. Would the same mystery
follow her disappearance? Beautiful and gifted beyond most mortals,
was she some fairy changeling lent him awhile to brighten his life,
then snatched away forever to her immortal sphere? He had never
been accounted superstitious, but a thrill of fear ran over him as he
recalled a pretty Shetland fairy-tale he had often read, wherein the
fairy bride, won at first from the sea, had deserted her husband and
returned to her home among the coral caves:

“Days of delight
Among my gorgeous coral halls,
Where never a child’s footstep falls,
Never is heard one loving voice,
But all is mirth and mad rejoice.”

He swept his white hand wearily across his brow as if to clear

away these mists of fancy.
“Sweetheart, you never would have deserted me!” he cried, in his
anguish. “Oh, my love, my love, come back to me!”
 But, although the search for Sweetheart baffled every one who
undertook it, Norman was more fortunate as regarded his mother.
He found her where Camille had declared she was—at the cabin of
Nance, the whilom chamber-maid at Verelands. The negro girl had
degenerated into a thriftless, lazy sloven, much addicted to drink,
and sprung eagerly at any chance that offered money without work,
so she accepted Camille’s golden bribe, even though it was offered
for the injury of the old mistress who had in past days been most
generous and kind to her servant. But Nance had all the proverbial
ingratitude of the negro race, and did not hesitate to bind the
aristocratic lady tightly down upon a low cot-bed, where, after
placing a sufficient quantity of water and coarse food within easy
reach, she left her to her fate, locking the doors of the cabin and
beating a hasty retreat to another city—for she well knew that, when
this outrage was discovered, her punishment would be little short of
lynching.
Here, after she had been imprisoned for a week, Norman de Vere
found his beloved and revered mother ill unto death with fever and
raving in delirium. Too low to be removed, he had to fit the cabin up
as comfortably as possible for transient occupancy. Here he
remained with some trusty servants in the squalid negro cabin,
nursing his mother, while up at Verelands, his beautiful home, the
fiendish Camille held complete sway, and the city rang with the story
of the wicked revenge she had taken on her husband for his
obstinacy in refusing to forgive her for a harmless flirtation. There
were many who condemned her, but a few people sympathized with
her, saying that Norman had been too hard upon her and deserved
his punishment. A few people even called out of curiosity, but Finette
sent them curtly away with the excuse that her mistress was ill and
could see no one. This was not a falsehood, for Camille really lay
upon Sweetheart’s pretty bed from day to day, raging, raving in
alternate hatred and despair, realizing, after her long plotting for
vengeance, that her triumph had left her ruined life waste and
empty as before of the one blessing she had craved so madly—the
love of the man whom she had turned against her by her terrible
crime. Finette was changing daily, too. Her once cringing manner
had turned to insolence, and she affected to tremble every time the
door-bell rang, vowing that she listened daily for the officers to come
and arrest her mistress for the murder with which Norman de Vere
had charged her. In vain Camille protested her innocence, for her
scared eyes betrayed her guilt. She had seen the murdered Robert
Lacy so often in her dreams that she began to fancy he haunted her,
and could not bear for the maid to leave her alone for a minute in
the beautiful room where she had once been so wildly happy, but
which now seemed peopled with fiends from Hades, grinning at her
from over one another’s shoulders.
Lying there, watched by the sullen, insolent creature who had
aided and abetted her in all of her cruel, wicked schemes for the
sake of the golden bribe she offered, what visions came to Camille,
the proud beauty whose unbridled passions had made shipwreck of
her life! Visions of the past and of the glorious opportunities for
happiness she had wasted and flung into the yawning pit of sin.
Beautiful, rich, madly beloved—she had been all these, yet now she
lay shivering, terrified, friendless, waiting, fearing, dreading the—
prison cell.
Yes, she could think of nothing else but Norman’s mad threat
that now he would betray the dark secret kept so long, and so free
himself from the incubus she had made of herself, and punish her
for the sorrow she had brought upon those dearer to him than his
own life.
“Will he do it? Can he doom me to the gallows-tree?” the half-
mad creature asked herself hourly; and as each day rolled away she
began to feel more secure. “He can not do it, much as he hates me.
I know he could not harm me, even for her sake. The past makes
me sacred in his eyes still,” she began to think with keen triumph in
her power.
 CHAPTER LXIII.
In the trouble that had fallen upon him, Norman de Vere quite
forgot Lord Stuart and his sister, the guests whom he was soon to
receive at Verelands, or he would have written to them of all that
had happened during his trip to New York and since his return to
Jacksonville.
