A sweet, complacent smile quivered around those old lips, as the countess settled back among her cushions. She, a petite creature, had Carset blood in her veins from both parents, and in her youth she had been distinguished among the most beautiful women of England. She was thinking of those days, when those withered eyelids closed again, and they followed her softly into her sleep, which the grim maid watched with the faithfulness of a slave.

Meantime Clara went into the long picture gallery, and there among a crowd of statues, and deeply-toned pictures by the old masters, made the acquaintance of her stately ancestors, and of the ladies who had one and all been peeresses in their own right—an access of rank, prized almost like a heritage of royalty by the old lady in the tower-chamber.

No one had gone with the young heiress into the gallery, for, with her childish wilfulness, she had preferred to go alone, and single out the Carset ladies by their resemblance to the old countess.

All at once she stopped before the picture of a lady, whose face struck her with a sudden sense of recognition. She looked at it earnestly—the golden brown hair, the downcast eyes, the flowing white dress. Across the mind of that wondering girl, came the shadow of another woman upon a white bed, with hair and eyes like those; but wide open, and to her lips came two words, "My Mother!"



CHAPTER XXIII.

EXPLANATIONS AND CONCESSIONS.

It often happens that a proud, austere person, so grounded in opinions and prejudices as to be considered above and beyond ordinary influences, will all at once, give heart and reason up to passionate or capricious fondness for some individual—often a very child—and yield everything to persuasion when reason is utterly rejected.

Indeed, few people like to be convinced; but the strongest mind ever bestowed on man or woman finds something gratifying to self-love in the persuasive enticements of affection.

This singular moral phenomenon astonished the neighbors and household of Lady Carset when she gave herself up, with the abandon of a child, to the caressing young creature, who had, it seemed, appeared in her home to win her back from the very brink of the grave, and make the sunset of her long life brighter with love than the dawn had been.

There was nothing in the young girl which did not seem beautiful to the old relative. Her originality, which made the well-trained servants stare, seemed the perfection of piquant grace to one whose fastidious tastes had been an example to the whole neighborhood. In her estimation Lady Clara could do nothing which was not in itself loveliest and best. The old lady had been so long without an object of affection, that her love of this girl became almost a monomania.

"I have an atonement to make," she would say to herself in excuse for this extraordinary and most pleasant subjugation; "for years and years I have driven this young creature from me because of what, I am almost convinced, were unfounded suspicions against her father and that woman. It is but just that I should accept my grandchild with generous confidence; and she deserves it—she deserves it."

After reasoning in this fashion awhile the repentant old lady would rack her brain for some new device by which this bright creature, who had come like a sunbeam into her house, might be persuaded never to leave it again. It was not altogether the selfishness of affection that actuated this honorable woman. It was hard to believe that a Carset could have acted unjustly, or even be mistaken; but, once convinced of that, her very pride insisted on a generous atonement. Never in her life had she been so humiliated as when the sight of those diamonds convinced her of the cruel charge which she had maintained for years against a person innocent of the offence imputed to her. She remembered, with compunction, how much harm she had done this woman, whose greatest fault now seemed to be that Lord Hope had married her.

Her own example had sufficed to exclude Lady Hope from the society to which her husband's rank entitled her, and her open expressions of dislike had cast a ban upon the stepmother, which had, to an extent, reacted on her own grandchild.

These thoughts troubled the proud old peeress a long time before she gave them expression; but, one day, Clara sat by her, looking a little sad, for, now that the excitement of her first coming was over, she began to think of Hepworth Closs—to wonder where he was, and yearn for some news of him to a degree that clouded her whole bright being like a feeling of homesickness.

"Poor child!" thought the old lady, while her soft, brown eyes dwelt upon that downcast face, as it bent over a piece of embroidery in which a cactus-flower formed the chief central glory; "how weary and troubled she looks! No wonder, poor thing! half her time is spent here with a stupid old woman, shut up so long from the world that she is but dull company for any one. I wonder if the thing which is upon my mind would really make her happy?"

"Clara."

The girl started. She had been so lost in thought that those bright eyes had been watching her some minutes, while she unconsciously pursued her work, and indulged in a reverie which was shadowed upon her features.

"Clara, you have not told me much about your stepmother."

"But I think of her; I was thinking of her then. Indeed, indeed, grandmamma, I always must love mamma Rachael, for she has been everything that is good and kind to me—I only wish you could understand how kind. If I know anything it is because she taught me."

"Among other things, perhaps she taught you to hate that cruel old Lady Carset," said the countess, a little suspiciously.

"No, grandmamma, no. She never said anything to make me dislike you; but I did—it was terribly wicked; but how could I help it, loving her so, and knowing that it was you that stood in the way of all she most desired in life? Remember, grandmamma, I had never seen you, and I loved her dearly. It was hard to see her overlooked and put down by people who were not fit to buckle her shoes, all because you would not like her."

"And you will always love her better than the cruel old lady?"

"Cruel! How can you? There never was a sweeter, kinder, or more lovely old darling in the world than you are! but then she is good, too, and so unhappy at times, it almost breaks my heart to look in her face."

"And you think I have made her so?"

"I think you might make her very happy, if you only would, grandmamma."

"Would that make you happy, little one?"

The old lady reached out her little, withered hand, and patted Clara's fingers, as they paused in her work, while she spoke. The girl's face brightened. She seized the little hand between her rosy palms, and pressed it to her lips.

"Oh, grandmamma! can you mean it?"

"I always mean to be just, Clara."

"Then you will be very, very kind to her?"

"Does your father love this woman?"

"Love her? Oh, yes! but this thing has come a little between them. She has grown shy of going out, while he must be in the world; and all her life seems to vanish when he is away. Sometimes it makes my heart ache to think how much she loves him."

"But he loves you?"

"Almost as much as mamma Rachael does. He was never cross to me but once."

"And then?"

Clara turned pale, and took up her needle.

"I would rather not talk about that just now. You might be more angry than my father was."

"It would be very difficult for me to get angry with you, little one."

"But you would, if I were to be very obstinate, and insist on having my own way about—about something—that—that—"

The old lady's face grew very serious. She understood, these signs, and they troubled her; but she was feeble, and shrank from any knowledge that would bring excitement with it.

"Some day we will talk of all that," she said, with a little weary closing of the eyes.

Clara drew a deep breath. See had been on the verge of making a confidante of the old lady, and felt a sense of relief when the subject was thus evaded.

The countess opened her eyes again.

"Clara," she said, "bring my writing-table here. We will not trouble ourselves to ring for Judson."

Clara dropped her embroidery, and brought the sofa-table, with all its exquisite appointments for writing. The old lady sat upright on her couch, took the pen, and began to write on the creamy note-paper her grandchild had placed before her. Clara watched that slender hand as it glided across the paper, leaving delicate, upright letters perfect as an engraving, as it moved. When the paper was covered, she folded the missive with dainty precision, selected an envelope, on which her coronet was entangled in a monogram, and was about to seal it with a ring, which she took from her finger; but recollecting herself, she drew the letter out, and handed it to Clara, with a smile that kindled her whole face.

Clara read the letter, threw her arms around the old lady, and covered her faces with kisses.

"Oh, grandmamma, you are too good! Do you—do you really mean it? Ah, this is happiness!"

"You shall help me make out the invitations. There was a time when Houghton had no empty chambers. It will go hard, my dear, if we cannot find entertainment for your father and the lady he has married. On that day, Clara, I will present you to the world as my grandchild and heiress."

"Not yet! oh, not yet! Wait till you know more of me."

"Hush! hush! This is not my only object. If I have wronged your stepmother, or neglected your father, the whole country shall see that a Carset knows how to make reparation. Lady Hope, too, shall be presented to my friends as an honored guest. This entertainment will be my last, but they shall find that the old countess knows how to receive her guests."

"Grandmother, you are an—an—. You are just the sweetest old lady that ever drew breath! If you were to live a thousand years, I should love you better and better every day! To see you and Lady Hope together will be splendid! And they are to stay at Houghton a month. By that time you will love each other dearly."

Clara took up her work again, but the needle flashed like a thread of lightning in her unsteady fingers. She could not work after this glorious news.

The old lady smiled blandly, and sank down among her cushions, exhausted.

"Go out and take a walk in the park," she said, observing that Clara was fluttering over her embroidery like a bird in its cage. "It will do you good, and I will try to sleep a little."



CHAPTER XXIV.

DOWN BY THE BROOK AMONG THE FERNS.

Clara put on her hat and wandered off into the park, as happy as a bird.

She had found the dearest old fairy godmother. She saw a glorious light breaking in upon the life of her stepmother, and out of all this generous conduct in the old countess sprang a vague hope that she might yet be won to sanction her marriage with the man of her choice.

She took no heed of the way, but wandered on, treading the earth like a sylph, and breaking into little snatches of song whenever the birds in the branches put her in mind of it. She was descending into a little, ferny hollow, with a brook creeping along the bottom, along which a narrow footpath ran, when the crackle of a broken branch, and the quick tread of a foot, made her pause and look at the opposite bank, down which a young man was coming, with more swiftness than he seemed to desire, for he only saved himself from a plunge in the brook by leaping over it, with a bound that brought him to Clara's side. It was Lord Hilton.

"Forgive me, if I came near running you down," he said, with laughter in his eyes, and taking off his hat; "it was neck or nothing with me, after I once got one downward plunge. I inquired for you at the castle, and they told me that you had just gone out of sight in this direction, so I followed and am here."

Clara held out her hand, with the sweet, joyous laugh of a pleased child. She was very happy, just then, and he saw it in her eyes.

"But you have been long in coming," she said. "I told grandmamma about our journey together, and she has been expecting you at Houghton every day."

"And you?"

"Of course, I have been dreadfully disappointed. Are you aware that it is more than a fortnight since you bought those peaches for me?"

"But you will approve my reasons for keeping away, when I tell you what they are."

