, at any
rate. If I were forty years younger I would win Pauline Darrell, and
make her love me. But we must join the ladies--they will think us very
remiss."

"Sweet smiles, no mind, an amiable manner, no intellect, prettiness
after the fashion of a Parisian doll, to be preferred to that noble,
truthful, queenly girl! Verily tastes differ," thought the general, as
he watched the two, contrasted them, and lost himself in wonder over his
friend's folly.

He took his leave soon afterward, gravely musing on what he could not
understand--why his old friend had done what seemed to him a rash,
ill-judged deed.

He left Sir Oswald in a state of great discomfort. Of course he loved
his wife--loved her with a blind infatuation that did more honor to his
heart than his head--but he had always relied so implicitly on the
general's judgment. He found himself half wishing that in this, the
crowning action of his life, he had consulted his old friend.

He never knew how that clever woman of the world, Lady Hampton, had
secretly influenced him. He believed that he had acted entirely on his
own clear judgment; and now, for the first time, he doubted that.

"You look anxious, Oswald," said Lady Darrell, as she bent down and with
her fresh, sweet young lips touched his brow. "Has anything troubled
you?"

"No, my darling," he replied; "I do not feel quite well, though. I have
had a dull, nervous heaviness about me all day--a strange sensation of
pain too. I shall be better to-morrow."

"If not," she said, sweetly, "I shall insist on your seeing Doctor
Helmstone. I am quite uneasy about you."

"You are very kind to me," he responded, gratefully.

But all her uneasiness did not prevent her drawing the white lace round
her graceful shoulders and taking up the third volume of a novel in
which she was deeply interested, while Sir Oswald, looking older and
grayer than he had looked before, went into the garden for a stroll.

The sunbeams were so loth to go; they lingered even now on the tips of
the trees and the flowers; they lingered on the lake and in the rippling
spray of the fountains. Sir Oswald sat down by the lake-side.

Had he done wrong? Was it a foolish mistake--one that he could not undo?
Was Pauline indeed the grand, noble, queenly girl his friend thought
her? Would she have made a mistress suitable for Darrell Court, or had
he done right to bring this fair, blonde stranger into his home--this
dearly-loved young wife? W