lender, queenly,
in her sweeping black dress, all passion and magnificence; Miss
Rocheford, fair, dainty, golden-haired, and gentle.

They walked in silence down one of the garden-paths, and then Miss
Rocheford said, in her low, sweet voice:

"If you like roses, Miss Darrell, I can show you a beautiful
collection."

Then for the first time Pauline's dark eyes were directed toward her
companion's face.

"I am a bad dissembler, Miss Rocheford," she said, proudly. "I have no
wish to see your flowers. I came here to see you. There is a seat under
yonder tree. Come with me, and hear what I have to say."

Elinor followed, looking and feeling terribly frightened. What had this
grand, imperious Miss Darrell to say to her? They sat down side by side
under the shade of a large magnolia tree, the white blossoms of which
filled the air with sweetest perfume; the smiling summer beauty rested
on the landscape. They sat in silence for some minutes, and then Pauline
turned to Elinor.

"Miss Rocheford," she said, "I am come to give you a warning--the most
solemn warning you have ever received--one that if you have any common
sense you will not refuse to heed. I hear that you are going to marry my
uncle, Sir Oswald. Is it true?"

"Sir Oswald has asked me to be his wife," Elinor replied, with downcast
eyes and a faint blush.

Pauline's face gleamed with scorn.

"There is no need for any of those pretty airs and graces with me," she
said. "I am going to speak stern truths to you. You, a young girl,
barely twenty, with all your life before you--surely you cannot be so
shamelessly untrue as even to pretend that you are marrying an old man
like my uncle for love? You know it is not so--you dare not even pretend
it."

Elinor's face flushed crimson.

"Why do you speak so to me, Miss Darrell?" she gasped.

"Because I want to warn you. Are you not ashamed--yes, I repeat the
word, ashamed--to sell your youth, your hope of love, your life itself,
for money and title? That is what you are doing. You do not love Sir
Oswald. How should you? He is more than old enough to be your father. If
he were a poor man, you would laugh his offer to scorn; but he is old
and rich, and you are willing to marry him to become Lady Darrell, of
Darrell Court. Can you, Elinor Rocheford, look me frankly in the face,
and say it is not so?"

No, she could not. Every word fell like a sledge-hammer on her heart,
and she knew it was all true. She bent her cri