"Perhaps—I doubt it; but tell me."

"You will not be angry?"

"No."

"Not if I tell you the plain truth like an honest man?"

"I love the truth. Why should it offend me?"

"Lady Clara, I have almost resolved to make a confidante of you."

Clara brushed some fallen leaves from a rock, near which they were standing, and sat down, motioning him to take the vacant place by her side.

"There—now let us begin."

"Do you guess why I did not come before, Lady Clara?"

"No—I have not the least idea. Perhaps you did not like me, or were shocked with my hat; poor thing, it is getting awfully shabby."

"Shall I tell you?"

"Of course; why not?"

"Because the old gentleman over yonder and my lady at Houghton, had set their hearts upon it."

"Set their hearts upon it. How?"

"They have decreed that I shall fall in love with you, and you with me, at first sight."

Clara stared at him a moment, with her widening blue eyes, and then broke into a laugh that set all the birds about her to singing in a joyous chorus.

"What, you and I?"

"Exactly."

"But you have more sense. You could not be induced to oblige them. I feel quite sure."

"But why, pray? Am I so very stupid?"

"No; but you are so very kind, and would not do anything so cruel."

Lord Hilton laughed; he could not help it.

"But why would it be cruel?"

"Because—because it would get me into trouble. Grandmamma is a lovely old angel, and to oblige her I would fall in love with fifty men if it were possible, especially after what she has done to-day: but it is not possible."

"And the old gentleman at the opposite side of the valley is good as gold, and I should like to oblige him; and sometimes I feel as if it could be done, so far as I am concerned, but for one thing."

"And what is that?"

"Lady Clara, if I had not been fatally in love already, I should by this time have adored you."

The color came and went in the girl's face. She tore a handful of ferns from the rock, and dropped them into the water at her feet; then she lifted her eyes to the young man's face, with the innocent confidence of a child. Her voice was low and timid as she spoke again; but the ring of modest truth was there.

"Lord Hilton, I am very young; but in what you have said, I can see that you and I ought to understand each other. You love another person—I, too, am beloved."

A shade of disappointment swept the young man's features. He had not wished this fair girl to care for him, yet the thought that it was impossible brought a little annoyance with it.

"And yourself?"

"I have permitted a man to say he loved me, and did not rebuke him; because every word he spoke made my heart leap."

"But will the old countess consent?"

"I thought so—I hoped so, till you startled me with this idea about yourself. Oh! be firm, be firm in hating me. Don't leave the whole battle to a poor little girl."

"Perhaps I shall not feel all your earnestness, for there is no hope in the future for me, with or without consent. I can never turn back to the past, though I am not villain enough to lay a heart which contains the image of another at any woman's feet, without giving her a full knowledge of that which has gone before. The love which I confess to you, Lady Clara, was put resolutely behind me before we met."

Quick as thought a suspicion flashed through the girl's brain. She turned her eyes full upon the handsome head and face of the young man, and examined his features keenly. His hat was off; he was bending earnestly toward her.

"Lord Hilton, you sat in a box in the opera next to us on the night when that young American singer broke down. I remember your head now. You were leaning from the box when she fainted; her eyes were turned upon you as she fell. She is the woman you love."

"Say whom I loved, and Heaven knows I did love her; but she fled from me without a word, to expose herself upon that stage. I thought her the daughter of a respectable man, at least; when I am told in every club-house, she is the nameless child of that woman, Olympia. I would not believe it, till the actress confirmed the story with her own lips; then I learned that her home was with this woman, and that she, a creature I had believed innocent as the wild blossoms, had used her glorious voice for the entertainment of her mother's Sunday evening parties."

Lady Clara grew pale, and her eyes began to flash.

"You are doing great wrong to a noble and good young lady," she said, in a clear, ringing voice, from which all laughter had gone out. "You are unjust, cruel—wickedly cruel—both to yourself and her. I have no patience with you!"

"Do you know Caroline, then? But that is impossible."

"Impossible—what? That I should know the daughter of Olympia? But I do know her. There was a time, I honestly believe, when we were children together, cared for by the same nurse. This I can assure you, Lord Hilton: she was not brought up by the actress; never saw her, in truth, until she was over sixteen years old, when the woman, hearing of her genius and beauty, claimed her as a chattel rather than a child."

"Are you sure of this, Lady Clara?" inquired the young man, greatly disturbed.

"I know it. The poor young lady, brought up with such delicate care, educated as if she were one day to become a peeress of the land, took a terrible dislike to the stage, and, so long as she dared, protested against the life that ambitious actress had marked out for her. That night you saw her she was forced upon the stage after praying upon her knees to be spared. Her acting, from the first, was desperation. She saw you, and it became despair; and you could doubt her—you could leave her. Lord Hilton, I hate you!"

"I begin to hate myself," said the young man in a low voice; "but even now, what can I do? What power have I to wrest her from the influence of that woman?"

"What power? The power of honest and generous love. Ask her to marry you."

Lord Hilton answered with a faint, bitter laugh.

"Ask her to marry me, and, with that act, proclaim myself a beggar! I tell you, Lady Clara, there is not upon this earth a creature so dependent as a nobleman with nothing but expectations. Were I to follow your advice the doors of my home would be closed against me. I should have a title, by courtesy, to offer my wife, and nothing more. She would, perhaps, be compelled to go on the stage to support me—a poor substitute for these two vast estates which these old people hope to unite in us."



CHAPTER XXV.

HOW LADY CLARA GOT HER OWN WAY.

Lady Clara turned on the young nobleman with glowing anger.

"Lord Hilton," she said, "it is the land they are thinking of; but an earthquake may swallow it before I will sell a corner of my heart at their price. I am only a girl, Lord Hilton, and, perhaps, this ancestral grandeur seems less to me on that account; but the noblest possession that can be given to me is liberty—liberty of heart, limb and conscience—liberty to love and hate—though I do not hate any one very much—but to love that which is splendid and good without regard to anything else. The grandest thing upon the face of the earth, Lord Hilton, is to own oneself. If I were a man no one should own me but the woman I loved."

Was the girl inspired? You would have thought so from the sparkle that came into her eyes, like sunshine striking the dew in a violet—from the quick, generous curve of her lips, and the flush of color that rushed over her face.

Lord Hilton looked at her with such admiration as would, perhaps, have made obedience to the wishes of his family an easier thing than he dreamed of; but he knew something of the world, and had, more than once, searched the female hearts that came in his way, for the gratification of vanity alone. He read the one before him on the instant.

"The man you speak of is without these advantages," he said. "I understand—they are a wall between you and him."

"No. This morning my grandmother told me that I was to be her heiress; but I entreated her to take time. Before she decides, I wish her to judge of this man as he is, without prejudice or favor. Then she shall know all, and if she is willing to endow us with her wealth, there never was so grateful a girl as I shall be; but, if not, I will fall upon my knees, kiss her dear old hand, thank her for what she has done, and go away to America, where a man's talents and energies can work out something that will answer very well for a patent of nobility."

"And you will carry this out? give up the title?"

"The title! Ah, that may be of value in America," answered Clara, with a laugh full of good-natured scorn; "those things, they tell me, are at a premium out yonder."

"Brave girl! You shame me by this generous energy."

"Shame you? not at all; only I happen to know that there is something worth living for besides the things we hold so precious. A man, brave enough to work out his own career, has taught me that real greatness is not always hereditary. Ah! if you could only think so, too, Lord Hilton, you would understand that there is nothing on earth so sweet as the love for which we make sacrifices."

"What a strange girl you are, Lady Clara! Up to this time you have seemed to me only a very pretty and very capricious child—a charming child, truly, but—"

"There it is again," cried the girl falling back into her natural manner; "everybody will insist on treating me like a child. Oh! how I wish I was a little taller, like—like Caroline!"

Lord Hilton started, and a flood of recollections came back upon him—that soft Italian sky, a flight of vine-draped terraces, and, on the steps, that tall, beautiful girl watching for him. In this picture he forgot Olympia and everything that had repulsed him.

"I shall never think of you as a child again, but as her friend—her earnest, kind, noble friend!"

"And so I am. Oh! if I were a man, and loved her—"

"Well, what would you do in my place, supposing yourself a man, Lady Clara?"

"This is what I would do: The old gentleman over yonder has a generous heart, I dare say. I would first make my peace with that noble girl. It would not be easy, I can tell you, for she is proud as an empress; but she would be forgiving in the end, and for that I should adore her. Then I would take her by the hand, lead her up to that kind old nobleman over yonder—for I dare say, he is like my blessed grandmother, proud as Lucifer and kind as an angel—and I would just tell him the truth, lay the whole case before him, and either take his blessing on two bowed heads, or throw down my title, gather up all that honorably belonged to me, and carry my youth, my knowledge, and my energies into a country where no man would question whether my wife had Olympia's blood in her veins or not. This is what I would do, Lord Hilton."

"Lady Clara, I thank you."

Lord Hilton reached out his hand, smiling, but there was moisture in his eyes.

"And you will do it?"

"First, Lady Clara, I must have her forgiveness for doubting her—for being a coward. Where is she now? Can you tell me?"

"Ill, very ill, battling breathlessly with that woman, who still persists on her reappearance. You can save her from it. Will you?"

"No wonder you ask the question, Lady Clara, I have not deserved great confidence. But one thing; these are strange confessions that we have made to each other; let them rest inviolate between us. We shall be friends. Let the world think us more, if it likes."

"With all my heart. And now, good-by. I am going back to the castle."

When Clara reached the castle she found a letter waiting for her. It was from Margaret, who was still in London, at Olympia's house.

Clara read this letter with a very thoughtful face, and went at once to Lady Carset's room, with the letter in her pocket and painful anxiety in her heart.

Lady Carset had come out of her sleep, wonderfully refreshed and cheerful.

