After they had shaken hands with their lodger they turned looks of inquiry upon the tall, gray-haired old man that stood behind him.

"This is a very old friend of mine; I have engaged him to take care of my rooms, his name is Morris, but upon account of his skill in many arts he has received from the public the title of professor," said Ishmael, turning an affectionate look upon the old odd-job man.

"How do you do, Professor Morris? We are very glad to see you, I am sure; and we hope you will find yourself comfortable, and also that you will be a comfort to Mr. Worth, who is a very estimable young gentleman indeed," said Miss Jenny, speaking for herself and sister.

"I cannot fail to be both comfortable and happy under this honored roof, my ladies!" said the professor, in a most reverential tone, laying his hand upon his heart and making a profound bow that would have done credit to the most accomplished courtier of the grave and stately old school.

"A nice, gentlemanly old person," said Miss Jenny, nodding her head to her sister. And Miss Nelly said "Yes," and nodded her head also.

"If you can fit up the little chamber adjoining my bedroom for the professor, I will arrange with you for his board," said Ishmael, aside to Miss Jenny.

"Oh, certainly; it shall be done immediately," replied the old lady. And she left the room, followed by her sister, to give orders to that effect.

And before night the professor was comfortably installed in his neatly furnished and well-warmed little room, and Ishmael's apartments were restored to order, and he himself in full career going over the office business of the last two weeks with his clerks.

He found a plenty of work cut out for him to do, and he resolved to be very busy to make up for his idleness during his holiday.

Ishmael did not really wish to tax his old servant with any labor at all. He wished his office to be as much of a sinecure as possible. And he continually urged the professor to go abroad and see the city sights, or to walk in the garden and enjoy his pipe, or rest himself in his own room, or visit his daughter, the hackman's wife.

The professor obediently did all this for a time; but as the days passed Ishmael saw that the old man's greatest happiness consisted in staying with and serving his master; and so he at length permitted the professor to relieve the chamber-maid of her duties in his rooms, and take quiet possession and complete charge of them.

And never were rooms kept in more perfect order. And, best of all, love taught the professor the mystic art of dusting without deranging papers and dementing their owner.

Ishmael's present position was certainly a very pleasant one. He not only found a real home in his boarding-house, and a faithful friend in his servant, but a pair of aunties in his landladies. Every good heart brought in contact with Ishmael Worth was sure to love him. And these old ladies were no exception to the rule. They had no relatives to bestow their affections upon, and so, seeing every day more of their young lodger's worth, they grew to love him with maternal ardor. It is not too much to say that they doted on him. And in private they nodded their heads at each other and talked of its being time to make their wills, and spoke of young Mr. Worth as their heir and executor.

Ishmael for his part treated the old ladies with all the reverential tenderness that their age and womanhood had a right to expect from his youth and manhood. He never dreamed that the "sweet, small courtesies," which it was his happiness to bestow alike on rich and poor, had won for him such signal favor in the eyes of the old ladies. He knew and was happy to know that they loved him. That was all. He never dreamed of being their heir; he never even imagined that they had any property to bequeath. He devoted himself with conscientious zeal to his profession, and went on, as he deserved to go on, from success to success.



CHAPTER XIII.

LADY VINCENT'S RECEPTION.

The folds of her wine-dark violet dress Glow over the sofa fall on fall. As she sits in the light of her loveliness, With a smile for each and for all.

Could we find out her heart through that velvet and lace, Can it beat without rumpling her sumptuous dress? She will show us her shoulder, her bosom, her face, But what her heart's like, we must guess. —O. M.



The evening of Lady Vincent's reception arrived. At an unfashionably early hour Judge Merlin's country house was filled.

All the county families of any importance were represented there. The rustic guests, drawn, no doubt, not more by their regard for Judge Merlin and his daughter than by their curiosity to behold a titled foreigner.

Mr. and Mrs. Middleton and Beatrice came very early, encumbered with several bandboxes; for their long ride made it necessary for them to defer their evening toilet until after their arrival.

They were received and conducted to their rooms by old Aunt Katie. "Lady Vincent," she said, "has not yet left her dressing room."

When their toilets were made, Mr. and Mrs. Middleton came to Bee's door to take her down to the drawing room.

Very beautiful indeed looked Bee, in her floating, cloud-like dress of snow-white tulle, with white moss-roses resting on her rounded bosom and wreathing her golden ringlets; and all her beauty irradiated with the light of a happy love.

Her father smiled proudly and her mother fondly on her as she came out and joined them.

The found the drawing rooms already well filled with guests.

Lord and Lady Vincent stood near the door to receive all comers. To them the Middletons first went.

Very handsome and majestic looked Claudia in her rich robe of royal purple velvet, with her raven black hair crowned with a diadem of diamonds, and diamonds blazing on her neck and arms and at her waist. Strangers looked upon her loveliness with unqualified delight. Her "beauty made them glad." But friends who saw the glittering surface and the alloy beneath it, admired and sighed. Her dark eyes were beaming with light; her oval cheeks were burning with crimson fire. Mrs. Middleton thought this was fever; but Bee knew it was French rouge.

Claudia received her friends with bright smiles and gay words. She complimented them on their good looks and rallied them on their gravity. And then she let them lightly pass away to make room for new arrivals, who were approaching to pay their respects.

They passed through the crowd until they found Judge Merlin, to whose care Mr. Middleton consigned Bee, while he himself, with his wife on his arm, made a tour of all the rooms, including the supper room.

The party, they saw, was going to be a successful one, notwithstanding the fact that the three great metropolitan ministers of fashion had nothing whatever to do with it.

Sam and Jim, with perfect liberty to do their worst in the matters of garden flowers and wax lights, had decorated and illuminated the rooms with the rich profusion for which the negro servants are notorious. The guests might have been in fairy groves and bowers, instead of drawing rooms, for any glimpse of walls or ceilings they could get through green boughs and blooming flowers.

In the supper room old Aunt Katie with her attendant nymphs had laid a feast that might vie in "toothsomeness" if not in elegance with the best ever elaborated by the celebrated caterer.

And in the dancing room the local band of negro musicians drew from their big fiddle, little fiddle, banjo, and bones notes as ear- piercing and limb-lifting, if not as scientific and artistic, as anything ever executed by Dureezie's renowned troupe.

The Englishman, secretly cynical, sneered at all this; but openly courteous, made himself agreeable to all the prettiest of the country belles, who ever after had the proud boast of having quadrilled or waltzed with Lord Vincent.

The party did not break up until morning. The reason of this was obvious—the company could not venture to return home in their carriages over those dangerous country roads until daylight.

It was, in fact, sunrise before the last guests departed and the weary family were at liberty to go to bed and sleep. They had turned the night into day, and now it was absolutely necessary to turn the day into night.

They did not any of them awake until three or four o'clock in the afternoon, when they took coffee in their chambers. And they did not reassemble until the late dinner hour at six o'clock, by which time the servants had removed the litter of the party and restored the rooms to neatness, order, and comfort.

The Middletons had not departed with the other guests. They joined the family at dinner. And after dinner, at the pressing invitation of Judge Merlin, they agreed to remain at Tanglewood for the few days that would intervene before the departure of Lord and Lady Vincent for Europe. Only Bee, the next morning, drove over to the Beacon to give the servants there strict charges in regard to the girls and boys, and to bring little Lu back with her to Tanglewood.

The next week was passed in making the final preparations for the voyage.

And when all was ready on a bright Monday morning, the first of October, Lord and Lady Vincent, with their servants and baggage, departed from Tanglewood.

Judge Merlin, leaving his house to be shut up by the Middletons, accompanied them to see them off in the steamer.

It was quite an imposing procession that left Tanglewood that morning. There were two carriages and a van. In the first carriage rode Lord and Lady Vincent and Judge Merlin. In the second my lord's valet and my lady's three servants. And in the van was piled an inconceivable amount of luggage.

This procession made a sensation, I assure you, as it lumbered along the rough country roads. Every little isolated cabin along the way turned out its ragged rout of girls and boys who threw up their arms with a prolonged "Hooray!" as it passed—to the great disgust of the Englishman and the transient amusement of the judge. As for Claudia, she sat back with her eyes closed and cared for nothing.

The negroes came in for their share of notice.

"Hooray, Aunt Katie, is that you a-ridin' in a coach as bold as brass?" some wayside laborer would shout.

"As bold as brass yourself!" would be the irate retort of the old woman, nodding her head that was adorned with a red and yellow bonnet, from the window.

"Hillo, Jim! that's never you, going to forring parts as large as life?" would sing out another.

"Yes! Good-by! God bless you all as is left behind!" would be Jim's compassionate reply.

"Lord bless my soul and body, what a barbarous country!" would be Lord Vincent's muttered comment. And the judge would smile and Claudia slumber, or seem to do so.

And this happened over and over again all along the turnpike road, until they got to Shelton, where they embarked on the steamer "Arrow" for Baltimore, where they arrived the next day at noon.

They made no stay in the Monumental City. Old Katie's dilated eyes had not time to relieve themselves by one wink over the wonders of the new world into which she was introduced, before, to her "surprise and 'stonishment," as she afterwards expressed it, she found herself "on board the cars, being whisked off somewhere else. And if you would believe her racket, she had to hold the h'ar on her head to keep it from being streamed off in the flight. And she was no sooner set down comfortable in the cars at Baltimore than she had to get up and get outen them at New York. And you better had believe it, chillun, that's all."

Old Aunt Katie must have slept all the way through that night's journey; for it is certain that the cars in which she traveled left Baltimore at eight o'clock in the evening and arrived at New York at six o'clock the next morning.

