eams. His fancy became
exalted to the highest pitch. He felt supremely happy.

In this disposition he sought Mildred to claim her engagement. She
could complain of no want of devotion now. Her partner was romantic,
without sentimentalism; serious, and yet full of imagination. He was
pleased, and he exerted himself to please. He allowed his natural
enthusiasm to take its course. Mildred wondered no longer at the
praises which Rereworth had bestowed upon his friend.

A quadrille affords but scanty and inconvenient opportunity for
conversation. But Randolph managed to protract the subsequent
promenade. He even drew Mildred apart to that deserted window from
which he had been gazing on the sky, and rehearsed some of the marvels
of the astrologers, pointing out the planet which had attracted his
attention. But he was suddenly awakened from his entrancement. Mrs.
Pendarrel, leaning on Melcomb's arm, came to seek her daughter.

"Mildred, my dear," she said, "I have sent to call our carriage." And
she held her arm to the young lady, and bowed very loftily to
Randolph.

"The carriage is at the door, my dear," said a little man, bustling
up with some officiousness. Randolph had retired a few paces, but not
so far as to avoid hearing the first of the following words. It was
Esther that spoke.

"Mr. Trevethlan Pendarrel, I should be glad if you would ascertain who
that gentleman is. A Mr. Morton, I understand. Hark, sir," she
whispered, "do you see no likeness?"

"Yes, my dear, certainly I do," said the obsequious husband. "To
whom?"

Randolph advanced at the same moment.

"Spare your pains, sir," he said; "I am Randolph Trevethlan."

Face to face, only two steps apart, with their eyes fixed on each
other, stood the son and the lover of Henry Trevethlan. Esther's
countenance was inscrutable. Her daughter clung to her arm, with
cheeks and forehead flushed crimson, and glanced involuntarily at her
late partner. Mr. Pendarrel had shrunk a little behind. Melcomb showed
a nonchalant dislike to a scene. Randolph faced them, pale as death,
his head thrown back, his breast heaving, his eyes flashing fire. But
he recovered himself in an instant, bent one look of ineffable
tenderness on Mildred, and rushed from the house.

CHAPTER XII.

Disguise, I see thou art a wickedness,
Wherein the pregnant enemy does much.

SHAKSPEARE.

There was no sleep for Randolph that night. One momen