But, half crazed with trouble and anxiety, the young man could
remember nothing except that his dear mother lay upon a sick,
perhaps death-bed, and that his darling wife and child had gone into
a most impenetrable exile, hounded from home and love by the
most fiendish plot the brain of a wicked woman ever devised. While
duty held him chained to his mother’s side, he had committed to a
clever detective the task of tracing Sweetheart, and every moment a
prayer went up from his heart that she might soon be found. That
she could no longer be his—that Camille’s life had thrust their lives
apart—he realized, but that a home must be provided for Sweetheart
and the child, he felt imperatively necessary. If Heaven spared his
mother’s life, she would go and live with them, he knew, and for
himself nothing remained but to denounce Camille for the murder of
Robert Lacy—to denounce her and doom her to the solitude of the
prison cell. The murder had been committed so long ago that she
would not be hung for it, he knew. Time, and the fact that she was a
woman, would both be in her favor. Southern juries were chivalrous,
too. He recalled all this with satisfaction, for bitterly as Camille had
wronged him and his, the man’s heart shrunk at thought of the
vengeance he must take on the fair, faulty creature who had once
been his wife, for whom he had felt a boy’s delirious passion.
“But I can not spare her if I would, for she has rushed madly,
recklessly upon her fate. For Sweetheart’s sake, for our child’s sake,
this guilty woman must be placed behind prison bars. Then the law
will free me forever from her hated claim, and the marriage
ceremony shall make Sweetheart once more my own,” he thought.
But while his mother lay ill he made no effort to molest Camille in
her triumphant occupation of Verelands. His anxiety over his loved
ones tortured him too cruelly.
Meantime, the days rolled by, and Lord Stuart and Lady Edith
Moreland left New York for Jacksonville. They did not think it
necessary to write or telegraph to their friends, still carrying out
their fancy for surprising Sweetheart.
Lady Edith was as eager and joyous as a child when they took a
carriage at the station to drive to Verelands.
“Dear child, I know she will be so happy to see me again!” she
exclaimed, excitedly; and her brother looked in surprise and delight
at her charming, animated face, which was flushed to a soft, roseate
color, while her dark-blue eyes sparkled with feeling.
“You look like a girl again, Edith,” he said, admiringly.
“Nonsense!” she laughed. Then she added, with a pensive
glance: “Why, I am old enough to be Thea’s mother and her child’s
grandmother. I wish I were!” and tears sprung to her gentle eyes.
“You will have to adopt them as such,” Lord Stuart said, lightly;
but he put his arm around her, and soothed her tenderly as though
she were a child, and presently their carriage was stopping at the
white gates of beautiful Verelands.
“Just a few more minutes, and I shall see her. Oh, what
happiness!” Lady Edith cried, with the eagerness of a child.
“If she should be out calling or driving, I do not see how you
could bear the shock of disappointment, Edith,” her brother said,
good-humoredly.
“Alan Arthur would be at home anyhow, so I should amuse
myself with him till his pretty mamma returned,” she replied, gayly,
as he handed her out of the carriage; and they entered the white
gates, within which they were destined to meet such a terrible
disappointment.
 CHAPTER LXIV.
“There is nobody at home, sir, but Mrs. de Vere. She is ill, and
will see no one,” said the tidy negro girl who answered the bell.
“She will see us, for we have come from England to see her,”
Lady Edith exclaimed, impetuously; while she wondered why every
one had gone away and left her dear Thea ill and alone.
“Yes, she will see us when she knows our names,” said Lord
Stuart, putting two cards into her hand with a silver coin that made
her show all her fine white teeth in a grin of delight.
“I’ll ask Mrs. de Vere’s maid. She is the mistress here, it seems,”
said the girl, in a tone of discontent. Then she ushered them into a
pretty reception-room. “You can wait here till I find out,” she said.
When they were alone, Lady Edith looked at her brother with
questioning eyes.
“Is it not strange for Mr. de Vere and his mother to leave Thea
alone and sick?” she asked.
“I do not understand it,” he replied; and a cloud of anxiety came
over his face.
He thought of the false telegram that had summoned Norman de
Vere to New York. What if he had never returned? What if there
were foul play somewhere?
He waited most impatiently a few minutes, then the door
unclosed, and a woman appeared on the threshold.
Lord Stuart gave a violent start, for time had scarcely touched
Finette, and in the creature before him he at once recognized
Camille’s maid. He could not repress a slight shudder of disgust
when her snaky black eyes, after sweeping curiously over his sister,
fixed themselves upon him.