After their dusty, smoky, cindery ride of ten hours our party had barely time to find their hotel, cleanse and refresh themselves with warm baths and changes of raiment and get their breakfasts comfortably, before the hour of embarkation arrived. For they were required to be on board their steamer at ten o'clock, as she was announced to sail at twelve, meridian.

At ten, therefore, the carriages that had been ordered for the purpose of conveying them to the pier were announced.

Lower and lower sank the heart of the widowed father as the moment approached that was to separate him from his only child. There were times when he so dreaded that moment as to wish for death instead. There were times when he felt that the wrench which should finally tear his daughter from him must certainly prove his death-blow. Yet, for her sake, he bore himself with composure and dignity. He would not let her see the anguish that was oppressing his heart.

He entered the carriage with her and drove to the pier. He drew her arm within his own, keeping her hand pressed against his aching heart, and so he led her up the gang-plank on board the steamer, Lord Vincent and their retinue following. He would not trust himself to utter any serious words; but he led her to find her stateroom, that he might see for himself she would be comfortable on her voyage, and that he might carry away with him a picture of her and her surroundings in his memory. And then he brought her up on deck and found a pleasant seat for her, and sat down beside her, keeping her arm within his and her hand pressed as a balm to his covered bleeding heart.

There he sat, speaking but little, while active preparations were made for sailing. It looked to him like preparations for an execution.

Lord Vincent walked up and down the deck, occasionally stopping to exchange a word with Claudia, or the judge.

At length the signal-bell rang out, every peal striking like a death-toll on the heart of the old man.

And the order was shouted forth:

"All hands ashore!"

The moment of life and death had come. He started up; he strained his daughter to his breast. He gasped:

"God bless you, my dear! Write as soon as you land!"

He wrung the hand of Lord Vincent. "Be good to—" He choked, and hurried from the steamer.

He stood alone on the pier gazing at the receding ship, and at his daughter, who was leaning over the bulwarks, waving her handkerchief. Swiftly, swiftly, receded the ship from his strained sight. First his daughter's face faded from his aching vision; but still he could see the outline of her form. A minute or two and even that grew indistinct and was lost among the rigging. And while he was still straining his eyes to the cracking, in the effort to see her, the signal gun from the steamer was fired. The farewell gun! The ball seemed to strike his own heart. All his strength forsook him; his well-strung nerves suddenly relaxed; his limbs gave way beneath him, and he must have fallen but for the strong arms that suddenly clasped him and the warm bosom that firmly supported him.

Turning up his languid, fainting eyes, he saw—

"Ishmael!"

Yes, it was Ishmael, who with a son's devotion was standing there and sustaining Claudia's forsaken father in the hour of his utter weakness and utmost need.

At first the judge looked at him in surprise and incredulity, which soon, however, gave way before recognition and affection, as he rested on that true breast and met those beautiful eyes bent on him in deepest sympathy.

"Oh, Ishmael, Ishmael, is it you? is it indeed you? You here at need? Oh, my son, my son, would to the Lord that you were indeed my son! It is a grief and folly that you are not!" he exclaimed with emotion.

What could Ishmael reply to these words? Nothing. He could only tenderly support the old man and turn to a gray-haired servant that waited behind him and say:

"Professor, go call a carriage here quickly!"

And Jim Morris started on his errand, with all the crippled alacrity of age and zeal.

"Oh, Ishmael, she has gone! she has gone! My daughter has left me!" he groaned, grasping the hand of his young supporter.

"I know it, sir, I know it. But this hour of parting is the bitterest of all. The heart feels the wrench of separation keenly now."

"Oh, yes, yes!"

"But every coming hour will bring relief. You will cease to look back to the bitter parting, and you will look forward to the happy meeting. And that meeting may be as soon as you please, sir, you know. There is nothing on earth to prevent or even delay your visit to Lady Vincent as soon after she gets settled at home, as you like. This is October. You may spend Christmas with her, you know."

"That is true; that is very true, and Christmas is not so very far off. Ah! I ought not to have given way so, and I should not have done it, only I was quite alone when they sailed. There was no one with me to suggest these comforting thoughts, and I was too much prostrated by the wrench of parting to remember them of myself. Oh, Ishmael! what Providence was it that sent you to my side in this extremity?" inquired the judge, curiosity mingling with his interest in the question.

"I came here," said Ishmael frankly, "with no other purpose than to be with you in your hour of trial. I knew that you would require the presence of some friend."

"Ah, Ishmael! it was just like you to drop all your business and come uncalled, traveling from Washington to New York, with the sole object of sustaining an old friend in the hour of his weakness. So that does not surprise me. But how did you hit the time so well?"

"I knew from Bee's last letter, dated from Tanglewood, the day that Lord Vincent had positively determined to sail. I knew also the name of the only steamer that sailed for Europe on that day. And so, as Bee expressed great regret that her father could not accompany you to New York, and great anxiety because you would be left quite alone after the trial of parting with Claudia, I suddenly resolved to come on. I came on by the same train that brought your party, although not in the same car. I reached the city this morning, and finding that the steamer was to sail at twelve, noon, I walked down to the pier at half-past eleven so as to be ready to meet you when you should come ashore."

"And you took all this thought and trouble for me? Oh, Ishmael, Ishmael, what a sorrow and shame it is that you are not my son!"

"I am your son in reverence, and love, and service, sir; and if I am not in any other way it is because the Lord has willed otherwise," said Ishmael very gravely.

"Did you see Claudia off?" inquired the judge.

"I saw the steamer; I did not see Lady Vincent. I was in the rear of the crowd on the pier and looking out among them that I might not miss you," replied Ishmael. But he did not add that he had sedulously avoided looking at Claudia as she stood beside her husband on the deck waving her handkerchief in adieus to her father.

In a few minutes Jim Morris came up with a comfortable carriage, and the judge, somewhat recovered now, was assisted into it.

"You are coming too, Ishmael, are you not?" said the old man, looking anxiously out of the window.

"Of course I am, sir; for with your permission I will not leave you until we get back to Washington," replied the young man, preparing to spring into the carriage. But suddenly pausing with his hand on the door he inquired:

"Where shall I order the hackman to drive?"

The judge named his hotel, which happened to be the very one at which Ishmael was stopping; and so the young man gave the order and entered the carriage.

The professor climbed up to a seat beside the hackman, and the hack moved on.

As the carriage turned into Broadway and rolled along that magnificent street, the professor, from his elevated seat, gazed with ever-increasing delight and admiration on the wonders of the great city spread before him.

There were moments when honest Jim Morris was inclined to suspect that, some time within the past few weeks, he must have died, been buried, and risen again to some new stage of existence; so wonderful to him seemed the change in his life. He had not had his satisfaction with gazing when the carriage stopped at the hotel.

Ishmael paid off the hack and gave his arm to the judge, and assisted him into the house.

"Ishmael," he said, as soon as they had reached a sitting room, "have you no other business in New York than to look after me?"

"None whatever. I am entirely at your service."

"Then we—But stop. Are you quite ready to return to Washington at any time?"

"Quite ready to go at a moment's warning, if required."

"Then I think we had better take the early train to-morrow morning, for you ought not to be absent from your office, especially during court term, and even I shall be better at home. We shall need to-day and to-night for rest, but we will start to-morrow. What do you think?"

"I think that is altogether the best plan."

As it was now about one o'clock the judge ordered luncheon. And when they had partaken of it, and the judge had drunk several glasses of rich old port, he said:

"Ishmael, I did not get a wink of sleep last night, and this wine has made me drowsy. I think I will go to my chamber and lie down."

Ishmael gave the judge his arm and assisted him to his bed-room, and saw him lie down, and waited until he knew him to be in a deep, refreshing sleep; and then he closed the blinds, and darkened the room, and left him to repose.

In the hall he spoke to one of the waiters, and placing a quarter of an eagle in his hand, requested him to go up and remain near the judge's chamber door until he should awake.

Then Ishmael sought the professor out and said to him:

"Professor, this is your first visit to New York, as it is also mine. Let us make use of the little time we have to see as much as we can."

Jim Morris eagerly jumped at the proposition.

Ishmael sent for a carriage, and they started; the professor this time riding inside with Ishmael, as he always did when they were alone.

They spent the whole afternoon in sight-seeing, and returned at sunset.

The judge had not awakened, nor did he awake until roused by the ear-stunning gong that warned all the guests to prepare for dinner.

He opened his eyes and stared around in bewilderment for a few seconds, and then seeing Ishmael, remembered everything.

"Ah, my boy, now it is all come back to me afresh, and I have got to meet it all over again. I had been dreaming that I was at Tanglewood with my child, and she was neither married nor going to be. Now I have lost her anew," he said, with a deep sigh.

"I know it, sir; but with every sleep and every awakening this impression will be fainter and fainter. You will soon be cheerful and happy again, in the anticipation of going to see her."

"Plague take that gong! how it does belabor and thrash one's tympanum!" said the judge irritably, as he slowly arose to dress for dinner.

After dinner Ishmael persuaded him not to stay in and mope, but to go with him to hear a celebrated traveler and eloquent lecturer, who was to hold forth in one of the churches on the manners and customs of the Laplanders. The professor also had leave to go. And the judge and Ishmael were well entertained and interested, and the professor was instructed and delighted. Evidently the old odd-job man, judging from his past and present experience, thought

"That now the kingdom must be coming, And the years of jubilo."

They returned to a late supper, and then retired to bed.

Next morning they took the early train for Washington, where they arrived at seven o'clock.

The judge went home with Ishmael and remained his guest for two or three days, while he wrote to Reuben Gray to send up Sam and the carriage for him; and waited for it to come.

Ishmael at the same time took the responsibility of writing to Mr. Middleton, advising him to come up with the carriage in order to bear the judge company in his journey home.