The effort which she had so generously made to make atonement for what she considered the one mistake of her life, gave to her own heart a feeling of exquisite rest. The company of her grandchild also had let a whole burst of sunshine into that princely old castle, and its mistress seemed to have grown young in its warmth and brightness. She had been thinking of the girl ever since the sleep left her eyelids, and now, when she came in, with her sweet face clouded, the idea that had been floating in her brain took form.

"You seem troubled, Clara," she said. "Did the great, wandering old park frighten you with its loneliness? Sit down, darling, and we will talk of something I have just been thinking of."

Clara sat down on the foot of the couch, and taking the small feet of her grandmother into her lap, began to smooth and caress them with her hand.

"I am an old, old woman, my darling, and not over strong, so it is impossible for me to make a companion to you."

"Oh, but I love you so much!"

"I know, dear; but would you not like a companion of your own age—some nice young lady, who could go with you into the park, share the pretty phaeton, and help drive the ponies I have ordered for you, when I am taking my rest here?"

"Oh, grandmamma, who told you what was in my mind? how could you have guessed it? Can I—may I? Grandmamma, I know the very person!"

"She must be well-educated and well-bred."

"She is a lady about my age, but handsomer."

"I will not believe that, Clara," said the old lady, smiling.

"But she is—taller, more queenly. You will like her so much! Besides, she is in such trouble. I will tell you all about it, grandmamma."

Then Lady Clara told Caroline's story; how she had been brought up by a good man, believing herself his child, until he and his good wife died, and, just as she grew into womanhood was claimed by the actress Olympia, who was determined to force her upon the stage, from which she shrank with a loathing that had made her ill. Lady Clara did not mention the name of Daniel Yates, because it had made no impression upon her, if, indeed, she had heard it; but she succeeded in interesting the old countess, and it was decided that Caroline and the servant who had clung to her so faithfully should be sent for.

When Lady Clara left her grandmother's room, the face that had been so clouded was radiant, for, after having all her anxieties swept away, as it seemed by a miracle, she had ventured upon a positive request, which made her breath come short as she made it.

With some adroitness, and a talent that would have made her fortune on the stage, she brought the subject round to Lady Hope, and from her to the fact that she had an only brother, who had travelled in foreign parts for years, but had just come back to England, and had been at Oakhurst.

The old lady listened with gentle attention, but did not divine Clara's wishes by intuition as she had before.

"He is mamma Rachael's only relative, and she loves him dearly," said Clara. "I think she would always like to have him with her."

Even this gentle hint did not arouse the old lady, who was falling back into a pleasant lethargy, so common to aged persons.

"You would like him yourself, grandmamma," continued Clara, getting anxious; "he has seen so much, and talks so well; besides, he knows everything about horses, and taught me so many things about managing them."

"Indeed!" said Lady Carset, arousing herself, for she had been a splendid horsewoman in her time. "It would be a great comfort if we had some one besides the groom to advise with about the ponies. Then, we must have a couple of saddle horses for you and the American young lady. Would this young gentleman—Is he young, Clara?"

"Not very," answered Clara, blushing quietly, and drooping her head to hide the fact, as the old lady took up her sentence again.

"I suppose not. So, as your stepmother might be pleased, what objection would there be to inviting this gentleman to the castle? When Lady Hope comes, I would like to have as many of her friends here as possible. Houghton will seem more like home to her. As for you, Clara, it will always be your home, so we must try and make it pleasant. Write the letter for me, child, and invite the gentleman here."

It was this conversation that sent Lady Clara out of her grandmother's room with that radiant face.



CHAPTER XXVI.

THE QUARREL AND THE LETTER.

"Take your choice, young lady, take your choice! Either consent to have your name on the bills for Monday night, or leave my house, bag and baggage, one and all of you! Either obey me or go! I wash my hands of the whole affair."

Here Olympia rubbed one soft white hand over the other, and shook them apart, as if she were already washing off the annoyance that proud girl had given her.

Caroline was deathly pale. She had grown thin and languid with the illness that still hung about her. Around her enlarged eyes lay faint, purplish shadows, that deepened their sad expression; but, with all her weakness, a look of settled resolution lay on her face.

"Be it so, then!" she said, with pathetic sadness. "If my own mother—"

"Mother? Hush that! I don't believe a word of it! Brown may talk, and swear that he never lost sight of you, but he needn't tell me! My daughter! why don't you glory in the stage, then? Why don't you go down on your knees and thank me for that voice? Don't dare to call me mother till you can learn how to obey me!"

"I cannot obey you in this. If you drive me out to perish in the street I will not!"

"Then into the street you go! Let Brown try his hand at earning a living for you. It is more his duty than mine."

Caroline turned a wild, wistful look on the woman as she said this; then she moved a step toward her, and the tones of her voice, as they came through her white lips, were mournful and stormy, like wind over snow.

"What do you mean, madam? What is it that you insinuate?"

"Only this," answered Olympia, with a malicious laugh. "As you are resolved—as you never will be anything to me again, and are determined to throw away all your advantages, I think the truth will bring down your pride a little, and so mean to give it just for once. I really do suppose that you are my daughter—else, where did you get the voice you are giving to the wind? But, if you are, that man Brown is your father, for he was my husband once."

Caroline stood looking at the woman, white and still, her large eyes widening, all her features in a tumult. Then she fell upon her knees, covered her face with both hands, and cried out:

"Oh, my God! is this good man my father? Are these the thrills of joy that a child knows for its parent?"

A man who had opened the door of Olympia's boudoir was arrested on the threshold by these words.

Olympia saw him and sank to a chair, laughing maliciously.

"Ask him," she said, pointing to the man; "ask him. Don't look so astonished, Brown. I have told her all about it, and you see how white it has made her. She does not seem to relish you for a father much more than she does the stage!"

Caroline dashed the tears from her eyes, and arose, with a smile breaking through the scattered moisture.

"Not like him! He has always been kind, good, generous. I did not need this to make me love him. Father, my father! how many times I have called you so, but this is real! Oh, God be thanked that you are my father!"

"Ask him how he intends to support you," broke in Olympia, washing her hands over again in dumb show, and drawing in her breath till it hissed through her white teeth, as if a snake had crept up from her bad heart.

"I will support her! God helping me, I will! Don't feel down-hearted, my poor child. You shall not be ashamed of me. For your sake I will do anything. I can go into an orchestra."

"What! I ashamed of you, my father? Why, it gives us to each other. I have something in this wide world to love!"

Brown's eyes filled with tears. He was trembling violently.

"Father, my dear father!" murmured Caroline, drawing close to him, with a feeling that he was all the friend she had in the world, "do not look so troubled. This gives me such joy that I cannot bear to see tears in your eyes, my father."

Brown did not speak; he had no power of voice, but stood, with her hands in his, looking into her face in pathetic silence.

Olympia arose.

"It is a pretty scene, and well acted," she said; "but I am tired of being sole audience. When you have settled upon anything, I shall have the pleasure of bidding you farewell. I must go to rehearsal now. When I come back, it will be convenient to have the house to myself. I give a little supper this evening, and I remember you do not exactly approve of my little suppers, and, for the world, would not shock the young lady! Good morning, Caroline. Good morning, Brown. You see our pretty experiment has failed, and we have got to part again. I think this time will be forever!"

Olympia swept out of the room and entered her carriage, looking like a baffled fury.

Then those two were left together, and for half an hour they sat, looking at each other with sad, wistful eyes, talking of the past in snatches, till slowly and sadly their minds turned to the future, and that looked blank enough to them. What could they do? Olympia had never been generous to her daughter or the agent. They had neither money nor valuables. How were they to live, even for a week?

"I can, perhaps, obtain a situation in some orchestra."

Poor Brown spoke under his breath, for he knew well enough that Olympia would never permit him to earn his bread in that way, so long as her influence in the theatres could prevent it; but it was the only hopeful idea he could think of, and so he suggested it with desponding hesitation. But, to the young girl, there was encouragement even in this.

"And I can take pupils. You remember the young lady that came to me that night in the dressing-room—Lord Hope's daughter?"

"Remember her!" exclaimed Brown, brightening all over, "I should think so! When she turned her face upon me and said, 'Don't be so anxious, sir. She is better now,' I longed to fall down on my knees and worship her!"

Tears came into Caroline's eyes. Her nature was noble and full of gratitude. She could endure wrong and cruelty without weeping, but generous and kind actions melted her heart.

"Ah, how good she was; we can trust her, my father."

How falteringly, and with what pathos she used this grand old word now! Before, she had done it in affectionate play, but now, a solemn feeling of tenderness thrilled the syllables, as "father" dropped from her lips, and made the heart swell in his bosom with a tremulous response.

"She will speak to Lady Hope, and they will recommend pupils to us. Oh, if we could only go back to Italy!"

As this exclamation was on her lips, the servant in blue and silver came through the door with a salver in his hand, on which lay a letter. The seal and monogram had struck his eye, and he brought the missive in with an excess of ceremony that would have been laughable at another time. He brought the letter to Caroline. She tore it open, and an eager, almost wild look of thankfulness swept over her face as she read it.

"Oh, father, father! See what the good God has done for us!"

The servant, who lingered in the room, was so astonished at hearing that sacred name used with thanksgiving or reverence in Olympia's house, that he dropped the silver tray and stood open-mouthed regarding the young lady.

"Read it! read it! Oh, this will be Heaven to us. Remark, please, you are to come with me and Eliza. Let us start by the very next train."

It was Lady Clara's letter, which, of course, contained an invitation from the old countess. Clara had added a little hospitality of her own, and suggested that Brown should come to Houghton for awhile, and give her music lessons—she was getting so out of practice. As usual, the girl had her way, and that letter was the result. But Brown's face grew thoughtful as he read.

"What is the matter?" inquired Caroline, anxiously.

"But how are we to get there?"

All the anxiety that made Brown's heart heavy under this good news, broke out in these words. Caroline's face clouded, and her voice faltered.

