ton cares for me, or ever will."

"What have you been doing, then?" cried the woman fiercely. "You have
beauty, or, if not that, something far more powerful--that subtle
magnetism which all men feel a thousand times more forcibly, deep
knowledge; for have I not taught you what human hearts are worth, and
how to dissect them, leaf by leaf? You have coolness, self-control, and
passion when it is wanted. Have I not trained you from the cradle for
this one object, and dare you talk of its failure?"

"Mammy, let us understand each other. Cannot we accomplish the same
thing, and both be gratified? I do not love Mr. James Harrington, but
there is one of the name that I do love, heart and soul."

"And who is that?" demanded the woman sharply, and her black eyes caught
fire from the anger within her.

"It is the other, Ralph Harrington."

How hard and defiant was the voice in which Agnes Barker said this--a
young girl expressing her first love without a blush, and with that air
of cold-blooded defiance. It was terrible!

"Ralph Harrington, he is _her_ son, and a beggar!" cried the woman
bitterly.

"I do not understand what force may lie in the first objection, and I do
not believe in the second. Ralph cannot be a beggar, while his brother
holds so much wealth; at any rate, I love him."

"Love, girl! What have you to do with this sweet poison? The thing Love
is not your destiny."

"It is, though, and shall control it," replied Agnes, with the same
half-insolent tone; for it seemed to be a relief for this young girl to
act out spontaneously the evil of her nature, and she appeared to enjoy
the kindling anger of her servant--if that slave woman was her
servant--with vicious relish.

The woman walked close to the insolent girl, with her hand clenched, and
her lips pressed firmly together.

"Agnes, Agnes--you cannot know how much rests on you--how great a
revenge your obstinacy may baffle."

"I know that I love Ralph Harrington, and if it will comfort you to hear
it, he does not love me," answered the girl with a burning glow in
either cheek.

"Oh, you have come back again--it is his blood on fire in your cheeks. I
have no fear of you, Agnes. That blood grows strong with age like old
wine, and soon learns to give hatred for unanswered love. I can trust
the blood."

"But he shall love me, or, at any rate, no one else shall have what he
withholds from me."

"Be still, Agnes, do not make me angry again. You and I mus