The last day of the week the carriage arrived with Mr. Middleton inside and Sam on the box. And on Monday morning the judge, in better spirits than anyone could have expected him to be, took an affectionate leave of Ishmael, and with Mr. Middleton for company, set out for Tanglewood, where in due time they arrived safely.

We also must bid adieu to Ishmael for a short time and leave him to the successful prosecution of his business, and to the winning of new laurels. For it is necessary to the progress of this story that we follow the fortunes of Claudia, Viscountess Vincent.



CHAPTER XIV.

ROMANCE AND REALITY.

If we had heard that she was dead We hastily had cried, "She was so richly favored God will forgive her pride!" But now to see her living death— Power, glory, arts, all gone— Her empire lost and her poor breath Still vainly struggling on! —Milnes.



The "Ocean Empress" steamed her way eastward. The month was favorable; the weather bright; the wind fair and the sea calm. Every circumstance promised a pleasant voyage. None but a few unreasonable people grew seasick; and even they could not keep it up long.

There was a very select and agreeable set of passengers in the first cabin.

But Lord and Lady Vincent were the only titled persons present; and from both European and American voyagers received a ridiculous amount of homage.

Claudia enjoyed the worship, though she despised the worshipers. Her spirits had rebounded from their depression. She was Lady Vincent, and in the present enjoyment and future anticipation of all the honors of her rank. She gloried in the adulation her youth, beauty, wealth, and title commanded from her companions on the steamer; hut she gloried more in the anticipation of future successes and triumphs on a larger scale and more extensive field.

She rehearsed in imagination her arrival in London, her introduction to the family of the viscount; her presentation to the queen; and the sensation she would produce at her majesty's drawing room, where she was resolved, even if it should cost her her whole fortune, to eclipse every woman present, not only in the perfection of her beauty, but also in the magnificence of her dresses and the splendor of her jewels. And after that what a season she would pass in London! Whoever was queen of England, she would he queen of beauty and fashion.

And then she would visit with Lord Vincent all the different seats of his family; and every seat would be the scene of a new ovation! As the bride of the heir she would be idolized by the tenants and retainers of his noble family!

She would, with Lord Vincent, make a tour of the Continent; she would see everything worth seeing in nature and in art, modern and antique; she would be presented in succession at every foreign court, and everywhere by her beauty and splendor achieve new successes and triumphs! She would frequent the circles of American ministers, for the express purpose of meeting there her countrywomen, and overwhelming by her magnificence those who had once, dared to sneer at that high flavor of Indian blood which had given luster to her raven hair and fire to her dark eyes! Returning to England after this royal progress on the Continent she would pass her days in cherishing her beauty and keeping up her state.

And the course of her life should be like that of the sun, beautiful, glorious, regnant! each splendid phase more dazzling than any that had preceded it. Was not this worth the price she paid for it?

Such were Claudia's dreams and visions. Such the scenes that she daily in imagination rehearsed. Such the future life she delighted to contemplate. And nothing—neither the attentions of her husband, the conversation of her companions, nor the beauty and glory of sea and sky—could win her from the contemplation of the delightful subject.

Meanwhile in that lovely October weather the "Empress" steamed her way over the sapphire blue sea and neared the cliffs of England.

At length on a fine afternoon in October they entered the mouth of the Mersey River, and two hours later landed at Liverpool.

Soon all was bustle with the custom house officers.

Leaving their luggage in charge of his valet, to be got through the custom house, Lord Vincent hurried Claudia into a cab, followed her, and gave the direction:

"To the Crown and Miter."

"Why not go to the Adelphi? All Americans go there, and I think it the best hotel in the city," said Claudia.

"The Crown and Miter will serve our turn," was the curt reply of the viscount.

Claudia looked up in surprise at the brusqueness of his answer, and then ventured the opinion:

"It is a first-class hotel, of course?"

"Humph!" answered his lordship.

They left the respectable-looking street through which they were driving and turned into a narrow by-street and drove through a perfect labyrinth of narrow lanes and alleys, made hideous by dilapidated and dirty buildings and ragged and filthy people, until at last they reached a dark, dingy-looking inn, whose creaking sign bore in faded letters: "The Crown and Miter."

"It is not here that you are taking me, Lord Vincent?" exclaimed Claudia in surprise and displeasure, as her eyes fell upon this house and sign.

"It certainly is, Lady Vincent," replied his lordship, with cool civility, as he handed her out of the cab.

"Why this—this is worse than the tavern you took me to in New York. I never was in such a house before in all my life."

"It will have all the attractions of novelty, then."

"Lord Vincent, I do beg that you will not take me into this squalid place," she said shrinking back.

"You might find less attractive places than this in the length and breadth of the island," he replied, as he drew her hand within his arm and led her into the house.

They found themselves in a narrow passage, with stained walls, worn oil-cloth, and a smell of meat, onions, and smoke.

"Oh!" exclaimed Claudia, in irrepressible disgust.

"You will get used to these little inconveniences after a while, my dear," said his lordship.

A man with a greasy white apron and a soiled napkin approached them and bowed.

"A bedroom and parlor, and supper immediately," was Lord Vincent's order to this functionary.

"Yes, sir. We can be happy to accommodate you, sir, with a bedroom; the parlor, sir, is out of our power; we having none vacant at the present time; but to-morrow, sir—" began the polite waiter, when Lord Vincent cut him short with:

"Show us into the bedroom, then."

"Yes, sir." And bowing, the waiter went before them up the narrow stairs and led them into a dusky, fady, gloomy-looking chamber, whose carpet, curtains, and chair coverings seemed all of mingled hues of browns and grays, and from their fadiness and dinginess almost indescribable in color.

The waiter set the candle on the tall wooden mantelpiece and inquired:

"What would you please to order for supper?"

"What will you have, madam?" inquired Lord Vincent, referring to Claudia.

"Nothing on earth, in this horrid place! I am heart-sick," she added, in a low, sad tone.

"The lady will take nothing. You may send me a beefsteak and a bottle of Bass' pale ale," said his lordship, seemingly perfectly careless as to Claudia's want of appetite.

"Yes, sir; shall I order it served in the coffee room?"

"No, send it up here, and don't be long over it."

The waiter left the room. And Lord Vincent walked up and down the floor in the most perfect state of indifference to Claudia's distress.

She threw herself into a chair and burst into tears, exclaiming:

"You do not care for me at all! What a disgusting place to bring a woman—not to say a lady—into! If you possessed the least respect or affection for me you would never treat me so!"

"I fancy that I possess quite as much respect and affection for you, Lady Vincent, as you do, or ever did for me," he answered.

And Claudia knew that he spoke the truth, and she could not contradict him; but she said:

"Suppose there is little love lost between us, still we might treat each other decently. It is infamous to bring me here."

"You will not be required to stay here long."

"I hope not, indeed!"

At this moment the waiter entered to lay the cloth for the viscount's supper.

"What time does the first train for Aberdeen leave?" inquired the viscount.

"The first train, sir, leaves at four o'clock in the morning, sir; an uncomfortable hour, sir; and it is besides the parliamentary, sir."

"That will do. See if my people have come up from the custom house."

"Yes, sir; I beg your pardon, sir, what name?" inquired the perplexed waiter.

"No matter. Go look for a fellow who has in charge a large number of boxes and a party of male and female gorillas."

The man left the room to do his errand and to report below that the person in "Number 13" was a showman with a lot of man-monkeys from the interior of Africa.

But Claudia turned to her husband in astonishment.

"Did I understand you to inquire about the train to Aberdeen?"

"Yes," was the short reply.

"But—I thought we were going to London—to Hurstmonceux House—"

"Belgravia? No, my dear, we are going to Scotland."

"But—why this change of plan? My father and myself certainly understood that I was to be taken to London and introduced to your family and afterwards presented to her majesty."

"My dear, the London season is over ages ago. Nobody that is anybody will be found in town until February. The court is at Balmoral, and the world is in Scotland. We go to Castle Cragg."

"But why could you not have told me that before?"

"My dear, I like to be agreeable. And people who are always setting others right are not so."

"Is Lord Hurstmonceux at Castle Cragg?"

"The earl is at Balmoral, in attendance upon her majesty."

"Then why do we not go to Balmoral?"

"The queen holds no drawing rooms there."

Claudia suspected that he was deceiving her; but she felt that it would do no good to accuse him of deception.

The waiter returned to the room, bringing Lord Vincent's substantial supper, arranged on a tray.

"I have inquired below, sir; and there is no one arrived having in charge your gorillas. But there is a person with a panorama, sir; and there is a person with three negro persons, sir," said the waiter.

"He will do. Send up the 'person with three negro persons,'" said the viscount.

And once more the waiter left the room.

In a few moments Lord Vincent's valet entered.

"Frisbie, we leave for Scotland by the four o'clock train, to-morrow morning. See to it."

"Yes, my lord. I beg your lordship's pardon, but is your lordship aware that it is the parliamentary?"

"Certainly; but it is also the first. See to it that your gorillas are ready. And—Frisbie."

"Yes, my lord."

"Go and engage a first-class carriage for our own exclusive use."

"Yes, my lord," said the man, with his hand still on the door, as if waiting further orders.

"Lord Vincent, I would be obliged if you would tell him to send one of my women to me," said Claudia coldly.

"Women? Oh! Here, Frisbie! send the female gorillas up."

"I said one of my women, the elder one, he may send."

"Frisbie, send the old female gorilla up, then."

The man went out of the room. And Claudia turned upon her husband:

"Lord Vincent, I do not know in what light you consider it; but I think your conduct shows bad wit and worse manners."