"Let me call Eliza and Margaret; perhaps they can point out something."

She rang the bell, and directly both the maids were informed of the dilemma they were in.

What was to be done? It was impossible to remain a day longer in Olympia's house. The thought was intolerable. Margaret and Eliza stood looking at each other in blank helplessness. What was to be done? All at once Margaret gave her head a fling and brightened all over.

"Never mind," she said, with one of her old coquettish gestures. "I may, I may—who knows?"

Without further explanation the girl went up-stairs, got out her most becoming hat and feather—for she had never been restricted, like an English servant, in such matters—wrapped a scarlet shawl over her flounced dress, and, after practising a little before the mirror, came down with a glittering parasol in her hand.

"Eliza, just come here and see if my pannier is looped properly," she said, giving that article a shake as she looked in at the door.

Eliza came out of the room, grim as ever, and gave the pannier a discontented jerk or two.

"Now what are you up to?" she inquired, curtly, for she was sometimes a little scandalized at her younger sister's coquettish airs.

"Never you mind, only tell me one thing, honest. Look at me. Ain't I about as good looking as I ever was? If I am, tell them to wait till I come back."

"Don't ask me!" was the curt answer. "Of course they'll wait, because they can't help it."



CHAPTER XXVII.

MAGGIE CASEY MEETS HER OLD LOVER.

Margaret Casey called a cab, and ordering it to drive to Morley's, Trafalgar Square, betook herself to rearranging her toilet. She re-clasped a pair of heavy gold bracelets around her wrists—at any rate there was enough of gold in them to make a dashing display—and settled a splendid shawl pin to her own infinite content, then she shook out the folds of her dress, and settled down to serious meditation.

Certainly she did not appear much older than when her good looks had been a temptation to Matthew Stacy, which came very near depriving Harriet, the cook, of her pompous husband. Excitement had brought back the youthful color to her face, and a spirit of benevolent mischief kindled all the old coquettish fire in her eyes. Indeed, take her altogether, the air of refinement, which she had obtained as a lady's maid, and a certain style that she had, might well have made Mrs. Matthew Stacy look about her when Margaret came out in force, such as marked the dashing lady who descended from that cab, just lifting her dress enough to reveal glimpses of a high-heeled boot, and an ankle that Matthew Stacy recognized in an instant, for nothing so trim and dainty had ever helped make a footprint in his matrimonial path, you may be sure. He was standing on the steps at Morley's, with a white vest on and his heavy chain glittering over it like a golden rivulet.

"What! No! yes! On my soul I believe it is Miss Maggie!" cried the ex-alderman, stepping forward and reaching out his hand. "Miss Casey, I am in ecstasies of—of—in short, I am glad to see you."

Maggie bent till her pannier took the high Grecian curve as she opened her parasol, then she gave him the tip end of her gloved fingers, and said, with the sweetest lisp possible:

"How do you do, Mr. Stacy? It is ages and ages since I have had the honor of meeting you. How is Mrs. Stacy and the—and the—"

"Thank you a thousand times, Miss Casey; but—but—in short, Mrs. Stacy is the only person about whom you need inquire. There was another—forgive the outburst of a father's feelings—but a little grave in Greenwood, that long, tells the mournful story."

Here Alderman Stacy measured off a half yard or so of space with his fat hands, but found the effort too much for him, and drew forth his pocket handkerchief.

"Forgive me, but may you never know the feelings of a father who—who—"

"How distressing!" said Margaret, waving her head to and fro, until her eyes settled on a window of the hotel.

"But do control yourself. I think that is Harriet—I beg pardon—Mrs. Stacy, at the window, and your grief may remind her of her loss."

"Mrs. Stacy! Mrs. Stacy!" faltered Matthew. "Miss Maggie, would you have any objection to stepping a little this way? It is so unpleasant for a young lady of your refinement to stand directly in front of a hotel filled with gentlemen. Beauty like yours is sure to bring them to the windows in swarms, as one may observe, and I—I have enough of the old feeling left to be jealous, miserably jealous when any man dares to look upon you."

"But I come to call on your wife, Mr. Stacy."

"She is not at home, I do assure you. She has been shopping since—since day before yesterday."

Margaret's eyes twinkled.

"Then, perhaps, I had better go up, and wait for her?"

Margaret was bright, but even here her old lover proved equal to the occasion.

"My dear Maggie—excuse me, Miss Casey—I do assure you my lady has taken the parlor-key with her. She will be so disappointed at not seeing you!"

"It is unfortunate," said Maggie, playing with her parasol; "because I was in hopes of having a few words with you, and that would be improper, I fear, without her."

"My dear Miss Maggie, not at all—not at all. You have no idea of the quantities of women that prefer to see me alone. Indeed, sometimes I think Mrs. Stacy is a little in the way. Just walk quietly along, miss—not before the windows. Excuse my infirmity, but there are some feelings that one never can throw off. Hold that elegant parasol before that lovely face, and I will be with you in a twinkling. The park is not far off. One moment, while I run up for my cane."

Margaret allowed herself to be persuaded, for the last thing in her mind had been to see Mrs. Stacy. Like those other ladies Matthew had boasted of, she very much preferred to see him alone, and would have been greatly annoyed had Harriet, in fact, appeared at the window.

So, making a merit of her own wishes, she slanted her parasol toward the house and sauntered down the street, while Matthew ran up-stairs, panting for breath, and, entering his parlor, looked anxiously toward the window.

"Matthew, dear, is that you?"

Matthew's foreboding heart revived. That mumbling term of endearment, coming, as it were, through a mouthful of cotton wool, reassured him. He stepped to the sleeping-room door, and found Mrs. Stacy, with her head buried in the pillows and her feet thumping restlessly on the quilt.

"What is the matter, my love?"

"Oh, Stacy, dear, such a sudden take-down! My old neuralgia. Matthew! Matthew! don't leave me! I feel as if I was just a goin'!"

"Oh, nonsense, dear. All you want is plenty of quiet. A good, long sleep would bring you around in no time. Just snuggle down in the pillows, and take yourself off to sleep till I come back."

"Are you going? and me like this? Oh, Matthew!"

"You can't feel it more than I do, Harriet, dear; but I must go down to the bankers with this bill of exchange. Ten thousand dollars isn't to be carried round in a man's pocket safely. Besides, there is a special messenger just come up from the bank; so I must go, you see. But it breaks my heart to leave you so—indeed it does!"

"Oh, if it's about money, I do not mind. That is a thing which must be attended to. But Stacy, dear, don't let them keep you long; but go at onst, and right back."

"The moment those rich old fellows will let me off—the very moment, dear!" cried the model husband, waving his hand airily toward the bed, and taking up both hat and cane; "so try and sleep."



CHAPTER XXVIII.

JUST FIFTY POUNDS.

Mrs. Stacy, thus reminded of her own needs, began to moan softly among her pillows, and called out to the walls and windows that she wished, if that pain was going to keep on so, that she never had been born. If it wasn't that she had the very best husband that ever drew breath, she would just give up, and want to die; but for his sake she would try and worry through.

Stacy was far out of reach both of the moans and this conjugal tribute to his goodness, for he had hastened to join that bank messenger who, somehow, took the form of his old sweetheart, and shaded him now and then with a coquettish bend of her parasol.

"Found your cane," observed Maggie, glancing at the ponderous gold-headed affair in the hand of her old lover.

"Oh, yes; no trouble; had just stood it up in a corner of the parlor."

Maggie laughed a little under the cover of her parasol, but kept a discreet silence about the locked door until she was snugly seated in the park, with Stacy crowded close to her side.

"Ah," he said, heaving a sigh that lifted the white vest like a snow-bank, "this is something like happiness! If you could only know what your haughtiness has driven me to—but it is no use trying to make you understand! Look at me, Miss Maggie! Am I the same man that adored you so? Don't answer. I am, I am, for—Harriet, forgive me, I love you yet—I love you yet!"

"But you left me, Mr. Stacy."

"Rather say the furies driv me. I wasn't myself. It was another fellow that woman married: the true man staid with you, and here he is, just the same as ever, if you would only believe it—but you won't, you won't!"

"How can I believe it, Mr. Stacy, after abandoning me so?"

"But not till you driv me to it—not till you had slapped my face with that precious little hand."

"Mr. Stacy, I—I'm glad you care for me a little, because I want a great favor of you."

Stacy sat upright in the iron seat, and pulled down his white vest with a couple of jerks.

"A favor, did you say?"

"Yes, a great favor."

"And what may its nature be, Miss Maggie?"

"Mr. Stacy, you are a rich man."

Stacy was troubled. To deny his wealth was a terrible sacrifice of vanity—to admit it might be exposing himself to depredation.

"Well, yes," he said at last, "I am rich. No one in New York would doubt that; but over here one has such trouble in getting funds, you understand. It was only this morning Mrs. Stacy wanted money for a little shopping, as she called it; but I couldn't give it to her—upon my soul I couldn't."

"Then, it would be of no use to ask you for a loan of twenty-five pounds, as I thought of doing."

"A loan of twenty-five pounds, my dear Maggie! Five hundred pounds would not be too much, if I were only in New York; but here in London, where Alderman Stacy is not known, I could not raise even the miserable sum you want—I could not, indeed."

Maggie's eyes began to flash, for she understood the meanness of this man, and despised it; but she thought of that anxious group in Olympia's parlor, and resolved to have the money.

"Still, considering everything, I think you will try to oblige me."

"Don't ask me. It wounds my manhood to refuse; but let us talk of something else—those dear old times—"

"No," said Margaret, unlocking one of her bracelets, and closing it with a vicious snap. "If you cannot let me have it, I will go to your wife."

"My wife? You go to my wife! Why, she hates you like pison!"

"And I am not very fond of her; but I want this money, and she will have to give it me."

Stacy pulled down his vest again, and broke into a mellow laugh.

