d blood had run out, he was his own mother's son.

Lady Thetford, grown pallid and wan, and wasted in all those years, and
bearing within her the seeds of an incurable disease, looked yet fair
and gracious, and stately in her trailing robes and jewels, to-night,
receiving her guests like a queen. It was the triumph of her life, the
desire of her heart, this seeing her son, her idol, reigning in the home
of his fathers, ruler of the broad domain that had owned the Thetford's
lord for more years back than she could count.

"If I could but see her his wife," Lady Thetford thought, "I think I
should have nothing left on earth to desire."

She glanced across the wide room, along a vista of lights, and flitting
forms, and rich dresses, and sparkling jewels, to where a young lady
stood, the centre of an animated group--a tall and eminently handsome
girl, with a proud patrician face, and the courtly grace of a young
empress--Aileen Jocyln, heiress of fabulous wealth, possessor of
fabulous beauty, and descendant of a race as noble and as ancient as his
own.

"With her for his wife, come what might in the future, my Rupert would
be safe," the mother thought; "and who knows what a day may bring forth.
Ah! if I dared only speak, but I dare not; it would ruin all. I know my
son."

Yes, Lady Thetford knew her son, understood his character thoroughly,
and was a great deal too wary a conspirator to let him see her cards.
Fate, not she, had thrown the heiress and the baronet constantly
together of late, and Aileen's own beauty and grace were surely
sufficient for the rest. It was the one desire of Lady Thetford's heart;
but she never said so to her son, who loved her dearly, and would have
done a great deal to add to her happiness. She left it to fate, and
leaving it, was doing the wisest thing she could possibly do.

It seemed as if her hopes were likely to be realized. Sir Rupert had an
artist's and a Sybarite's love for all things beautiful, and could
appreciate the grand statuesque style of Miss Jocyln's beauty, even as
his mother could not appreciate it. She was like the Pallas Athene, she
was his ideal woman, fair and proud, uplifted and serene, smiling on
all, from the heights of high-and-mightydom, but shining upon them, a
brilliant far-off star, keeping her warmth and her sweetness all for
him. He was an indolent, dreamy Sybarite, this pale young baronet, who
liked his rose-leaves unruffled under him, full of artistic tas