"Lady Vincent, I am sorry you should disapprove of it," said his lordship, falling to upon his beefsteak and ale, the fumes of which soon filled the room.

But that was nothing to what was coming. When he had finished his supper he coolly took a pipe from his pocket, filled it with "negro- head," and prepared to light it. Then stopping in the midst of his operations, he looked at Claudia and inquired:

"Do you dislike tobacco smoke?"

"I do not know, my lord. No gentleman ever smoked in my presence," replied Claudia haughtily.

"Oh, then, of course, you don't know, and never will until you try. There is nothing like experiment."

And Lord Vincent put the pipe between his lips and puffed away vigorously. The room was soon filled with smoke. That, combined with the smell of the beefsteak and the ale, really sickened Claudia. She went to the window, raised it and looked out.

"You will take cold," said his lordship.

"I would rather take cold than breathe this air," was her reply.

"Just as you please; but I hadn't," he said. And he went and shut down the window.

Amazement held Claudia still for a moment; she could scarcely believe in such utter disregard of her feelings. At last, in a voice vibrating with ill-suppressed indignation, she said:

"My lord, the air of this room makes me ill. If you must smoke, can you not do so somewhere else?"

"Where?" questioned his lordship, taking the pipe from his mouth for an instant.

"Is there not a smoking room, reading room, or something of the sort, for gentlemen's accommodation?"

"In this place? Ha, ha, ha! Well, there is the taproom!"

"Then why not go there?" inquired Claudia, who had no very clear idea of what the taproom really was.

Lord Vincent's face flushed at what he seemed to think an intentional affront.

"I can go into the street," he said.

And he arose and put on his greatcoat and his cap, and turned up the collar of his coat and turned down the fall of his cap, so that but little of his face would be seen, and so walked out. Then Claudia raised the window to ventilate the room, and rang the bell to summon the waiter.

"Take this service away and send the chambermaid to me," she said to him when he came.

And a few minutes after he had cleared the table and left the room the chambermaid, accompanied by old Katie, entered.

"Is there a dressing room connected with this chamber?" Lady Vincent inquired.

"Law, no, mum! there isn't sich a place in the house," said the chambermaid.

"This is intolerable! You may go; my own servants will wait on me."

The girl went out.

"Unpack my traveling bag and lay out my things, Katie," said Lady Vincent, when she was left alone with her nurse.

But the old woman raised her hands, and rolled up her eyes, exclaiming:

"Well, Miss Claudia, child!—I mean my ladyship, ma'am!—if this is Ingland, I never want to see it again the longest day as ever I live!"

"Liverpool is not England, Katie."

"Live-a-pool, is it? More like Die-a-pool!" grumbled old Katie, as she assisted her lady to change her traveling dress for a loose wrapper.

"Now, what have you had to eat, my ladyship?"

"Nothing, Katie. I felt as if I could not eat anything cooked in this ill-looking house."

"Nothing to eat! I'll go right straight downstairs and make you some tea and toast myself," said Katie.

And she made good her words by bringing a delicate little repast, of which Claudia gratefully partook.

And then Katie, with an old nurse's tenderness, saw her mistress comfortably to bed, and cleared and darkened the room and left her to repose.

But Claudia did not sleep. Her thoughts were too busy with the subject of Lord Vincent's strange conduct from the time that he had at Niagara received those three suspicious letters up to this time, when with his face hid he was walking up and down the streets of Liverpool.

That he sought concealment she felt assured by many circumstances: his coming to this obscure tavern; his choosing to take his meals and smoke his pipe in his bedroom; and his walking out with his face muffled—all of which was in direct antagonism to Lord Vincent's fastidious habits; and, finally, his taking a whole carriage in the railway train, for no other purpose than to have himself and his party entirely isolated from their fellow-passengers.

Lord Vincent came in early, and, thanks to the narcotic qualities of the ale, he soon fell asleep.

Claudia had scarcely dropped into a doze before, at the dismal hour of three o'clock in the morning, they were roused up to get ready for the train. They made a hurried toilet and ate a hasty breakfast, and then set out for the station.

It was a raw, damp, foggy morning. The atmosphere seemed as dense and as white as milk. No one could see a foot in advance. And Claudia wondered how the cabmen managed to get along at all.

They reached the station just as the train was about to start, and had barely time to hurry into the carriage that had been engaged for them before the whistle shrieked and they were off. Fortunately Frisbie had sent the luggage on in advance, and got it ticketed.

The carriage had four back and four front seats. Lord and Lady Vincent occupied two of the back seats, and their four servants the front ones. As they went on the fog really seemed to thicken. They traveled slowly and stopped often. And Claudia, in surprise, remarked upon these facts.

"One might as well be in a stage—for speed," she complained.

"It is the parliamentary train," he replied.

"I have heard you say that before; but I do not know what you mean by 'parliamentary' as applied to railway trains."

"It is the cheap train, the slow train, the people's train; in fact, one that, in addition to first- and second-class carriages, drags behind it an interminable length of rough cars, in which the lower orders travel," said his lordship.

"But why is it called the 'parliamentary'?"

"Because it was instituted by act of parliament for the accommodation of the people, or perhaps because it is so heavy and slow."

On they went, hour after hour, stopping every three or four miles, while the fog seemed still to condense and whiten.

At noon the train reached York, and stopped twenty minutes for refreshment. Lord Vincent did not leave the carriage, but sent his valet out to the station restaurant to procure what was needful for his party. And while the passengers were all hurrying to and fro, and looking in at the carriage, he drew the curtains of his windows, and sat back far in his seat.

Claudia would gladly have left the train and spent the interval in contemplating, even if it were only the outside of the ancient cathedral of which she had read and heard so much.

Lord Vincent assured her there was no time to lose in sight-seeing then, but promised that she should visit York at some future period.

And the train started again. They began to leave the fog behind them as they approached the seacoast. They soon came in sight of the North Sea, beside which the railway ran for some hundred miles. Here all was bright and clear. And Claudia for a time forgot all the suspicions and anxieties that disturbed her mind, and with all a stranger's interest gazed on the grandeur of the scenery and dreamed over the associations it awakened.

Here "lofty Seaton-Delaval" was pointed out to her. And Tinemouth, famed in song for its "haughty prioress," and "Holy Isle," memorable for the inhumation of Constance de Beverly.

At sunset they crossed Berwick bridge and entered Scotland.

Claudia was entirely lost in gazing on the present landscape, and dreaming of its past history. Here the association between scenery and poetry was perfect. Nature is ever young—and this was the very scene and the very hour described in Scott's immortal poem, and as Claudia gazed she murmured the lines:

"Day set on Norham's castled steep, And Tweed's fair river, broad and deep, And Cheviot's mountains lone; The battled towers, the donjon keep, The flanking walls that round it sweep, In yellow luster shone,"

Yes! it was the very scene, viewed at the very hour, just as the poet described it to have been two hundred years before, when

"Marmion, Lord of Fontenaye, Of Lutterward and Scrivelbaye, Of Tamworth tower and town,"

crossed with his knightly train into Scotland. There was the setting sun burnishing the brown tops of the Cheviot hills; gilding the distant ruined towers of Norham Castle, and lighting up the waters of the Tweed.

But there is little time for either observation or dreaming in a railway train.

They stopped but a few minutes at Berwick, and then shot off northward, still keeping near the coast.

Claudia looked out upon the gray North Sea, and enjoyed the magnificence of the coast scenery as long as the daylight lasted.

When it was growing dark Lord Vincent said:

"You had just as well close that window, Claudia. It will give us all cold; and besides, you can see but little now."

"I can see Night drawing her curtain of darkness around the bed of the troubled waters. It is worth watching," murmured Claudia dreamily.

"Bosh!" was the elegant response of the viscount; "you will see enough of the North Sea before you have done with it, I fancy." And with an emphatic clap he let down the window.

Claudia shrugged her shoulders and turned away, too proud to dispute a point that she was powerless to decide.

They sped on towards Edinboro', through the darkness of one of the darkest nights that ever fell. Even had the window been open Claudia could not have caught a glimpse of the scenery. She had no idea that they were near the capital of Scotland until the train ran into the station. Then all was bustle among those who intended to get out there.

But through all the bustle Lord Vincent and his party kept their seats,

"I am very weary of this train. I have not left my seat for many hours. Can we not stop over night here? I should like to see Edinboro' by daylight," Claudia inquired.

"What did you say?" asked Lord Vincent, with nonchalance.

Claudia repeated her question, adding:

"I should like to remain a day or two in Edinboro'. I wish to see the Castle, and Holyrood Palace and Abbey, and Roslyn and Craigmiller, and——"

"Everything else, of course. Bother! We have no time for that. I have taken our tickets for Aberdeen, and mean to sleep at Castle Cragg to-night," replied the viscount.

Claudia turned away her head to conceal the indignant tears that arose to her eyes. She was beginning to discover that her comfort, convenience, and inclination were just about the last circumstances that her husband was disposed to take into consideration. What a dire reverse for her, whose will from her earliest recollection had been the law to all around her!

The train started again and sped on its way through the darkness of the night towards Aberdeen, where they arrived about eight o'clock.

"Here at last the railway journey ends, thank Heaven," sighed Claudia, as the train slackened its speed and crawled into the station. And the usual bustle attending its arrival ensued.

Fortunately for Claudia, the viscount found himself too much fatigued after about sixteen hours' ride to go farther that night. So he directed Mr. Frisbie to engage two cabs to take himself and his party to a hotel.

And when they were brought up he handed Claudia, who was scarcely able to stand, into the first one, and ordered Frisbie to put the "gorillas" into the other. And they drove to a fourth- or fifth-rate inn, a degree or two dirtier, dingier, and darker than the one they had left at Liverpool.

