ested there during the entire
morning.

Mrs. Aliston, who was a woman of tact, and understood her niece
thoroughly, seemed not to have noticed the unopened envelope, and asked
for no news from Sybil.

Presently, Constance arose, and, still wearing that weary air and solemn
face, crossed the room; with her hand upon the door, she turned her face
toward Mrs. Aliston, saying:

"Auntie, you hear about all that's going; did you ever hear that there
was a streak of insanity in the Lamotte blood?" And then, without
waiting for the astonished lady to reply, she quietly passed out and up
the broad stairs.

CHAPTER IV.

SYBIL'S LETTER.

It is almost sunset, and Constance Wardour is standing alone at her
dressing-room window, which faces the west. It is still in confusion,
but she cares little for that. Her thoughts are far away from the
"Wardour diamonds" at this moment. Several things have occurred to vex
and annoy her to-day, and Constance Wardour, heiress and autocrat, is
not accustomed to being annoyed.

In fact, so peculiar is her nature, that very few things have power to
annoy her; but, just now, she is annoyed because she _is_ annoyed.

"As the queen pleases," Frank Lamotte had said; and all her fair
twenty-one years of life events had been ordered "as the queen pleased."
She had been taught self-reliance, so she told him; she had inherited
self-reliance, she might have said, inherited it along with the rich,
strong, fearless blood, the haughtiness, the independence, and the
intolerance of the Wardours.

The haughtiness was only for those who presumed; the intolerance for
those she despised; and Miss Wardour was quite capable of that strong
sentiment, or feeling. The independence was an ever present element of
her nature.

Of medium height, she was neither slender nor plump, graceful curves,
perfect outlines, faultless gait and gesture; she, "slew her tens of
thousands," and bore herself like a princess royal toward all.

Without being regularly beautiful, her face is very fair to see. Being,
in spite of her haughtiness, most kind and considerate toward inferiors
and dependents, and withal exceeding lovable, she is disqualified for a
novel heroine by her excessive humanness; and, by that same humanness,
eminently qualified to be loved by all who know her, gentle and simple.

Just now her firm little mouth is pursed up, and her brow is wrinkled
into a frown, such as never is seen on the face of any