"Well, I should like to see you try it on! What would you say to her, Maggie?"

"I would say: Mrs. Matthew Stacy, you and I were fellow-servants together in New York, where the lady was murdered; and for some days, you and I, and the person you have married, were left in charge of all the valuable property that house had in it. One of those nights I went away, leaving everything in its place. When I came back again the wardrobes had been plundered, the bureaus broken open, the wine-cellar pillaged."

Matthew Stacy had been growing crimson while Maggie spoke. He put up a hand to his throat, as if something were choking him, and tore open a button or two of his vest; then he gasped out:

"Miss Maggie, Miss Maggie, do you mean to insinuate that I or my wife Harriet—"

"I don't mean to insinuate anything, because what I say I know. You and your wife took these things. I knew it at the time; I can prove it now."

"Prove it fourteen years after?"

"Some things do not wear out—jewelry and India shawls, for instance. I was at the Opera not long since. My sister, who used to come and visit me so often, is a little in that line, and I used to show her all the shawls and splendid dresses our mistress used to have. Well, that night at the Opera we both saw your wife, sitting by you, with the best shawl the madam had, on her own shoulders. We knew it at a glimpse. There isn't another just like it to be found in England or America. That shawl, Matthew Stacy, is worth thousands of dollars, and your wife, Harriet Long, the cook, was wearing it."

"Margaret! Margaret Casey, you had better take care."

"I have taken care. This woman had a gold-mounted opera-glass in her hand that we both can swear to. Besides that, she had a little watch at her side, set thick with diamonds. That watch she took to a jeweller to be mended. It is in his hands yet. When I leave this seat, it will be my first business to make sure that she never gets the watch again."

"But it is fourteen years—time enough for anything to be outlawed."

"I have asked about that. Crimes are not like debts—they cannot be outlawed, Mr. Stacy."

"And you could find it in your heart to hunt down an old sweetheart like that, providing all you say is true? I wouldn't a believed it of you, Maggie."

"It seems to me that sweetheart just now refused to lend me twenty-five pounds."

"Refused! No, he did not refuse."

Matthew caught his breath, and changed his wheedling tone all at once. A new idea had struck him.

"But, supposing what you say is true, there isn't any one in England to prosecute—"

"Yes, there is the lady's agent. He sat by you when we first saw the shawl. Mr. Hepworth Closs."

Matthew Stacy sprang to his feet, perfectly aghast.

"And you have told him?"

"Not yet; but I mean to!"

"You mean to—"

"Yes, I do!"

"That is it—that is it—the self-same cretur that left the print of her fingers on my cheek, and of herself on my heart. It is her who wishes to cast me to the earth, and have me stamped on by the law. Oh, Maggie Casey, Maggie Casey, I wouldn't have believed it of you!"

"And I wouldn't have believed you capable of refusing me fifty pounds!"

"Fifty pounds! It was twenty-five, Miss Margaret."

"Yes; but I've changed my mind. One does not want to be refused a miserable sum like that. I've doubled it."

"But I did not refuse; I only wanted to put the subject off till we had talked of old times—I didn't refuse you by any manner of means. You hadn't told me anything about yourself—how you came here, and what you were doing, or anything that an old lover's heart was panting to know."

"Well, I will tell you now. I have been, ever since that time, in the family of a nobleman, as a sort of half servant, half companion to his daughter."

"You don't say so! Then what on earth can you want of twenty-five pounds?"

"Fifty."

"Well, fifty it is, then. Between us, that was all I hesitated about; twenty-five pounds was such a pitiful sum for you to ask of me. You didn't understand this noble feeling, and almost threatened me; but not quite, and I'm glad of it, for Matthew Stacy is the last man on earth to give up to a threat. I hope you will believe that, Miss Margaret."

"Fifty pounds!" said Margaret, lifting a tuft of grass by the roots with the point of her parasol.

"Did I dispute its being fifty? Certainly not. Now just say how you will take it—in gold or Bank of England notes?"

"Notes will do."

"I'm glad you said that, because I happen to have the notes about me," answered the alderman, drawing out a plethoric note-case, and counting the money with terrible reluctance. "Here we are; just the sum. Now tell me, were you really in earnest about its being fifty?"

"Just fifty," answered Margaret, counting the money on her lap; "just fifty."

Matthew heaved a grievous sigh, and stood up.

"Now I suppose that little affair is settled forever?" he said, working both hands about the head of his cane, while he eyed the girl askance.

"I said fifty pounds, and fifty pounds it is," answered Margaret. "Now let us be going."

"But you mean to act fair?"

"I mean to act fair, and return your money."

"Oh, I don't mean that, I don't want that! It was the other affair; you could not do anything so cruel."

Margaret turned short round and faced the stout man, who was trembling, abjectly, from head to foot.

"Mr. Stacy, I have kept silent fifteen years and rather over. If I have not spoken before, you may be certain I never shall. I wanted this money very much, indeed, and shall repay it with less thankfulness because of the mean way in which I forced it from you. Your wife may wear her shawl and watch to the end, for any harm I mean her. Good morning, Mr. Stacy."

Stacy stood just as she left him, thrusting his cane into the turf.

"And she wouldn't have done it after all. What a confounded fool I have made of myself! Two hundred and fifty dollars, and gold up to one-forty at home, which makes another clean hundred. What a mercy it is she didn't ask a thousand, though! She took the starch out of me, through and through. I should have handed over anything she asked."

As Stacy was walking from the park, now and then giving a punch to the turf with his cane, in discontented abstraction, he nearly ran against a man who had just passed the gate, and, looking up angrily, saw Hepworth Closs. The poor craven turned white as he saw that face; but Hepworth was in haste, and took no heed of his agitation.

"You are just the man I most wanted," he said.

"What—what—me? Is it me you wanted?" stammered Stacy, smitten with abject terror.

"Yes; you are an American, and will understand the value of American bonds."

"American bonds! Surely, Mr. Closs, you will at least give me a chance of bail? I tell you it is all false! That creature isn't to be believed under oath."

"I have no idea what you mean," said Closs, a good deal puzzled; "but you evidently do not understand me. I am about to leave England, and have a monied trust to settle before I go. There is a reason why it is inexpedient for me to act in person. I wish to pay the money, but give no explanation. Will you act as my agent in this?"

"Is—is it—that estate you are just settling up?" asked Stacy, below his breath, for he felt as if the earth were about to swallow him. "Is it that?"

"I can give you no explanation. This money came into my hands years ago. I invested it carefully—doubled it over and over again; but now I wish to give up my trust. I have it here in American bonds, fifty thousand dollars."

"Fifty thousand!"

"Just that. I wish you to take this to the young lady, to whom it rightfully belongs, and place it in her own hands, with the simple statement that it is hers. Will you oblige me in this?"

"First tell me who the young lady is."

"Lady Clara, the daughter of Lord Hope, of Oakhurst."

"The daughter of a lord! My dear sir, I shall be too happy!"

"But there is a condition. I do not wish the lady to guess where this money comes from. You must be understood as the agent, who has invested and increased it from a small property left in New York by a relative. This will work you no harm, but, on the contrary, win for you favor and gratitude from as noble a lady as ever lived."

"Will it get an invitation to Oakhurst for myself and Mrs. Stacy? That is a thing I should like to mention incidentally, to the Board of Aldermen when they give me a public reception in the Governor's Room. Will it bring about something of that kind?"

"That I cannot tell. The young lady is not now at Oakhurst, but with her grandmother, at Houghton Castle. It is there you will find her."

"Houghton Castle! Why, that's the place I saw mentioned in the Court Journal. There is to be tremendous doings at Houghton Castle before long; a grand entertainment, to which all the grandees, far and near, are invited. What if this fifty thousand dollars should get me and Mrs. S. an invite? That would be a crusher."

"It is possible," said Closs, controlling the fierce beating of his heart. "Come to my hotel in the morning, early. I am anxious to get this trust off my mind."

Stacy promised, and the two men parted, the one elated, the other doubtful, harassed, and painfully disappointed; but the very next day after Matthew Stacy left London for Houghton, Hepworth Closs received a letter, which put all ideas of a voyage to America out of his mind.



CHAPTER XXIX.

OLYMPIA'S DEFEAT.

Olympia stood, panic-stricken, in her fantastic little boudoir, when she reached home and found a note from Caroline, bidding her farewell, and stating that, not being able to comply with her wishes, she had accepted the other alternative, and left her house forever, in company with her father and the old servant, who had been so faithful to her. The note breathed of sadness and sorrow at the manner of her leaving, and, if firm, was entirely respectful; but it said nothing of her plans, nor told where she was going.

Now, Olympia thought that she had provided against the possibility of a choice between her cruel commands, by depriving both Caroline and her father of all means by which they could leave her. She had gone out, certain of the girl's forced submission, and came back to find her gone. She crushed the note in her hand, flung it down and stamped upon it furiously; for it seemed as if half a million of gold had melted down into the bit of paper, which she could only trample under her feet in impotent wrath.

"The viper! the ingrate! the thing made of iron! Oh, if it were her! if it were her! I would trample her through the floor! Where did she get the money? He had nothing—she had nothing. I thought I had chained them to me by their poverty; then I came home, so exhilarated by this great offer from the manager—and she is gone! So beautiful! and such a voice! Gone! gone! Oh, what a loss!"

Here Olympia, who had never known what self-control was, flung herself on a low, silken couch, heaped with cushions, like a divan, and began to pound them with her little fists, and spurn them with the soiled white satin slippers, in which she had been to rehearsal. This burst of hysterical fury would have brought down the house had she plunged into such naturalness on the stage. But she started up, and after snatching a mosaic card-receiver from her footman, and dashing it against a marble statuette of Venus coming from the bath, thus demolishing what little drapery the poor thing was trying to make the most of, came partially to herself and demanded what the fellow wanted.

The footman, shivering under his blue and silver, pointed to a card which lay on the carpet.

