e held out her hand to me with
a frankness almost tender, and said "Had I had a son, the dearest wish
of my heart had been to see you wedded to my daughter."

I started up; the blood rushed to my cheeks, and then left me pale as
death. I looked reproachfully at Lady Ellinor, and the word "cruel!"
faltered on my lips.

"Yes," continued Lady Ellinor, mournfully, "that was my real thought, my
impulse of regret, when I first saw you. But as it is, do not think me
too hard and worldly if I quote the lofty old French proverb, Noblesse
oblige. Listen to me, my young friend: we may never meet again, and
I would not have your father's son think unkindly of me, with all my
faults. From my first childhood I was ambitious,--not, as women usually
are, of mere wealth and rank, but ambitious as noble men are, of power
and fame. A woman can only indulge such ambition by investing it in
another. It was not wealth, it was not rank, that attracted me to Albert
Trevanion: it was the nature that dispenses with the wealth and commands
the rank. Nay," continued Lady Ellinor, in a voice that slightly
trembled, "I may have seen in my youth, before I knew Trevanion,
one [she paused a moment, and went on hurriedly]--one who wanted but
ambition to have realized my ideal. Perhaps even when I married--and it
was said for love--I loved less with my whole heart than with my whole
mind. I may say this now, for now every beat of this pulse is wholly and
only true to him with whom I have schemed and toiled and aspired; with
whom I have grown as one; with whom I have shared the struggle, and now
partake the triumph, realizing the visions of my youth."

Again the light broke from the dark eyes of this grand daughter of
the world, who was so superb a type of that moral contradiction,--an
ambitious woman.

"I cannot tell you," resumed Lady Ellinor, softening, "how pleased I was
when you came to live with us. Your father has perhaps spoken to you of
me and of our first acquaintance!"

Lady Ellinor paused abruptly, and surveyed me as she paused. I was
silent.

"Perhaps, too, he has blamed me?" she resumed, with a heightened color.

"He never blamed you, Lady Ellinor!"

"He had a right to do so,--though I doubt if he would have blamed me on
the true ground. Yet no; he never could have done me the wrong that
your uncle did when, long years ago, Mr. de Caxton in a letter--the very
bitterness of which disarmed all anger--accused me of having trifled
with