But Claudia was too utterly worn out in body, mind, and spirit to find fault with any shelter that promised to afford her the common necessaries of life, of which she had been deprived for so many hours.

She drank the tea that was brought her, without questioning its quality. And as soon as she laid her head on her pillow she sank into the dreamless sleep of utter exhaustion.

She awoke late the next morning to take her first look at the old town through a driving rain that lashed the narrow windows of her little bedroom. Lord Vincent had already risen and gone out.

She rang for her servants. Old Katie answered the bell, entering with uplifted hands and eyes, exclaiming:

"Well, my ladyship! if this ain't the outlandishest country as ever was! Coming over from t'other side we had the ocean unnerneaf of us, and now 'pears to me like we has got it overhead of us, by the fog and mist and rain perpetual! And if this is being of lords and ladyships, I'd a heap leifer be misters and mist'esses, myself."

"I quite agree with you, Katie," sighed Lady Vincent, as, with the old woman's assistance, she dressed herself.

"It seems to me like as if we was regerlerly sold, my ladyship," said old Katie mysteriously.

"Hush! Where are we to have breakfast—not in this disordered room, I hope?"

"No, my ladyship. They let us have a little squeezed-up parlor that smells for all the world as if a lot of men had been smoking and drinking in it all night long. My lordship's down there, waiting for his breakfast now. Pretty place to fetch a 'spectable cullored pusson to, let alone a lady! Well, one comfort, we won't stay here long, cause I heard my lordship order Mr. Frisbie to go and take two inside places and four outside places in the stage-coach as leaves this mornin' for Ban. 'Ban,' 'Ban'; 'pears like it's been all ban and no blessin' ever since we done lef' Tanglewood."

Lady Vincent did not think it worth while to correct Katie. She knew by experience that all attempts to set her right would be lost labor.

She went downstairs and joined Lord Vincent in the little parlor, where a breakfast was laid of which it might be said that if the coffee was bad and the bannocks worse, the kippered herrings were delicious.

After breakfast they took their places in or on the Banff mail coach; Lord and Lady Vincent being the sole passengers inside; and all their servants occupying the outside. And so they set out through the drizzling rain and by the old turnpike road to Banff.

This road ran along the edge of the cliffs overhanging the sea—the sea, ever sublime and beautiful, even when dimly seen through the dull veil of a Scotch mist.

Claudia was not permitted to open the window; but she kept the glass polished that she might look out upon the wild scenery.

Late in the afternoon they reached the town of Banff, where they stopped only long enough to order a plain dinner and engage flies to take them on to their final destination, Castle Cragg, which in truth Claudia was growing very anxious to behold.



CHAPTER XV.

CASTLE CRAGG.

The wildest scene, but this, can show Some touch of nature's genial glow; But here, above, around, below, On mountain or in glen, Nor tree, nor shrub, nor plant, nor flower. Nor aught of vegetative power The weary eye may ken. For all is rocks at random thrown, Black waves, bare crags, and banks of stone. —Scott.



Immediately after dinner they set out again on this last stage of their journey, Claudia and Vincent riding in the first fly and Frisbie and the "gorillas" in the second one. The road still lay along the cliffs above the sea. And Claudia still sat and gazed through the window of the fly as she had gazed through the window of the coach, at the wild, grand, awful scenery of the coast. Hour after hour they rode on until the afternoon darkened into evening.

The last object of interest that caught Claudia's attention, before night closed the scene, was far in advance of them up the coast. It was a great promontory stretching far out into the sea and lifting its lofty head high into the heavens. Upon its extreme point stood an ancient castle, which at that height seemed but a crow's nest in size.

Claudia called Lord Vincent's attention to it.

"What castle is that, my lord, perched upon that high promontory? I should think it an interesting place, an historical place, built perhaps in ancient times as a stronghold against Danish invasion," she said.

"That? Oh, ah, yes! That is a trifle historical, in the record of a score of sieges, storms, assaults, and so on; and a bit traditional, in legends of some hundred capital crimes and mortal sins; and in fact altogether, as you say, rather interesting, especially to you, Claudia. It is Castle Cragg, and it will have the honor to be your future residence."

"Heaven forbid!" exclaimed Claudia, gazing now in consternation upon that drear, desolate, awful rock. "Dread point of Dis" it seemed indeed to her.

"For a season only, my dear, of course," said the viscount, with the queerest of smiles, of which Claudia could make nothing satisfactory.

She continued to look out, but the longer she gazed upon that awful cliff and the nearer she approached it, the more appalled she became. She now saw, in turning a winding of the coast, that the point of the cliff stretched much farther out to sea than had at first appeared, and that only a low neck of land connected it with the main; and she knew that when the tide was high this promontory must be entirely cut off from the coast and become, to all intents and purposes, an island. Approaching nearer still, she saw that the cliff was but a huge, bare, barren rock, of which the castle, built and walled in of the same rock, seemed but an outgrowth and a portion.

If this rock-bound, sea-walled dwelling-place, which had evidently been built rather for a fortification than for a family residence, struck terror to the heart of Claudia, what effect must it have had upon the superstitious mind of poor old Katie, riding in the fly behind, when Mr. Frisbie was so good as to point it out to her with the agreeable information that it was to be her future home.

"What, dat!" exclaimed the old woman in consternation. "You don't mean dat! Well, lord! I'se offen hearn tell of de 'Debbil's Icy Peak,' but I nebber expected to cotch my eyes on it, much less lib on it, I tell you all good!"

"That's it, hows'ever, Mrs. Gorilla," said Mr. Frisbie.

"I keep a-telling you as my family name aint Gorilla, it's Mortimer; dough Gorilla is a perty name, too; it ralely is, on'y you see, chile, it aint mine," said unconscious Katie.

But the darkening night shut out from their view the awful cliff to which, however, they were every moment approaching nearer.

Fortunately as the carriages reached the base of this cliff the tide was low, and they were enabled to pass the neck of land that united the island to the coast and made it a promontory. After passing over this narrow strip they ascended the cliff by a road so steep that it had been paved with flagstones placed edgeways to afford a hold for the horses' hoofs and aid them in climbing. It was too dark to see all this then; but Claudia knew from the inclined position of the carriage how steep was the ascent, and she held her very breath for fear. As for old Katie, in the carriage behind, she began praying.

A solitary light shone amid the darkness above them. It came from a lamp at the top of the castle gate. They reached the summit of the cliff in safety, and Lady Vincent breathed freely again and old Katie's prayers changed to thanksgivings.

They crossed the drawbridge over the ancient moat and entered the castle gate. The light above it revealed the ghastly, iron-toothed portcullis, that looked ready to fall and impale any audacious passenger under its impending fangs. And they entered the old paved courtyard and crossed over to the main entrance of the castle hall.

Here, at length, some of the attendant honors of Lady Vincent's new rank seemed ready to greet her.

The establishment had been expecting its lord and had heard the sound of carriages. The great doors were thrown open; lights flashed out; liveried servants appeared in attendance.

"You got my telegram, I perceive, Cuthbert," Lord Vincent said to a large, red-haired Scot, in plain citizen's clothes, who seemed to be the porter.

"Yes, me laird, though, as ye ken, the chiels at yon office at Banff hae to send it by a special messenger—sae it took a long time to win here."

"All right, Cuthbert, since you received it in time to be ready for us. Light us into the green parlor, and send the housekeeper here to attend Lady Vincent."

"Yes, me laird," answered the man, bowing low before he led the way into a room so elegantly furnished as to afford a pleasant surprise to Claudia, who certainly did not expect to find anything so bright and new in this dark, old castle.

Here she was presently joined by a tall, spare, respectable-looking old woman in a black linsey dress, white apron and neck shawl, and high-crowned Scotch cap.

"How do you do, dame? You will show Lady Vincent to her apartments and wait her orders."

"Eh, sirs! anither ane!" ejaculated the old woman under her breath; then turning to Claudia, with a courtesy she said: "I am ready to attend your leddyship."

Claudia arose and followed her through the vast hall and up the lofty staircase to another great square stone hall, whose four walls were regularly indented by lines of doors leading into the bed chambers and dressing rooms.

And as Claudia looked upon this array, her first thought was that a stranger might easily get confused among them and open the wrong door. And that it would be well to have them numbered as at hotels to prevent mistakes.

The old housekeeper opened one of the doors and admitted her mistress into a beautifully furnished and decorated suite of apartments which consisted of boudoir, bedroom, and dressing room opening into each other, so that, as Claudia entered the first, she had the vista of the three before her eyes. The floors were covered with Turkey carpets so soft and deep in texture that they yielded like turf under the tread. And the heavy furniture was all of black walnut; and the draperies were all of golden-brown satin damask and richly embroidered lace.

The effect of the whole was warm, rich, and comfortable.

Claudia looked around herself with approbation; her spirits rose; she felt reconciled to the rugged old fortress that contained such splendors within its walls; for who would care how rough the casket, so that the jewels it held were of the finest water? Her plans "soared up again like fire."

She passed through the whole suite of rooms to the dressing room, which was the last in succession, and seated herself in an easy- chair beside a bright coal fire.

"The dinner will be served in an hour, me leddy. Will I bring your leddyship a cup of tea before you begin to dress?" inquired the housekeeper.

"If you please, you may send it to me by one of my own women. You are too aged to walk up and down stairs," replied Claudia kindly.

"Hech, sirs! I'm e'en reddy to haud me ain wi' any lassie i' the house," said she, nodding her tall, flapping white sap.

"Will you tell me your name, that I may know in future what to call you?" Claudia asked.

"It's e'en just Mistress Murdock, at your leddyship's bidding. And now I'll gae bring the tea."