“My lord,” she began, with a cringing movement of her supple
frame, “my mistress is sick. She sees no one, but”—with a courtesy
to Lady Edith—“she will see you in her boudoir a few moments if the
lady will excuse her.”
Lady Edith rose quickly, but Finette made her a gesture to sit
down again.
“My lady, it is not you she consents to receive, it is Lord Stuart,”
she said, flippantly; and Lady Edith sunk back in her chair with a low
cry of wounded pride.
Lord Stuart went to her, and with a rare impulse of tenderness
kissed the lovely, disappointed face.
“There is some mistake,” he whispered, soothingly. “It will be
explained, I am sure, as soon as I see Thea. Will you wait here for
me a little while?”
“Yes,” she replied; but as soon as she was left alone she burst
into the bitterest sobs.
Her loving nature was cruelly wounded by this cold and strange
reception, after all her affectionate anticipations of the joyful
welcome she would have from Thea.
Meanwhile, Lord Stuart was following Finette to the boudoir,
thinking how unseemly it appeared that the first wife’s maid should
be here in attendance on Thea.
“I should not like it myself,” he thought; and just then Finette
flung open the boudoir door.
He entered, and found himself in an exquisite apartment, whose
prevailing color was a rich azure. The rich hue and fragrance of
flowers greeted him on every side, but the apartment was
untenanted, and Finette said, apologetically:
“My mistress will be with you in a few moments.”
 Then she disappeared into an inner room, and he waited most
impatiently for Thea to enter, wondering why she had declined to
see his sister with himself.
“It is perplexing—nay, more, it is positively discourteous to treat
Edith like this, after the devotion with which my sister nursed her
through her long illness in London,” he thought, with rising
indignation that grew stronger every moment he waited, for Camille
was tardy. Her maid had to make some changes in her toilet before
Camille would consent to enter the presence of her old lover.
But at last the rich silken négligée was adjusted to her fancy, and
with a throbbing heart and nervous step Camille entered and bowed
to her guest.
 CHAPTER LXV.
Lord Stuart grasped the back of a chair to steady himself, and
stared aghast.
“My lord, I am very happy to meet you. You see I have come
back to my own,” said Camille, with her old dazzling smile and
radiant glance that he so well remembered.
She had advanced to the center of the beautiful apartment, and
was holding out her white, ringed hand to him, but he did not
appear to notice it. He only gasped as if she had thrown ice-water
over him.
“Are you ill, my lord?” she continued, in her most gracious
manner. “Pray be seated. I will ring for wine.”
But he put up his hand with a gesture of dissent, and his pale lips
gasped a feeble negative.
Camille’s smile began to fade.
“I do not understand. Has the mere sight of an old friend so
overcome you?” she asked, with a little of her old coquetry; and,
going nearer, she laid her white hand on his arm, but he shrunk in
horror from her light touch.
“I—I—thought—you—dead!” he managed to mutter, in
disconnected words; and she removed her hand from his arm and
fell back a pace from him.
“You thought me dead? Ah, then, you did not come here to see
me?” bitterly.
“Certainly not,” he answered, regaining himself in a measure,
though he was still ghastly white and trembling.
 “I thought you dead four years ago. Norman de Vere had married
again. It was to see his second wife that I came to Verelands.”
“His second wife? What was she to you or your sister?” Camille
asked, with a sneer.
“A dear and valued friend,” he replied, gazing at her with eyes of
steady scorn that made her burst out angrily:
“The poor foundling creature, basely born, no doubt, was
fortunate in finding nobly born friends like Lady Moreland and Lord
Stuart?”
“I do not understand your allusions,” Lord Stuart said, icily.
“Do you not?” she asked, in wonder. She gazed steadily at him,
then said, eagerly: “Lord Stuart, possibly you do not know the whole
story of my bitter wrongs at the hands of my faithless husband. Will
you not sit down and let me tell you all?”
He was about to refuse, but with her eager white hands she
pushed him gently into a chair.
“Do not refuse,” she pleaded. “Once you were a very good friend
of mine. Why not now? God knows I have suffered enough at my
husband’s hands through your admiration for you to make me the
small atonement of pitying me, of sympathizing with me in this
hour.”
She flung herself into a chair opposite to him, and hurried into
what she called the relation of her wrongs, and the first complaint
began with the bringing of Little Sweetheart to Verelands.