"Why don't you pick it up?" cried Olympia, stamping her satin slipper into a cluster of roses, that seemed to disappear from the carpet.

The man took up the card and handed it to her, with a reverence so humble that she longed to trample him down with the mock roses, and get him out of her sight; but, as he towered above her a foot or two, the process seemed difficult, so she ordered him out of the room, and looked at the card.

"Lord Hilton! Dear me!"

Olympia made a dash through the silken curtains, ran into the hall, just as Lord Hilton was leaving the door-step, and called him back.

He followed her into the boudoir, telling her the reason of his visit as he went.

This inflamed her anew, and she turned upon him savagely, but with some attempt at self-restraint.

"You wished to see Caroline? the ingrate! the viper! the raven with a nightingale's voice! You wish to see her? Why? This is singular. I thought she was a stranger to you. No! Then, where did you meet?"

"I have seen the young lady frequently in Italy. Will you please to have her informed that I am here?"

"Informed—I! Well, my lord, this is droll! No such person is in my house. I could no longer tolerate her. She is gone."

"What! Your daughter?"

"My daughter! Did I ever say that? Ah, I remember—it was after one of our little suppers, when one gets liberal! But this ingrate was no daughter of mine, but my protege—something to fasten the heart on, as one loves a Skye terrier. Her father was a poor man—very poor, almost degraded, you understand—so, in my unfortunate munificence, I lifted her out of her poverty, gave her some of my own genius, and took her to my bosom, as Cleopatra took the asp; and she stung me, just in the same way, villainous ingrate! This girl has treated me shamefully. I had made such an engagement for her—such concessions—carriage for herself, dressing-maid always in attendance, a boudoir for her retirement, private box, everything that a princess might ask; bills almost made out, and when I come home, she is gone. Read that note, my lord; it lies there at your feet. Read it, and tell me if you ever heard of such base ingratitude."

Lord Hilton took up the crumpled and trodden paper. His eyes eagerly ran over its contents, and brightened as they read; while Olympia prowled around her boudoir, like a newly-caged leopardess.

"Read! read!" she said, "and then say if anything so ungrateful ever lived. No, no, my lord, she is no child of mine. I wash my hands of her—I wash my hands of her!"

Here Olympia laved her white hands in the air, and went through a process of dry washing in the heat of her promenade up and down the room.

"And have you no idea where the young lady has gone?"

"An idea! How should I have ideas? You have read her letter. Well, that is all."

Lord Hilton folded the note, and softly closed his hand over it.

"Then I will no longer trouble you, madam," he said, holding back the curtain, while he bowed himself through the entrance.

Olympia watched the crimson curtains close over him, standing, with some effort at self-control, in the middle of the room. Then she broke into a fresh paroxysm, shattered a few more ornaments by way of appeasing her appetite for destruction, and plunged down among her cushions in a fit of shrieking hysterics that brought the whole household around her.

A knock at the door—another visitor—brought Olympia out of her fit, and turned her general rage into spite.

"Show them in—show everybody in! If they want to see how I bear it, let the whole world come!" she cried, spreading her hands abroad.

The man who went to the door obeyed her, and brought in an old woman, whose anxious, tired face might have won sympathy from a stone. She entered that glittering room without excitement or any appearance of curiosity, and when Olympia, in coarse and spiteful irony, bade her sit down in one of the easy-chairs, she took it quietly.

"There is a young lady staying with you, madam, that I wish to see. I think she is known by the name of Brown."

"Brown? Brown? There is no such person here. How dare you come troubling me about her, the ingrate, the asp, the—the—"

"It may be that the young lady may still be called Yates. She bore that name once."

"Yates? Brown? Brown? Yates? I know nothing about them. Don't go on in that fashion, questioning; for I won't hear it! Who are you that dares come here with such names? I do not keep a lodging-house. I am Olympia!"

"But there was a young lady here—the one I wish to see," said the old woman, with calm persistence.

"Well, and if there was?"

"I have very urgent reasons for wishing to find her."

"Well, perhaps you will, who knows? Needles have been found in haymows, but I wasn't the person to pick them up, and it strikes me that you won't be more fortunate."

"But I must see this lady!"

"If you can find her, certainly; but she is not here, and never is likely to be again—the wretch—the viper!"

"When did she leave here, madam?"

"When—when? What is that to you? Am I come to the pass that I cannot turn a viper into the street without being questioned by every old tramp that prowls about? I tell you the creature you call Brown—"

"Caroline Brown," said the old lady, gently.

"Well, the creature you call Caroline Brown, then, has gone from my house forever. I neither know nor care what has become of her."

The old woman arose, and walked close to Olympia.

"You have forgotten me, Olive Brown. It is a long time since you brought that helpless little child to me."

Olympia turned white, and, turning, fiercely ordered the servants from the room.

"Who are you? What are you?" she faltered. "What tempted you to call me by that name, and they standing by?"

"I am named Yates. Years ago you brought a child for me to care for."

"Oh, it is the child again! I tell you, on my honor, she has left my house, I do not know where she has gone."

"Are you certain, madam?"

"Certain! Yes—yes. She left my house only this morning."

"Then I will go in search of her. Will this never end?" sighed Hannah Yates.

"Stop! stop!" cried Olympia. "Promise to say nothing of that name. Promise!"

"I am only wanting to find the young lady—not to harm any one."

"But it would harm me if you told that. Brown! Brown! Think of Brown for a stage name! Can't you understand that it would be death to me? Half my popularity lies in the fact that no one can tell who or what I am. Now, do be silent, that is a good old soul, if it is only for her sake; for you know, in spite of the way she has served me, everything I have or make will go to my child in the end. I am ready to make it worth your while to be quiet."

Here Olympia took out a portemonnaie and unclasped it. The old woman put the glittering thing aside with her hand.

"I do not take money," she said. "All I want is to find her. If she is gone, I must search farther."

Then, with a meek bend of the head, Mrs. Yates left the room and the house.

* * * * *

Lord Hilton went out of that house, relieved by the denial of Olympia that Caroline was her daughter, but in other respects cruelly disappointed. The greatest and most generous wish of his life was to find the young girl, and atone for the cowardice which had made him avoid her for a time. He had resolved that the fact that she was Olympia's child should not prevent him acting this manly part; but when that degradation was lifted from her by the woman's own words, his heart was set free from an intolerable weight, and went back to its old love with a happy rebound. He remained in London some days, spending the time in vain efforts to learn something of the beautiful fugitive, and then started back to the neighborhood of Houghton Castle, bitterly disappointed.

For some distance, after he entered the railroad carriage, Lord Hilton was alone; but at the junction, where he had formerly met Lady Clara and her maid, a gentleman and lady entered the carriage, and sat down opposite him. There was something singular about the lady; her large, black eyes illumined the whole face with a glow of proud triumph that seemed to have uplifted her whole being. It was this brilliant seeming of happiness which at first baffled Lord Hilton; for after the lady had been seated awhile, she probably began to feel the restraints of a stranger's presence, for a fit of thoughtful lassitude crept over her, and her eyelids began to droop.

He remembered the face, now. One night he had seen it at the opera, leaning against the crimson lining of the box, paler by far than now; but the beautiful outlines were the same, though that face had been still and passive, while this was irradiated even in its rest.

Turning his face from the lady, Lord Hilton encountered a face that he knew in the tall and distinguished-looking man who accompanied her.

"Lord Hope, this is a pleasure," he said, holding out his hand. "The last I heard of you was in Scotland."

"Yes, we found the shooting good, and staid longer than usual; but I fancied you were down at the old place."

"And so I was, but these railways send a man from one end of the universe to another so rapidly that one does not know where to date from. I have been up to London for a day or two, and am on my way back again."

Here Lady Hope lifted her slumberous eyelids, and was introduced.

The sweet, alluring smile that we have seen on the face of Rachael Closs had come back to it now.

"I should almost have known Lord Hilton," she said, "from Lady Clara's description. She was indeed fortunate in chancing upon you for a travelling companion."

"I have that great kindness to thank you for, Hilton," said Lord Hope. "Clara's letters were full of your adventures on the road and at Houghton. I did not know that you had left the neighborhood, though."

"I think myself more than fortunate," said Hilton, addressing Lady Hope, "in having the honor of introducing two such ladies to the castle, for I take it you are going to Houghton."

"Oh, yes, of course; it was impossible to refuse Lady Carset. We shall be at the castle some time, I am glad to say."

How her magnificent eyes flashed. The very bend of her head was regal, as she thus announced a triumph she had been toiling for ever since she had become Lord Hope's wife.

The scorn of that old woman at Houghton, had been the bane of her existence. Like an interdict of the Pope in olden times, it had kept her apart from the people of her own rank, as an excommunication would have done in past ages. But all this was removed. As it would seem by a miracle, the bitter prejudices of that old lady had given way, and through the broad doors of Houghton Castle, she was invited to take her place among the peeresses of the land.

This had brought back the fire and bloom into Lady Hope's life, and when Lord Hilton leaned out, as he had done with Lady Clara, and exclaimed, "There is Houghton," a glorious smile broke over her features.



CHAPTER XXX.

THE FAMILY MEETING AT HOUGHTON.

The train which took Caroline and her party down to Houghton, reached their destination just as the sun was setting over the glorious old trees of the park, and trembling in golden brightness in the ivy that clung to those twin towers.

Scarcely had they left the train, when a basket-carriage came dashing up to the platform, and a young lady sprang out, tossing her reins to a dainty little tiger, who sat behind, erect and decorous, knowing himself to be an object of general attention.

"So you are really here. I am so glad to find you! All right, this way—jump in; don't be afraid, the ponies are gentle as gentle can be. Here we are, never mind the others. There is a carriage on the way for them; but, of course, I got here first; always do. Give me the reins, Joe—now for it."

The little carriage wheeled around, and Lady Clara looked back, nodding to Brown, as her ponies took the road in full speed.

