singular day to select for leaving London, and Clara
noticed a strange alteration in his appearance, a negligence of dress, and
perturbation of manner unlike his ordinary self-possession, that made her
think that, perhaps, he had really loved her destined step-mother. Still,
if so, it was strange his coming to the Hall. The following evening
brought Sir John and Lady Alice Daventry to their bridal home. The Hall
had been newly decorated for the occasion, and, in the general confusion
and interest, Clara found herself degraded from the consideration she had
before received. Now the Hall was to receive a new mistress, one graced
with title, and the stamp of fashion. These are offenses little minds can
hardly be thought to overlook; and as Clara Daventry stood in the spacious
hall to welcome her stepmother to her home, and she who was hence-forward
to take the first place there, the Lady Alice, in her rich traveling
costume, stood before her, the contrast was striking--the unattractive,
ugly girl, beside the brilliant London beauty--the bitter feelings of envy
and resentment, that then passed through Clara's mind cast their shade on
her after destiny. During the progress of dinner, Clara noticed the
extreme singularity of Mardyn's manner; noticed also the sudden flush of
crimson that dyed Lady Alice's cheek on first beholding him, which was
followed by an increased and continued paleness. There was at their
meeting, however, no embarrassment on his part--nothing but the well-bred
ease of the man of the world was observable in his congratulations; but
during dinner Charles Mardyn's eyes were fixed on Lady Alice with the
quiet stealthiness of one calmly seeking to penetrate through a mystery;
and, despite her efforts to appear unconcerned, it was evident she felt
distressed by his scrutiny. The dinner was soon dispatched; Lady Alice
complained of fatigue, and Clara conducted her to the boudoir designed for
her private apartment. As she was returning she met Mardyn.

"Is Lady Alice in the boudoir?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied, "you do not want her?"

Without answering, he passed on, and, opening the door, Charles Mardyn
stood before the Lady Alice Daventry, his stepfather's wife.

She was sitting on a low stool, and in a deep reverie, her cheek resting
on one of her fairy-like hands. She was indeed a beautiful woman. No
longer very young--she was about thirty, but still very lovely, and
something almost infantine in the