"Send my servant Katie to me at the same time," said Lady Vincent, who, when she was left alone, turned again to view the magnificence that surrounded her.

"If ever I spend another autumn on this bleak coast, I shall take care to fill the castle halls and chambers with gay company," she said to herself.

The housekeeper entered with an elegant little tea-service of gold plate, and set it on a stand of mosaic work, by Claudia's side.

While she was drinking her tea Katie entered, smiling with both her eyes and all her teeth.

"Well, my ladyship, ma'am, this looks like life at last; don't it, though?"

"I think so, Katie," said her mistress, sipping her aromatic "oolong."

"I like Scraggy better nor I thought I would."

"You like what?"

"This big jail of a house—Scraggy something or other they call it."

"Castle Cragg."

"Yes, that's it; plague take the outlandish names, I say!"

"Now, Katie, unpack my maize-colored moire antique. I must dress for dinner."

Of course Claudia expected to meet no one at dinner except the disagreeable companion of her journey; but Claudia would have made an elaborate evening toilet had there been no one but herself to admire it.

So she arrayed herself with very great splendor and went downstairs.

In the lower hall she found the porter and several footmen.

"Show me into the drawing room," she said to the former.

Old Cuthbert bowed and walked before her, and threw open a pair of folding doors leading into the grand saloon of the castle. And Claudia entered.



CHAPTER XVI.

FAUSTINA.

And she was beautiful, they said; I saw that she was more— One of those women women dread, Men fatally adore. —Anon.



It was a saloon of magnificent proportions and splendid decorations. And Claudia was sailing across it with majestic gait, in the full consciousness of being the Viscountess Vincent and Lady of the Castle, when suddenly her eyes fell upon an object that arrested her footsteps, while she gazed in utter amazement.

One of the most transcendently beautiful women that she had ever beheld lay reclining in the most graceful and alluring attitude upon a low divan. Her luxuriant form, arrayed in rich, soft, white moire antique and lace, was thrown into harmonious relief by the crimson velvet cover of the divan. She was asleep, or perhaps affecting to be so. One fine, round, brown arm, with its elbow deep in the downy pillow, rose from its falling sleeve of silk and lace, and with its jeweled hand, buried in masses of glittering, purplish black ringlets, supported a head that Rubens would have loved to paint. Those rich ringlets, flowing down, half veiled the rounded arm and full, curved neck and bosom that were otherwise too bare for delicacy. The features were formed in the most perfect mold of Oriental beauty, the forehead was broad and low; the nose fine and straight; the lips plump and full; and the chin small and rounded. The eyebrows were black, arched, and tapering at the points; the eyelashes were black, long, and drooping over half-closed, almond- shaped, dark eyes that seemed floating in liquid fire. The complexion was of the richest brown, ripening into the most brilliant crimson in the oval cheeks and dewy lips that, falling half open, revealed the little glistening white teeth within. While one jeweled hand supported her beautiful head the other drooped over her reclining form, holding negligently, almost unconsciously, between thumb and finger, an odorous tea-rose.

Claudia herself was a brilliant brunette, but here was another brunette who eclipsed her in her own splendid style of beauty as an astral lamp outshines a candle. Cleopatra, Thais, Aspasia, or any other world-renowned siren who had governed kingdoms through kings' passions, might have been just such a woman as this sleeping Venus.

Doubting really whether she slept or not, Claudia approached and looked over her; and the longer she looked the more she wondered at, admired, and instinctively hated this woman.

Who was she? What was she? How came she there?

So absorbed was Claudia in these questions, while gazing at the beautiful and unconscious subject of them, that she did not perceive the approach of Lord Vincent until he actually stood at her side.

Then she looked up at him inquiringly, and pointed at the sleeping beauty.

But instead of replying to her, he bent over the sleeper and whispered:

"Faustina!"

Now, whether she were really sleeping or shamming, the awakening, real or pretended, was beautiful. The drooping, black-fringed eyelids slowly lifted themselves from the eyes—two large black orbs of soft fire; and the plump, crimson lips opened, and dropped two liquid notes of perfect music—the syllables of his baptismal name:

"Malcolm!"

"Faustina, you are dreaming; awaken! remember where you are," he said in a low voice.

She slowly raised herself to a sitting posture and looked around; but every movement of hers was perfect grace.

"Lady Vincent, this is Mrs. Dugald," said the viscount.

Claudia drew back a step, and bent her head with an air of the most freezing hauteur.

Mrs. Dugald also bent hers, but immediately threw it up and shook it back with a smile.

So graceful was this motion that it can be compared to nothing but the bend and rebound of a lily.

But when Claudia looked up she detected a strange glance of intelligence between her two companions. The beauty's eyes flashed from their sheath of softness and gleamed forth upon the man—two living stilettos pointed with death.

His look expressed annoyance and fear.

He turned away and touched the bell.

"Let dinner be served immediately," he said to the servant who answered the summons.

"Dinner is served, my lord," answered the man, pushing aside the sliding doors opening into the dining room.

Lord Vincent waved his hand to Lady Vincent to precede them, and then gave his arm to Mrs. Dugald to follow her.

But when they reached the dining room Mrs. Dugald left his arm, advanced to the head of the table, and stood with her hand upon the back of the chair and her gaze upon the face of the viscount.

"No; Lady Vincent will take the head of the table," said his lordship, giving his hand to Claudia and installing her.

"As you will; but 'where the MacDonald sits, there is the head of the table,'" said Mrs. Dugald, quoting the haughty words of the Lord of the Isles, as she gave way and subsided into a side seat.

Lord Vincent, with a lowering brow, sat down.

Old Cuthbert, who sometimes officiated as butler, placed himself behind his lord's chair, and two footmen waited on the table.

The dinner was splendid in its service, and luxurious in its viands; but most uncomfortable in its company, and it suggested the Scripture proverb: "Better is a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith."

Claudia, for one, was glad when it was over, and they were permitted to return to the saloon, where coffee awaited them.

"Mrs. Dugald, will you give me some music?" said Lord Vincent, in the course of the evening.

The beauty arose, and floated away in her soft, swimming gait towards the piano.

Lord Vincent went after her and opened the instrument; and when she sat down he stood behind her chair to turn over the music.

She played a brilliant prelude, and then commenced singing.

Claudia, who, at the proposition that Mrs. Dugald should give Lord Vincent "some music," had shrugged her shoulders and turned her back, was now startled. She turned around—listened. Claudia was a most fastidious connoisseur of music, and she recognized in this performer an artiste of the highest order. Claudia had heard such music as this only from the best opera singers—certainly from no unprofessional performer.

After executing a few brilliant pieces the beautiful musician arose with a weary air and, saying that she was tired, courtesied, smiled, and withdrew from the room.

Lord Vincent walked slowly up and down the floor.

"Who is Mrs. Dugald?" inquired Claudia coldly.

"Mrs. Dugald is—Mrs. Dugald," replied his lordship, affecting a light tone.

"That is no answer, my lord." "Well, my lady, she is a relation of mine. Will that do for an answer?"

"What sort of a relation?"

"A very near one."

"How near?"

"She is my—sister," smiled Lord Vincent.

"Your sister? I know that you have only two sisters, and they are styled 'ladies'—Lady Eda and Lady Clementina Dugald. This is a 'Mrs.' She cannot be your sister, and not even your sister-in-law, since you have no brother."

The viscount coolly lighted his cigar and walked out of the room.

Claudia remained sitting where he had left her, deeply perplexed in mind. Then, feeling too restless to sit still, she arose and began to walk about the room and examine its objects of interest—its pictures, statues, vases, et cetera.

She then went to the windows; the shutters were closed, the blinds down and the curtains drawn, so that she could not look out into the night; but she could hear the thunder of the sea as it broke upon the rock on which the castle was founded.

Tired of that, she went to the music stand, near the piano, and began to turn over the music books.

She picked up one from which Mrs. Dugald had been singing. In turning it over her eyes fell upon the picture of a full-length female form engraved upon the cover. She looked at it more closely. It was the portrait of the woman who had been introduced to her as Mrs. Dugald. But it bore the name: La Faustina, as Norma.



CHAPTER XVII.

THE PLOT AGAINST CLAUDIA.

Alas! a thought of saddest weight Presses and will have vent: Had she not scorned his love, her fate Had been so different! Had her heart bent its haughty will To take him for its lord, She had been proudly happy still; Still honored, still adored. —Monckton Milnes



Indignation rooted Claudia to the spot.

Instinct had already warned her that she was insulted and degraded by the presence of this strange woman in the house.

Reason now confirmed instinct.

And Claudia was entirely too self-willed and high-spirited to submit to either insult or degradation.

She instantly resolved to demand of Lord Vincent the immediate dismissal of this woman, and to keep her own rooms until her demand was complied with.

This, in fact, was the only truly dignified course of conduct that, under the circumstances, Claudia could have pursued.

With this resolution she withdrew from the drawing rooms, and went upstairs to seek her own apartment.

Here the very accident happened that we mentioned as being so likely to happen to any newcomer to the castle.

As she reached the great hall on the second floor she looked around upon the many doors that opened from its four walls into the many suites of apartments that radiated from it, as from a common center, to the outer walls of the castle keep.

But which was her own door she was puzzled for a moment to decide.

The chandelier that hung from the ceiling gave but a subdued light that helped her but little.

At last she thought she had found her own door; she judged it to be her own because it was partly open and she saw, through the vista of the three rooms, the little coal fire that burned dimly in the last one.

So she silently crossed the hall, walking on the soft deep drugget, into which her footsteps sank noiselessly, as she entered what she supposed to be her own boudoir.