"Nice old fellow, isn't he? I am so glad to get him here, for I am going back on my music terribly."

"Did you know he is my father?" said Caroline, in a gentle voice.

"No!"

"He is, indeed. I never learned it till yesterday; but it does not seem strange, for no father was ever more gentle or kind than he has been since the first day I knew him."

"And Olympia—she is your mother, no doubt?"

"Yes; she is my mother."

"All right, we needn't talk of her! it isn't of the least consequence. You must not speak so sadly. I dare say she is a good enough person; but you don't know how to manage her. For my part, I rather like her; but the old gentleman is just lovely! I am glad he is your father; because he can take care of us so properly, and grandmamma will like it, I know. I have got you a chamber next to mine. Our dressing-rooms open into each other, and they are both near grandmamma's apartments. Dear old lady, she is just the kindest, sweetest, loveliest mite of a woman you ever saw; like a darling old fairy. Won't you love her?"

They drove along now for some distance in silence; but as they mounted to the uplands, where Houghton stood, Caroline began to take a lively interest in the scenery, which was both grand and beautiful in that region. Away toward the horizon, at the upper end of the valley, was some large building, whose gray walls and oriel windows were just now burning in the golden fires of a magnificent sunset.

"What place is that?" said Clara, repeating the question her companion had asked, "Oh, that is Keath Hall, and may some day belong to Lord Hilton, a friend of ours."

Caroline felt her breath taken away, she had no power to speak, while Lady Clara sat smiling pleasantly to herself. The poor girl felt like springing out of the carriage, and fleeing to the uttermost parts of the earth, rather than be in the neighborhood with a man who had scorned her so.

"Lord Hilton is not there now," said Clara, with the innocent quietness of a kitten; "something has taken him to London or Italy, I believe; but he is very pleasant, and I like him well enough to be sorry about his going."

Caroline breathed again; but her face was very sorrowful and her heart heavy, during the rest of the drive.

The size and splendor of that vast building almost terrified the girl, who had been brought up in that little cedar cottage. She gave no indication of this in her manner, but walked by the side of her friend through that spacious hall, with its bronze statues, suits of armor and bossed shields, as if no meaner roof had ever sheltered her.

"Come," said Clara, as the young traveller took off her tiny hat, and began to smooth the hair back from her temples. "I am so impatient to have grandmamma see you. That will do—that will do. Come, now."

The two girls went out together, Clara leading the way, and directly stood in the dim light of Lady Carset's chamber.

"Grandmamma, I have brought my friend to pay her respects," said Clara; "only to pay her respects, for, of course, she is famished; but I felt how glad you would be, and brought her directly up here."

The old countess arose from her chair, and came forward holding out her hand. She did, indeed, seem like a fairy godmother, with that soft lace quivering over her snow-white hair, and those great diamonds blazing on her tiny hands.

"I am glad to see you, Miss—Miss—"

"Miss Brown, grandmamma."

"Oh, indeed! well, I am very glad to welcome you, Miss Brown. They tell me you have a fine voice. I should like to hear it some day, when you are not tired."

"If my voice will give you pleasure, lady, I shall, for the first time in my life, be grateful for it," said Caroline, so impressed by this sweet old lady's kindness, that she longed to throw both arms about her.

"What, what? I did not hear distinctly. Oh, it is the voice they tell me of, which thrills the heart with its sweetness; was not that what you said of it, Clara? No wonder people like it. I do."

The old lady still held Caroline's hand—her delicate fingers clung to it, with the loving tenacity of a child. She looked up to the beautiful face with eager, wistful curiosity; but the light always came dimly into that chamber, and its rich draperies of lace and brocade threw their shadows over Caroline; besides, those old eyes were dim with age, or she might have been troubled that such dangerous beauty should come into her house in the form of a dependant. As it was, she allowed the two girls to depart, without dreaming that a more beautiful woman than her grandchild had almost been put upon a level with her.

Two or three days after this, Lord and Lady Hope arrived at the castle, and the old countess, for the first time, saw the woman who wore the coronet which had once belonged to her child. It was beautiful to see that proud lady—for now you could decide that she had been very proud—preparing herself to receive this woman, whom she had hated and wronged so grievously. She stood up in her tower-room when Rachael entered it, her black satin dress trailing far out upon the floor, the yellow old lace fastened over her bosom with a cluster of diamonds, and a handkerchief of delicate lace in her hand.

There was a little more motion of the head than usual, and that was all the evidence she gave of extraordinary emotion.

Lady Hope came to the door, leaning on the arm of her husband; but, on the threshold, she abandoned his support, and came forward by his side, apparently calm and self-possessed; but a proud fire shone in those black eyes, which would not be quenched.

"I have sent for you, Lady Hope, because I thought that the most open and honorable way of acknowledging the wrong I have done you, and of asking your forgiveness."

The old countess folded her arms over her bosom, and bent, in her proud humility, before that beautiful woman whom she could never, never love.

Rachael Closs forced back the triumph that swelled haughtily in her bosom, for the old lady's acknowledgment fired her heart like burning incense; but she bowed her head, as if she had committed the fault, and turning to her husband, appealed to him:

"I cannot—I have no language in which to say how this kindness overwhelms me. Pray tell her from this hour I forget that she has not always thought so kindly of me as I have deserved."

Lord Hope was greatly agitated. The keen eyes of that old lady, as they turned upon his face, troubled him. His very lips were white as he attempted to open them, not to utter the elegant speech suggested by his wife, for his heart seemed to break forth in a single sentence:

"Countess, have the justice to blame me if any wrong has been done to you or yours. As for this lady, no more devoted mother ever lived than she has been to your daughter's child!"

A burst of sobs arose from the other side of the room, and Lady Clara came forward, her face wet with tears, her mouth quivering.

"Indeed, indeed she has! Oh, grandmamma, do love her, because she has been so good to me and everybody else!"

Lady Carset reached forth her hand gently, and with delicate cordiality; but there was no yearning of the heart there, such as had marked her reception of that young girl.

Lady Hope cared very little for this. She had attained the great aim of her life in this recognition; anything like warmth of affection would have been as irksome to her as it was impossible to the old countess. She took the little hand, pressed her lips upon it, and retreated from the room, keeping her face toward the old lady, as if she were retiring from the presence of a queen.

The old countess stood up bravely, and bent her delicate person with the exquisite grace of a lady of the olden time, as her guests disappeared. The moment they were gone she turned to seek her couch; but her limbs lost their strength, her feet became entangled in the satin train, and she would have fallen to the carpet but for Lady Clara, who sprang forward and held her up.

"Dear me, how you tremble! Oh, grandmamma, don't! I never saw you cry before. It breaks my heart!"

The poor old lady was trembling in all her limbs, and crying like a child. It had been a hard cross for her feebleness to take up when she admitted that man and woman to her presence. It seemed as if her own dead child had stood between them, and with shadowy arms striven to push them apart.

"I have done no more than my duty," she said, with a piteous smile. "It was hard, very hard. Still a Carset must not allow any wrong to go unatoned for, and about those diamonds I did wrong her."

Clara did not speak. She was frightened by the agitation into which this scene had thrown the old lady, and only besought her to rest; but strong, nervous excitement is not so easily pacified. The countess conquered her tears, but the couch shook under her nervous trembling. Then Clara ran to her own apartments, and came back to an adjoining room with Caroline, whose voice had a power of soothing which even excitement could not resist.

"Begin to sing—something low and sweet," she whispered. "I will leave the door ajar."

Then Clara stole back to her grandmother, and directly a soft strain of music stole into the room, almost unnoticed at first, like the perfume of flowers, but growing into harmonies so full and swelling, that the whole atmosphere seemed flooded with it.

The old countess listened; the faint breath paused upon her lips, her eyelids began to quiver, and her little withered hands stole up to her bosom and rested there in a tremulous clasp.

"It is a heavenly voice. My child is not angry with me. Oh! how sweetly she tells me so! how sweet—how sweet!"

And so she fell asleep after awhile—all the trembling gone, all the pain swept from those delicate features. Then Caroline came in and sat down by Lady Clara, smiling over the gentle work she had done. The old lady opened her eyes once, and, reaching out her hand to Caroline, who sat nearest, murmured:

"You are not offended with me, child?"

"She takes you for me," whispered Clara, "and is dreaming, I think. Let us be very still."

So the two girls sat together, and guarded the gentle slumber into which the old countess had fallen, with loving solicitude. She seemed to feel their loving presence even in sleep, for a heavenly smile stole over her face, and occasionally she whispered as if answering some pleasant voice that came stealing through her dreams.



CHAPTER XXXI.

DOWN AMONG THE FERNS AGAIN.

Lady Carset had extended numerous invitations to her old friends, and it was understood that Lady Hope would represent the head of the house and do the honors. This compliment was partly in atonement for the wrong that had been done Rachael Closs, and partly from the infirmities of extreme old age, which rendered it even dangerous for the old countess to entertain her guests in person.

For the first time in her life, Lady Hope was in her true element. The weight of an intolerable restraint had been lifted from her. She was mistress of one of the most splendid establishments in all England, not even for a time, for would it not descend unbroken to a step-daughter who worshipped her? Was not the will which settled this already made, and she as good as mistress there during her whole life? She had thought Oakhurst a noble possession, but it dwindled into insignificance when compared with the splendor of Houghton Castle. Very seldom in the world had the ambition of an aspiring woman been so suddenly and completely gratified. It had been all like a dream to her, but now she felt the reality, with an exultation of spirit that took ten years from her person, and a weird burden from her heart. This great happiness sprang out of two grand passions—love and ambition.

The first was gratified in this—Lord Hope was a changed man—a shadow had been swept from his path—hidden shame had changed to unchecked pride. The woman he had married, because of an overpowering love, was now in a position to fascinate society with her beauty, and win its homage with her genius. They had come out from the shadow and were in the broad sunshine.