“Of course I was wrong in believing the child his own, as he
proved my suspicions false by marrying the girl afterward,” she
admitted. “But do you not think with me, Lord Stuart, that he should
have taken the child away when I requested, nay, commanded it?”
“You must excuse me for not passing judgment upon the master
of Verelands under his own roof. That would be discourteous,” he
said; but she noticed that he was very curious over the things she
told him. He did not disdain to ask questions, and he extracted from
her all the information she could impart regarding the origin of
Sweetheart.
“Norman believed that the woman on the train with the child was
her mother,” said Camille. “But the child, when asked, denied it. She
said the woman’s name was Mattie. My own theory, Lord Stuart, was
that the woman was some circus creature, and that the child had
been trained to act upon the stage. She was pert and precocious for
one of her age.”
When the subject of Sweetheart had been exhausted, she took
up her innocent flirtation with himself.
“For these simple faults I was driven like a criminal from his heart
and home,” she cried, bitterly. “Can you wonder, Lord Stuart, that,
driven to madness by his scorn, I planned and carried out such a
bitter revenge upon my cruel husband?”
He looked at her inquiringly; and with fiendish joy that made her
appear most revolting to him, she told him all that she had done—
how a pauper’s dead body had been palmed off on Norman de Vere
as her own, and how in the hour of his most exquisite happiness she
had struck the full cup of happiness from his lips, and driven the girl
he loved away with her child into exile and misery.
He listened without one word of reply. Bad as he knew her to be,
he could scarcely credit this crowning act of fiendishness.
As soon as she paused he arose.
“Can you tell me where to find Mr. de Vere?” he asked.
“I can not,” she answered, stiffly, although she knew perfectly
well through her spy, Finette, where he was. But she saw, with bitter
mortification, that Lord Stuart’s sympathies were not with her, but
had gone out silently to the noble man of whose life she had made
such a foot-ball of fate. “You take his part against me!” she said,
with flashing eyes and her most regal air.
 He was going to the door; but he turned back, very pale and
moved, and gazed steadfastly into her excited face.
“I take your part against yourself,” he answered, gravely. “I
would save you from the fate you are bringing down upon yourself,
because—well, because I loved you once, although I am ashamed of
it now. But, Camille, if you stay on here at Verelands, this horrible
vengeance of which you boast is going to recoil in terrible disaster
on your own head. Be warned in time. Tell the truth, and crave
Norman de Vere’s pardon for your wickedness. If you will not do
that, go away far from here and hide yourself as far as possible from
the storm of disgrace that is going to break on your head.”
A tremor ran over her at the earnestness with which he spoke,
but she laughed aloud with the recklessness of a desperate woman.
“I shall never leave Verelands again, and I defy the disasters you
predict, Lord Stuart,” she replied, daringly.
He did not reply. He simply bowed and hastened from her
presence, drawing a breath of relief at his escape.
“Oh, brother, how strange you look! What is it?” Lady Edith cried,
starting up anxiously to meet him.
“It is nothing,” he said, drawing his arm about the trembling
figure. “I told you,” he added, “that there was some mistake. Mr. de
Vere and his wife are both away from home, Edith.”
“But the girl said that Thea was sick.”
“She said that Mrs. de Vere was sick. It was the elder lady.”
“Norman’s mother?”
“Yes. Heaven forgive me, but she must not know yet,” he added
to himself.
“But where are they gone? It is rather strange; for he knew we
were coming!” cried poor Lady Edith, in disappointment and distress.
 “It was a compulsory trip, Edith—something connected with that
fraudulent telegram, you know,” evasively. “But, my dear, as Mrs. de
Vere is so ill, I think I will take you to a hotel for the present.”
“Yes, yes, that will be better,” she assented, with a sigh of the
most bitter disappointment.
She rose obediently and went away with him to the carriage,
which was still waiting for them at the gate, with the prim English
maid in it wondering if her mistress was ever going to summon her
into the house, or if she were making a ceremonious call only at the
handsome Southern mansion.
Lord Stuart put his sister into the carriage, gave the driver his
order for a hotel, and then they drove away from Verelands, Lord
Stuart, pale and excited, his sister pensive and tearful over the bitter
disappointment of finding her beloved Thea away from her home.
 CHAPTER LXVI.
Lord Stuart saw his sister comfortably settled in the best suite of
rooms at the Hôtel Français, then he set himself to work to find out
the whereabouts of Norman de Vere.
