as she had sat since breakfast, aimless and dreary, by her
dressing-room window, gazing blankly over the pale landscape, her hair
falling loose and damp over her shoulders, a novel lying listlessly in
her lap. The book had no interest--her thoughts would stray in spite of
her to Thetford Towers.

"She is very pretty," Miss Jocyln thought, "with that pink and white
wax-doll sort of prettiness that some people admire. I never thought
_he_ could, with his artistic nature; but I suppose I was mistaken. They
call her fascinating; I believe that rather hoydenish manner of hers,
all those dashing airs, and that 'loud' style of dress and doings, take
some men by storm. I presume I was mistaken in Sir Rupert; I dare say
pretty, penniless May will be Lady Thetford before long."

Miss Jocyln's short upper-lip curled rather scornfully, and she rose up
with a little air of petulance, and walked across the room to the
opposite window. It commanded a view of the lawn and a long wooded
drive, and cantering airily up under the waving trees, she saw the young
lady of whom she had been thinking. The pretty, fleet-footed pony and
his bright little mistress were by no means rare visitors at Jocyln
Hall; and Miss Jocyln was always elaborately civil to Miss Everard. Very
pretty little May looked, all her tinselled curls floating in the
breeze, like a golden banner, the blue eyes more starily radiant than
ever; the dark riding-habit and jaunty hat and plume the most becoming
things in the world. She saw Miss Jocyln at the window, kissed her hand,
and resigned Arab to the groom. A minute more, and she was saluting
Aileen with effusion.

"You solemn Aileen! to sit and mope here in the house instead of
improving your health and temper by a breezy canter over the downs.
Don't contradict, I know you were moping. I should be afraid to tell you
how many miles Arab and I have got over this morning. And you never came
to see me yesterday, either. Why was it?"

"I didn't feel inclined," Miss Jocyln answered truthfully.

"No, you never do feel inclined unless I come and drag you out by force;
you sit in the house and grow yellow and jaundiced over high-church
novels. I declare I never met so many lazy people in all my life as I
have done since I came home. One don't mind mamma, poor thing! shutting
herself up, and the sunshine and fresh air of heaven out--but for you
and Rupert, and speaking of Rupert," ran on Miss Everard, in a
breathless sort of