Anningford on the other, and on her other side was Young Billy who was
now in an idiotic state of calf love for her--to the amusement of every
one. So, with much gayety and chaff the repast came to an end, and the
ladies, who were all old friends--no strangers now among them--disposed
themselves in happy groups about one of the drawing-rooms, while they
sipped their coffee.

Ethelrida drew Zara aside to talk to her alone.

"Zara," she said, taking her soft, white hand, "I am so awfully happy
with my dear love that I want you to be so, too. Dearest Zara, won't you
be friends with me, now--real friends?"

And Zara, won by her gentleness, pressed Ethelrida's hand with her other
hand.

"I am so glad, nothing my uncle could have done would have given me so
much pleasure," she said, with a break in her voice. "Yes, indeed, I
will be friends with you, dear Ethelrida. I am so glad--and
touched--that you should care to have me as your friend." Then Ethelrida
bent forward and kissed her. "When one is as happy as I am," she said,
"it makes one feel good, as if one wanted to do all the kind things and
take away all sorrow out of the world. I have thought sometimes, Zara
dear, that you did not look as happy as--as--I would like you to look."

Happy! the mockery of the word!

"Ethelrida," Zara whispered hurriedly--"don't--don't ask me anything
about it, please, dear. No one can help me. I must come through with it
alone--but you of Tristram's own family, and especially you whom he
loves so much, I don't want you ever to misjudge me. You think perhaps I
have made him unhappy. Oh, if you only knew it all!--Yes, I have. And I
did not know, nor understand. I would die for him now, if I could, but
it is too late; we can only play the game!"

"Zara, do not say this!" said Ethelrida, much distressed. "What can it
be that should come between such beautiful people as you? And Tristram
adores you, Zara dear."

"He did love me--once," Zara answered sadly, "but not now. He would like
never to have to see me again. Please do not let us talk of it;
please--I can't bear any more."

And Ethelrida, watching her face anxiously, saw that it wore a hopeless,
hunted look, as though some agonizing trouble and anxiety brooded over
her. And poor Zara could say nothing of her other anxiety, for now that
Ethelrida was engaged to her uncle her lips, about her own sorrow
concerning her little brother, must be more than ever sealed.
Perhaps--she did