The room was dark, except from the gleam of light that stole in from the chandelier in the hall, and the dull glow of the coal fire that might be dimly seen in the distant dressing room, at the end of the suite.

Claudia, however, had no sooner entered the room and looked around than she discovered that it was not hers. This suite of apartments was arranged upon the same plan as her own—first the boudoir, then the bed chamber, and last the dressing room with the little coal fire; but—the hangings were different; for, where hers had been golden brown, these were rosy red.

And she was about to retire and close the door softly when the sound of voices in the adjoining room arrested her steps.

The first that spoke was the voice of Faustina, in tones of passionate grief and remonstrance. She was saying:

"But to bring her here! here, of all the places in the world! here, under my own very eyes! Ah!"

"My angel, I had a design in bringing her here, a design in which your future honor and happiness is involved," said the voice of Lord Vincent, in such tones of persuasive tenderness as he had never used in speaking to his betrayed and miserable wife.

"My honor and happiness! Ah!" cried the woman with a half-suppressed shriek.

"Faustina, my beloved, listen to me!" entreated the viscount.

"Do not love her! Do not, Malcolm! If you do I warn you that I shall kill her!" wildly exclaimed the woman, interrupting him.

"My angel, I love only you. How can you doubt it?"

"How can I doubt it? Because you have deceived me. Not once, nor twice, nor thrice; but always and in everything, from first to last!"

"Deceived you, Faustina! How can you say so? In what have I ever deceived you? Not in vowing that I love you; for I do! You must know it. How, then, have I deceived you?"

"You promised to make me your viscountess."

"And I will do so. I swear it to you, Faustina."

"Ah, you have sworn so many oaths to me."

"I will keep them all—trust me! I would die for you; would go to perdition for you, Faustina!"

"You will keep all your oaths to me, you say?"

"All of them, Faustina!"

"One of them is, that you will make me your viscountess!"

"Yes, and I will do it, my angel. Who but yourself should share my rank with me? I will make you my viscountess, Faustina."

"How can you do that, even if you wished to do so? She is your viscountess."

"Yes, for a little while; and for a little while only. Until she has served the purpose for which I married her—and no longer," said the viscount.

"Ah! what do you mean?" There was breathless eagerness and ruthless cruelty in the tone and manner in which the woman put this question.

The viscount did not immediately reply.

And Claudia, her blood curdling with horror at what seemed plainly a design against her life, left her position near the door of the boudoir and concealed herself behind the crimson satin hangings; feeling fully justified in becoming an eavesdropper upon conversation that concerned her safety.

"What do you mean?" again whispered the woman, with restrained vehemence.

"'Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest chuck, 'till you approve the deed,'" quoted Lord Vincent.

"But trust me; I am ready to aid you in the deed, and to share with you the danger it must bring, for I love you, Malcolm, I love you! Confide in me! Tell me what you mean," she whispered in low, deep, vehement tones.

"I mean—not what you imagine, Faustina. Turn your face away. Those eyes of yours make my blood run cold. No! We English are not quite so ready with bowl and dagger as you Italians seem to be. We like to keep within bounds."

"I do not understand you, then."

"No, you do not. And you will not understand me any better when I say to you, that I shall get rid of my Indian Princess, not by breaking the law, but by appealing to the law."

"No; it is true; I do not understand you. You seem to be playing with me."

"Listen, then, you bewitching sprite. You reproached me just now with bringing her here, here under your very eyes, you said. Faustina, I brought her here, to this remote hold, that she might be the more completely in my power. That I might, at leisure and in safety, mature my plans for getting entirely rid of her."

"But, Malcolm, why did you marry her at all? Ah, I fear, I fear, it was after all a real passion, though a transient one, that moved you!"

"No; I swear to you it was not! I have never loved woman but you!"

"But why then did you marry her at all?"

"My angel, I told you why. You should have believed me! My marriage was a financial necessity. The earl, my father, chose to take umbrage at what he called my disreputable—"

"Bah!" exclaimed the woman, in contempt.

"Well, let the phrase pass. The Earl of Hurstmonceux chose to take offense at my friendship with your lovely self. And he—did not threaten to stop my allowance unless I would break with you; but he actually and promptly did stop it until I should do so."

"Beast!"

"Certainly; but then what was to be done? I had no income; nothing to support myself; much less you, with your elegant tastes."

"I could have gone on the boards again! I did not love you for your money; you know it, Malcolm."

"I do know it, my angel; and in that respect, as in all others, you were immeasurably above your fancied rival, who certainly loved me only for my rank."

"But why then did you not rather let me return to the boards?"

"Where your beauty brought you so many admirers and me so many rivals?"

"But I preferred you to them all."

"I know it, Faustina."

"Why then not let me go?"

"I could not bear the thought of it, my precious treasure. I preferred to sacrifice myself. The opportunity occurred in this way. You know that I left England as the bearer of dispatches to our minister in the United States."

"Yes."

"The very day after I reached Washington I met at the evening reception at the President's house this Indian Princess, as she was called. I was no sooner presented to her than she began to exercise all her arts of fascination upon me. But my heart was steeled by its love for you against the charms of all others."

"Ah! don't stop to pay compliments; go on."

"Well, but I was good-natured, and I flattered her vanity by flirting with her a little."

"A little!" repeated the woman, curling her beautiful lip.

"Yes, only a little; for I had no idea of seriously addressing her until I discovered that she possessed in her own right one of the largest fortunes in the—world, I was going to say—and I should not have been far wrong, for she had in fact inherited three immense fortunes. This was the way of it. Her mother was the only child of a millionaire, and of course inherited the whole of her father's estate. She had also two bachelor uncles who had made immense fortunes in trade, and who left the whole to their niece, in her own right. She, dying young, bequeathed the whole unconditionally to her daughter."

"Ciel! what good luck! How much is it all put together?"

"About three millions of pounds sterling."

"Ma foi! In what does it consist?"

"It did consist in bank stock, railway shares, lead mines, city houses, iron foundries, tobacco plantations, country seats, gorillas, etc. It now consists in money."

"But what good, if you get rid of her, will it do you? Is it not settled on the lady?"

"No! I took very good care of that. When I saw that she was doing all she could to entrap—not me, for for me she did not care, but—a title, I humored her by falling into the snare. I addressed her. We were engaged. Then her governor talked of settlements. I took a high tone, and expressed astonishment and disgust that any lady who was afraid to trust me with her money should be so willing to confide to me the custody of her person. And the negotiations might have come to an end then and there, had not the lady herself intervened and scornfully waived the question of settlements. She had always ruled her father and everyone else around her in every particular, and she ruled in this matter also. The fact is, that she was determined to be a viscountess at any price, and she is one—for a little while!"

"What a fool!"

"Yes, she was a poor gambler; for it was a game between us. She was playing for a title, I for a fortune; well, she won the title and I won the fortune. Or rather you may call it purchase and sale. She bought a title and paid a fortune for it. For the moment the marriage ring encircled her finger she became the Viscountess Vincent and I became the possessor of her three millions of pounds sterling."

"Ah, that marriage ring! There is another broken oath! You swore to me, once, that no living woman should ever wear a marriage ring of your putting on, except myself!" complained Faustina.

"And I have kept that oath, my angel. If ever you see Lady Vincent without her gloves, look on the third finger of her left hand and see if there is any wedding ring to be found there."

"But you yourself, just now, spoke of the ring on her finger, saying that as soon as it was placed there, you became the possessor of her three millions of pounds sterling."

"I will explain. Listen! I remembered my vow to you. I got the ring purposely too large for her finger; consequently, soon after it was placed on, it dropped off and rolled away. When the ceremony was over the gentlemen searched for it. I found it and concealed it. She never saw it again. Here it is. I give it to you."

Claudia from her hiding place stooped forward until she got a glimpse of the two traitors.

She saw the viscount open his pocketbook and take from an inner compartment her own wedding ring, and place it upon the finger of his companion, saying:

"There, my angel, wear it; it will fit your fat finger, though it was too large for her slender one."

"What will she say when she sees it?" inquired the woman, contemplating the golden circle with a triumphant smile.

"She will not recognize it. All wedding rings are alike. This one has no mark to distinguish it from all other wedding rings."

"And so I have got it!" said the woman, clapping her hands gleefully.

"Yes, my sweet, and you shall have everything else; the three millions of pounds sterling and the title of viscountess included."

"Ah! but how got you all the fortune in money so easily?"

"I sold everything, bank stock, railway shares, city houses, tobacco plantations, lead mines, foundries, gorillas, and all! And I have transferred the whole in simple cash to this country."

"And it is three millions?"

"Three millions."

"Ciel! Now, then, I can have my villa at Torquay, and my yacht, and my—"

"You can have everything you want now, and the rank and position of viscountess as soon as I can get rid of her."

"Ah, yes! but when will that be?"

"Very, very soon, I hope. Just as soon as I can mature my plans."

"But what are they?"

"Scarcely to be breathed even here. The very walls have ears, you know."

"Tell me; what does the earl think of this marriage of yours?"

"So, so; he wrote me a cool letter, saying that he would have preferred that I should have married an Englishwoman of my own rank; but that since the lady was of respectable family and large fortune, he should welcome her as a daughter. And finally, that any sort of a decent marriage was better than—but let that pass!"

"Yes, let it pass. Beast!"

"Never mind, my angel. Your turn will come."

"Ah, surely, yes! But is he not expecting to welcome his wealthy daughter-in-law?"

"Not yet. No, we have come over a full month before we were looked for. The earl is traveling on the Continent. His daughter-in-law will be disposed of before he returns to England."

"Ha, ha, good! But is not miladie amusing herself with the anticipation of being introduced to her noble father-in-law?"

