ies--each and all necessities for a belle,
which, it may be remembered, she had aspired to be, and announced her
intention of becoming.

The fame of my father's wealth, her own beauty, tact, and grace, and
elegant attire, rendered her conspicuous among her school-mates, and
from among these she selected as friends such as appeared to her most
desirable as bearing on her future plans of life. So that already Evelyn
had made for herself a sphere outside and beyond any thing known in
"Monfort Hall" or its vicinity.

My father, who, like all shy persons, admired cool self-possession and
the leading hand in others, looked on with quiet approbation and some
diversion at these proceedings. He gave her the use of his equipage, his
house, his grounds, reserving to himself only intact the refuge of his
library, from which ark of safety he surveyed at leisure, with quiet,
curious, and amused scrutiny, the gay young forms that on holiday
occasions glided through his garden and conservatory, and filled his
drawing-room and halls with laughter and revelry.

On such occasions I was permitted, on certain conditions, to appear as a
spectator. One of the most imperative of these was, that I was never to
reveal to any one that Evelyn was not my own half-sister.

"You are not called upon to tell a story, Miriam, only to give them no
satisfaction. You see they might as well think part of all this wealth,
which came from your mother, is mine. It will in no way affect the
reality--only their demeanor--for they every one worship money."

"I would not care for such girls, sister Evelyn, nor what they thought,"
I rejoined. "Besides, are you not an earl's granddaughter; why not boast
of that instead, which would be the truth?"

"An earl's fiddlestick! What do you suppose American girls would care
for that? Nor would they believe it, even, unless I had diamonds and
coronet and every thing to match. Your mother had diamonds, I know, but
mine had not. By-the-by, where are they, Miriam? I have never seen
them."

"I do not know, Evelyn," I replied, gravely. "I have never thought about
them until now, I am so sorry your heart is set upon such things. You
know what Mamma Constance used to tell us."

"Oh, yes, I remember she croaked continually, as all delicate, doomed
people do, I believe. It was well enough in her case, as she _had_ to
die; but, as for me--look at me, Miriam Monfort! Do I look like death?
No; victory, rather!" and she straight