All his old fondness returned; she could tell it by the elasticity of his step, by the proud uplifting of his head, by the very tones of his voice.

She had thirsted for greatness, and it was hers. She had pined for the old love, and it had come back to her. No wonder the carriage of this woman was lofty, and her voice full of music. No wonder that the rich coloring of her youth returned, and her eyes took back their velvety softness.

At this period Rachael Closs was at the pinnacle of her hopes. She could scarcely understand that this lofty position had not always belonged to her. To dispense almost regal hospitality came to her as the most natural thing on earth, and as each day brought some noble guest to the castle, she received them with more finished grace and a deeper consciousness of power.

Of course, at this time, Lady Clara was most frequently with her stepmother, for the old countess would have it so, and Caroline took her place very frequently in the tower room, where she felt herself to be more than welcome. Indeed, the old lady seemed almost as fond of her as she was of the bright, generous heiress. Caroline would not consent to mingle with the gay crowd which kept up a brilliant carnival all day long in the park, in the vast drawing-room, everywhere, except in that one old tower where the countess spent her quiet life. At the grand festival she had resolved to come forth and do the honors of her own castle, but until then she contented herself by receiving her guests, and then pleasantly turning them over to the splendid woman who filled her place with such consummate ability.

This arrangement threw Caroline almost constantly into the seclusion of the tower apartments, and it so chanced that she had not once met Lady Hope, who was, in fact, unconscious of her presence in the castle.

Clara remembered, with some trepidation, the rebuke which had been given her, regarding her liking for this girl, and, not caring to provoke a repetition, did not mention the fact of her residence at Houghton. Thus it chanced that neither Lord Hope or his wife knew of the independent step their daughter had taken.

Lady Clara had evidently something on her mind one day, for she gave up a ride to the hunt, a thing she had set her heart upon, and came after Caroline to take a long walk in the park with her. Caroline went gladly, for her heart was aching under its broken hopes, and as the excitement connected with her new home died out, a sense of bereavement and desolation came back. She was, indeed, very wretched, and Lady Clara saw it. Perhaps this was the reason she took her protege out for that pleasant walk in the park.

When the two girls reached that hollow through which the brook ran, and where the ferns grew, Clara became suddenly conscious that Caroline must be tired.

Perhaps she was. Caroline, in her listlessness, did not care to ask herself about it, but sat down on a fragment of rock, as Clara directed her, and fell to watching the brook with her sad eyes, as it crept through the ferns and gurgled over the pebbles at her feet.

Meantime Clara had wandered quietly up the hollow, and disappeared in search of something which grew a little way off, she said. So Caroline was not to move till she came back, unless she wished to be lost utterly.

Caroline liked the solitude, and the cool ripple of the brook soothed her. She was rather sorry when a footstep on the forest turf heralded the return of her friend; but she looked up with a welcoming smile, and saw Lord Hilton, her Italian teacher—the man who had told her more than once that he loved her better than his own life!

She did not cry out, or rise from her hard seat, but sat still, looking at him in mournful quietness. What was he, what could he ever be, to her? A nobleman of the realm, and the Olympia's daughter!

He came down the bank and seated himself by her side.

"Caroline, have you no welcome to give me?"

She looked at him with a gleam of excitement in the sadness of her eyes.

"You know who I am, and I, alas! know that you are Lord Hilton," she said, with a touch of pathetic pride. "How can I welcome you?"

"Have you, then, ceased to love me, Caroline?"

Her pale face flushed, her eyes kindled.

"Is this a question to ask me?"

"Yes—because I have never ceased to love you, and never shall."

"Not when you are certain that I am the daughter of—of—an actress?"

"Not if you were the daughter of fifty actresses, Caroline! I have been searching for you, in London, everywhere. More than once I inquired at Olympia's door."

"You!"

"Indeed I did; but she would give me no information."

"She could not. I left no word."

"And now that I have found you, Caroline?"

"My name is Brown, Lord Hilton. I am, in truth, the daughter of that good man whom you supposed my father."

"And of Olympia?"

"Yes, they were married and—and divorced before she became celebrated and took the name of Olympia."

Caroline said all this with a feeling of self-torture that took all the color from her face. The love of Lord Hilton seemed an impossibility to her, and she gave him the hard truth, under which her heart was writhing, without a reservation of pride or delicacy.

"It is of very little consequence whose daughter you are," said the young man, tenderly, "so long as I love you, and am, with God's blessing, resolved to make you my wife."

"Resolved to make me your wife!"

The words came one by one from her lips, in measured sadness. She knew the thing to be impossible, and uttered the words as if she had buried some beloved object, and was mourning over it.

"I repeat it, Caroline. There is no change in my love—no change in my determination. All that I felt for you in our sweet Italian life lives with me yet."

Caroline turned her eyes full upon him. An expression of pain broke through their mournfulness.

"It was impossible!"

That was all she said; but he knew how much agony the words had cost by the whiteness of her lips.

"But why," he pleaded, "if we love each other, for you love me yet?"

"Yes, I love you!"

Hilton threw his arms around her, and kissed her cold face in a transport of thankfulness.

"Then, why not? We were betrothed in Italy, when I believed you Mr. Brown's daughter, as I do now."

"But I did not know that you were an English nobleman, and heir to a large estate."

"Is that a crime, Caroline? Besides, you need not trouble yourself about the estate. When I ask you in marriage, that is given up."

She turned to him suddenly, and held out her hands.

"Are you, indeed, ready to give up so much for me?"

"I am ready to give up everything but my honor," was his reply.

"I am only a poor girl, with no honor to hold but my own; but you shall not find me less generous than you are."

He kissed her hands in passionate gratitude.

"Ah, darling, I knew—I knew that it must end so."

She forced her hands from his clasp.

"You misunderstand me. I love you better than myself! better than my life! Do believe it! And for that reason we part, now and forever! I could not live through another hour like this!"

"Caroline!"

"I know it is hard; my own heart is pleading against it. But there is something which forbids me to listen."

"Caroline, I will not permit this! It is unnatural, cruel!"

"I know it! I know it! Still it is our destiny. Nothing that has been said, or can be said, will change the fact of your birth and mine. Do not, I implore you, press this matter farther. It is hard to fight against my own heart and you. Spare me and let me go!"

Caroline arose and absolutely fled from the man she loved. He did not attempt to detain her, but walked away slowly, half offended—but more resolved on making her his wife than ever.



CHAPTER XXXII.

OUT AMONG THE TREES.

Not far from the glen, loitering up and down a secluded forest-path, Caroline met Lady Clara, and, by her side, the young man whom she had met that night at Olympia's supper party. This took her by surprise, and she turned into another path, where a sheltered garden seat invited her to rest.

Lady Clara had not seen her companion, and was too much occupied for any thought regarding her. She was talking earnestly to Hepworth Closs, who had refused Lady Carset's invitation to take up his quarters at the castle, but was staying at the public house down in the village, until after the festival, at which Clara still refused to be introduced as sole heiress of the broad domain on which they stood.

"Let us be patient," she said. "I cannot distress this kind old lady while she is so disturbed and so feeble. Let things take their course till she is strong enough to endure this additional agitation. She was greatly pleased with you that morning when you called. By degrees she will learn to like you; and when she finds that Lord Hilton has no idea of joining the estates by a marriage with her heiress—a thing which I know she has at heart, but she has, as yet, only given me warning by most delicate insinuations—your proposal will not disturb her so much."

Hepworth Closs had learned the great lessons of patience, and loved the young girl by his side too sincerely for any protest against what was, in fact, a necessary delay; so he answered her kindly;

"So long as we are not entirely separated, Clara, I can bear anything, even your father's hostility, which, after all, is but natural."

"But that, too, will be swept away by grandmamma's consent; and I am sure she loves me so much that, with patience, that may be obtained. Besides, there is your sister, eager for your interests and pining for your society."

"Poor Rachael! How does she bear the honors heaped upon her up yonder."

"Like an empress. Indeed, I never saw her really happy before. My father has all at once taken to adoring her. No wonder! Happiness has made her so grandly beautiful, so dashingly brilliant in all she says and does. The new duke, who has just come down, is so taken with her that he scarcely leaves her side."

"I am glad of that," exclaimed Closs. "If ever a woman was born to control society, it is Rachael. Does she know I am here?"

"I have not told her yet. It will be time enough when all this tumult about the heirship has abated. And perhaps it will be best to let papa find it out in some natural way, when he will, I hope, be anxious to recognize you as Lady Carset's guest, and make atonement for his harshness at Oakhurst."

"What a wise little diplomat you have become, Clara!"

"Yes, I think so. It is just beginning to dawn on me that rash action is the worst kind of selfishness; how, just by a little kindness and a great deal of love, I, a harem-scarem girl, who never stopped to think in my life before, have reconciled an old family feud of fifteen years standing, brought Lady Hope triumphantly to Houghton, and swept ever so many cares out of my father's way, besides all the little pleasantness that my coming has given to the old countess. I wouldn't boast in this way to any one else, Hepworth; but these things make me proud and happy, so I tell them to you, as I whisper it to myself. When I first came here, it was with the resolution of appealing to grandmamma against Lord Hope's opposition to us, and, if she went against me, to throw up everything, and set them all at defiance. But one must have a hard nature to attempt such harsh measures with that sweet old lady. It would break my heart to leave her—wound my conscience to give her a moment's pain. As for her title and her wealth, I tell you, honestly, they are encumbrances I do not want. A thousand times, rather, would I have her consent, with that of my father, and freedom to go with you where we pleased. I want no greatness or power for myself, unless it comes through the man I love; but for you, Hepworth, I am ambitious, and would rather a thousand times go to America, and share the honors which your own genius would be sure to win, as plain Mrs. Closs, than stay here as mistress of Houghton, a countess in my own right, and you only recognized as the husband of Lady Carset."