"Ha, ha, ha! yes! You would have been diverted, 'Tina, if you could have heard her talk of her plans when coming over. Ah! but that was good. I laughed in my sleeve."

"Tell me! and I will laugh now."

"Well, she expected to land on the shores of England like any royal bride; to find the Earl of Hurstmonceux waiting to welcome her; to be introduced to my family; to be presented to her majesty; to be feted by the nobility; lionized by the gentry; and idolized by our own tenantry. In short, she dreamed of a grand royal progress through England, of which every stage was to be a glorious triumph! Ha, ha, ha!"

"Ha, ha, ha!" echoed Faustina.

"But instead of entering England like a royal bride, she was smuggled into England like a transported felon, who had returned before her time of penal service in the colonies had expired. Instead of a triumphal entry and progress along the highways, she was dragged ignominiously through the byways! Instead of halting at the palatial Adelphia, we halted at the obscure Crown and Miter."

"Ha, ha, ha! Good! that was very good! But why did you do this? Not that I care for her. I care not. But my curiosity. And it must have inconvenienced you, this squalor."

"Well, it did. But I was resolved she should meet no countrymen; form no acquaintances; contract no friendships; in fine, have no party here in England. The Adelphia was full of American travelers; the Queen's was full of my friends. In either she would have got into some social circles that might have proved detrimental to my purposes. As it was managed by me, no one except the passengers that came over with us, and dispersed from Liverpool all over the Continent, knew anything about her arrival. At the Crown and Miter she was half a mile in distance and half a thousand miles in degree from anyone connected with our circle. No one, therefore, knows her whereabouts; no inquiries will be made for her; we may do with her as we like."

"Oh, ciel! and we will quickly make way with her."

"Quickly."

"But how?"

"Another time I will tell you, 'Tina. Now I must be gone. I must not linger here. It becomes us to be very wary."

"Go, then. But ah! you go to her. Misery! Do not love her! If you do—remember I will kill her! I have sworn it. You say that you will make way with her by the help of the law. Do it soon; or be sure I will make way with her in spite of the law."

"Hush! be tranquil. Trust in me. You shall know all in a few days. Good-night!"

"Ah! you are leaving me. You, that I have not seen for so many months until now—and now have seen but a few minutes alone. And you go to her—her, with whom you have been in company all the time you have been away from me! Ah, I hate her! I will kill her!" exclaimed the woman, in low, vehement tones.

"Faustina, be quiet, or all is lost! You must be my sister-in-law only until you can be my wife. To accomplish this purpose of ours, you must be very, very discreet, as I shall be. Be on your guard always. Treat Lady Vincent with outward respect, as I must do, in the presence of the servants. They must be our future witnesses. Surely you will be enabled to do what I require of you in this respect, when I assure you that I hate my viscountess as deeply as you hate your rival."

"Ha! you?"

"Yes; for in her heart she despises me and adores another. She is unfaithful to me in thought. And it shall go hard, but I will make it appear that she is unfaithful in deed, too, and so send her, dishonored and impoverished, from the castle," said the viscount vindictively.

"Ciel! Is that your plan? I understand now. I trust you, my Malcolm."

"Good-night, then; and don't be jealous."

"Never! I trust you. I shall triumph."



CHAPTER XVIII.

IN THE TRAITOR'S TOILS.

Her heart is sick with thinking Of the misery she must find. Her mind is almost sinking— That once so buoyant mind— She cannot look before her, On the evil-haunted way. Redeem her! oh! restore her! Thou Lord of night and day! —Monckton Milnes.



Overwhelmed with, horror, terror, and indignation, Claudia just tottered from the room in time to escape discovery.

On reaching the hall she saw the door leading into her own suite of apartments wide open and all the rooms lighted up and old Katie moving about, unpacking trunks and hanging up dresses. Katie, it seemed, with something like canine instinct as to locality, had experienced no difficulty in finding her mistress' rooms.

As soon as Lady Vincent entered her dressing room the old woman drew the resting chair and footstool up to the fire, and when Claudia had dropped into the seat she leaned over the back of the chair, and forgetting ceremony, spoke to her nursling as she had spoken to her in the days of that nursling's infancy.

"Miss Claudia, honey, I wants to talk to you downright ser'us, I do."

"Talk on, Katie," sighed Claudia.

"But, 'deed, I'm feared I shall hurt your feelings, honey."

"You cannot do that."

"Well, then, honey—but 'deed you must excuse me, Miss Claudia, because I wouldn't say a word, only I think how it is my bounden duty."

"For Heaven's sake, Katie, say what you wish to without so much preface."

"Well, then, Miss Claudia—laws, honey, I's nussed you ever since you was borned, and been like another mammy to you ever since your own dear mammy went to heaven, and if I haven't got a right to speak free, I'd like to know who has!"

"Certainly; certainly! Only, in mercy, go on!" exclaimed Claudia, who, fevered, excited, and nearly maddened by what she had overheard, could scarcely be patient with her old servant.

"Well, Miss Claudia, honey, it is all about this strange foreign 'oman as is a-wisiting here."

"Ah!" exclaimed Claudia, looking up and becoming at once interested.

"Miss Claudia, honey, that 'oman aint no fitting company for you. She aint."

"Ah! what do you know of her?" inquired Claudia in a low, breathless, eager voice.

"Honey, I cotch my eye on her dis evening. You see dis was de way of it, chile. I was in dis very room; but I hadn't lighted up de lamps, so I was in 'parative darkness, and de big hall was in 'parative light; so dey couldn't see me, but I could see dem, when dey come into de big hall, her and my lordship. And I seen her how she look at him, and smile on him, and coo over him like any turkle dove, as no 'spectable lady would ever do. And so dey walks into dat room, opposite to dis."

"Katie, I do not wish to hear any more of this stuff. You forget yourself, surely!" said Lady Vincent, suddenly waking to the consciousness that she was compromising her dignity in listening to the tale-bearing of a servant, even so old and tried as Katie was.

"Very well, Miss Claudia, honey, you knows best; but take one piece of advice from de best friend you's got on dis side o' de big water. You 'void dat 'oman. Oh, Miss Claudia, chile! wouldn't you keep out'n de way of anybody as had de smallpox or any other deadly plague? Tell me dat!"

"Of course I would."

"Oh, Miss Claudia, honey, listen to me, den! Dere is worser plagues dan de smallpox; more 'fectious and more fatal, too. Moral plagues! De fust plague, Miss Claudia, can only disfigur' de face and kill de body; but de las' plague can disfigur' de heart and kill de soul. Miss Claudia, 'void dat 'oman! She'll 'fect you with the moral plague as is deadly to de heart and soul," said the old woman, with a manner of deep solemnity.

Claudia was moved. She shook as she answered:

"Katie, you mean well; but let us talk no more of this tonight. And whatever your thoughts may be of this evil woman, I must beg that you will not utter them to any one of the other servants."

"I won't, Miss Claudia. I won't speak of her to nobody but you."

"Nor to me, unless I ask you. And now, Katie, bring me my dressing gown and help me to disrobe. I am tired to death."

"And no wonder, honey," said the old woman, as she went to obey.

When she had arranged her young mistress at ease in dressing gown and slippers, in the resting chair, she would still have lingered near her, tendering little offices of affection, but Claudia, wishing to be alone, dismissed her.

Lady Vincent had need of solitude for reflection.

As soon as old Katie had left her alone she clasped her hands and fell back in her chair, exclaiming: "What shall I do? Oh! what shall I do?"

She tried to think; but in the whirl of her emotions, thought was very difficult, almost impossible. She felt that she had been deceived and betrayed; and that her situation was critical and perilous in the extreme. What should she do? to whom should she appeal? how should she escape? where should she go?

Should she now "beard the lion in his den"; charge Lord Vincent with his perfidy, duplicity, treachery, and meditated crime; demand the instantaneous dismissal of Faustina; and insist upon an immediate introduction to his family as the only means of safety to herself? Where would be the good of that? She, a "stranger in a strange land," an inmate of a remote coast fortress, was absolutely in Lord Vincent's power. He would deride her demands and defy her wrath.

Should she openly attempt to leave the castle and return to her native country and her friends? Again, what would be the good of such an attempt? Her departure, she felt sure, would never be permitted.

Should she try to make her escape secretly? That would be difficult or impossible. The castle stood upon the extreme point of its high promontory, overlooking the sea; it was remote from any other dwelling; the roads leading from it were for miles impassable to foot passengers. And besides all this, Claudia was unwilling to take such a very undignified course.

In fact, she was unwilling to abandon her position at all—painful and dangerous as it was; having purchased it at a high price she felt like retaining end defending it.

What then should she do? The answer came like an inspiration. Write to her father to come over immediately to her aid. And get him to bring about her introduction to the Earl of Hurstmonceux's family and her recognition by their circle. This course, she thought, would secure her personal safety and her social position, if not her domestic happiness; for the latter she had never dared to hope.

And while waiting for her father's arrival, she would be "wise as serpents," if not "harmless as doves." She would meet Lord Vincent on his own grounds and fight him with his own weapons; she would beat duplicity with duplicity.

But first to write the letter to her father and dispatch it secretly by the first mail. She arose and rang the bell.

Katie answered it.

"Unpack my little writing desk and place it on this stand beside me."

Katie did as she was ordered.

"Now lock the door and wait here until I write a letter."

Katie obeyed and then seated herself on a footstool near her lady's feet.

Claudia opened her writing desk; but paused long, pen in hand, reflecting how she had better write this letter.

If she should tell her father at once of all the horror of her position the sudden news might throw him into a fit of apoplexy and kill him instantly.

And on the other hand, if she were to conceal all this and merely write him a pressing invitation to come over immediately, he might take his time over it.