It was an easy task, for the city was ringing with the story of the
scandalous happenings at Verelands, and in a short time Lord Stuart
was driving out to the negro cabin on the suburbs, where the ill,
perhaps dying mother lay amid her humble surroundings, attended
by her faithful maid and her half-distracted son.
The meeting between Lord Stuart and the author took place in
the tidy but bare little kitchen, the only other room being the one
where the invalid lay. It was a sad and sympathetic meeting, for
Lord Stuart was awed by Norman’s changed and haggard looks. His
face was pale and wan, his beautiful dark eyes heavy with watching
and unshed tears, his sensitive lips trembled with grief, and silver
threads shone in the wavy locks that a month ago were dark as the
raven’s wing.
Lord Stuart pressed his cold, nervous hand with the warmth of a
brother.
“Be of good cheer, my friend. ‘Every cloud has a silver lining,’” he
said, hopefully.
“You do not know all,” Norman answered, despairingly.
“Yes; I have been to Verelands. I have seen Camille, and heard
the whole story from her lips.”
They sat down together and talked as old friends, sadly,
earnestly. Norman told him that his mother was so ill that her death
might be expected at any time.
 “Doctor Hall has told me that the crisis of her disease will come
to-night,” he said. “A few hours now will decide her fate. Oh, my
God! if my poor mother dies of the treatment received at the hands
of that remorseless fiend, I believe that I shall go mad with the
horror of it.”
“We will hope and pray for the best,” Lord Stuart said, deeply
moved, and added: “I will come and watch with you to-night.”
By degrees Lord Stuart brought the conversation around to the
story Camille had told him of Sweetheart’s origin. He induced
Norman to repeat the whole story to him.
“Have you kept the clothing the child wore when you saved her
life?” he asked, eagerly.
“Yes; every little garment is in a trunk at Verelands, together with
a water-colored photograph I had taken of her a few days after I
took charge of her. I kept the things in the hope that they might
some day assist in establishing her identity.”
“I hope you will not believe me idly curious if I ask you to show
me those garments and that picture at some future day,” Lord Stuart
said, in a strange voice.
Norman promised to gratify his curiosity without thinking that
there was anything significant in it, so fully was his mind absorbed in
his trouble; and presently Lord Stuart took leave, promising to return
that night and watch with Norman through the crisis that the
physician had predicted as imminent.
Then he returned to the hotel to his sister, having decided that it
would be better to confide to her some of the facts he had learned,
smoothing them over as best he could, lest her grief over poor
Thea’s trouble should prostrate her upon a sick-bed, and so hinder
him from assisting Norman in his troubles.
Lady Edith was cruelly shocked, but she bore it more bravely
than he had expected.
 “Dear brother, there is something in your face that tells me you
are hopeful,” she cried, eagerly, through her starting tears.
“Yes, I am hopeful,” he answered, firmly. “All is not so dark as it
appears, Edith, and if Norman’s mother only gets well, and we can
find our precious runaways, I shall do all I can to help our noble
friend unravel the web of fate that wicked Camille has woven around
him. There are some precious threads in my grasp, but I must not
tell you more just now. Only be brave and patient, my sister, and
keep in your mind the old adage: ‘The darkest hour is just before the
dawn.’”
 CHAPTER LXVII.
Lord Stuart went back to the cabin that night to share Norman’s
vigil, and when he stood by the bedside of Mrs. de Vere, and saw
what an awful change had come over the once handsome, noble-
looking woman, his heart sunk with dread. The gray shadow of
death seemed already settling upon her terribly wasted features. He
did not believe that she could possibly live through the impending
crisis.
“She will die to-night, and another crime will lie at the door of
that beautiful fiend,” he thought, with burning indignation against
heartless Camille.
They had been sitting quietly for more than an hour, watching
the invalid, who lay in a stupor almost as deep as death, when Lord
Stuart’s ear caught the sound of a light tapping at the kitchen door.
He rose softly and went out, anxious that Norman should not be
disturbed, and found a messenger boy with a telegram for Norman
de Vere.
Lord Stuart took the telegram and turned into the quiet kitchen.
A thought had come to him of the fraudulent one that had
summoned Norman de Vere to New York in order that his relentless
foe might desolate his home.
“Perhaps this is some more of her cruel work. She would drag
the son by a deep-laid scheme from the bedside of his dying
mother,” he thought, angrily. “But I will foil her plan. For my friend’s
sake, I will read the telegram and decide whether he shall see it to-
night or not.”
He tore off the yellow envelope and read the telegram, which
was dated from a distant Western town. His eyes dilated at these
startling words: