knew her well enough to shake hands as you did."

"Hynd! When a young man talks nonsense, his youth is his excuse.
At your time of life, you have passed the excusable age--even in

the estimation of your friends."
With those words Romayne turned away. The incorrigible Major

instantly met the reproof inflicted on him with a smart answer.
"Remember," he said, "that I was the first of your friends to

wish you happiness!" He, too, turned away--in the direction of
the champagne and the sandwiches.

Meanwhile, Stella had discovered Penrose, lost in the brilliant
assemblage of guests, standing alone in a corner. It was enough

for her that Romayne's secretary was also Romayne's friend.
Passing by titled and celebrated personages, all anxious to speak

to her, she joined the shy, nervous, sad-looking little man, and
did all she could to set him at his ease.

"I am afraid, Mr. Penrose, this is not a very attractive scene to
you." Having said those kind words, she paused. Penrose was

looking at her confusedly, but with an expression of interest
which was new to her experience of him. "Has Romayne told him?"

she wondered inwardly.
"It is a very beautiful scene, Miss Eyrecourt," he said, in his

low quiet tones.
"Did you come here with Mr. Romayne?" she asked.

"Yes. It was by his advice that I accepted the invitation with
which Lady Loring has honored me. I am sadly out of place in such

an assembly as this--but I would make far greater sacrifices to
please Mr. Romayne."

She smiled kindly. Attachment so artlessly devoted to the man she
loved, pleased and touched her. In her anxiety to discover a

subject which might interest him, she overcame her antipathy to
the spiritualdirector of the household. "Is Father Benwell

coming to us to-night?" she inquired.
"He will certainly be here, Miss Eyrecourt, if he can get back to

London in time."
"Has he been long away?"

"Nearly a week."
Not knowing what else to say, she still paid Penrose the

compliment of feigning an interest in Father Benwell.
"Has he a long journey to make in returning to London?" she

asked.
"Yes--all the way from Devonshire."

"From South Devonshire?"
"No. North Devonshire--Clovelly."

The smile suddenly left her face. She put another
question--without quite concealing the effort that it cost her,

or the anxiety with which she waited for the reply.
"I know something of the neighborhood of Clovelly," she said. "I

wonder whether Father Benwell is visiting any friends of mine
there?"

"I am not able to say, Miss Eyrecourt. The reverend Father's
letters are forwarded to the hotel--I know no more than that."

With a gentle inclination of her head, she turned toward other
guests--looked back--and with a last little courteous attention

offered to him, said, "If you like music, Mr. Penrose, I advise
you to go to the picture gallery. They are going to play a

Quartet by Mozart."
Penrose thanked her, noticing that her voice and manner had

become strangely subdued. She made her way back to the room in
which the hostess received her guests. Lady Loring was, for the

moment, alone, resting on a sofa. Stella stooped over her, and
spoke in cautiously lowered tones.

"If Father Benwell comes here to-night," she said, "try to find
out what he has been doing at Clovelly."

"Clovelly?" Lady Loring repeated. "Is that the village near
Winterfield's house?"

"Yes."
CHAPTER II.

THE QUESTION OF MARRIAGE.
As Stella answered Lady Loring, she was smartly tapped on the

shoulder by an eager guest with a fan.
The guest was a very little woman, with twinkling eyes and a

perpetual smile. Nature, corrected by powder and paint, was liber
ally displayed in her arms, her bosom, and the upper part of her

back. Such clothes as she wore, defective perhaps in quantity,
were in quality absolutely perfect. More adorable color, shape,

and workmanship never appeared, even in a milliner's
picture-book. Her light hair was dressed with a fringe and

ringlets, on the pattern which the portraits of the time of
Charles the Second have made familiar to us. There was nothing

exactly young or exactly old about her except her voice, which
betrayed a faint hoarseness, attributable possibly to exhaustion

produced by untold years of incessant talking. It might be added
that she was as active as a squirrel and as playful as a kitten.

But the lady must be treated with a certain forbearance of tone,
for this good reason--she was Stella's mother.

Stella turned quickly at the tap of the fan. "Mamma!" she
exclaimed, "how you startle me!"

"My dear child," said Mrs. Eyrecourt, "you are constitutionally
indolent, and you want startling. Go into the next room directly.

Mr. Romayne is looking for you."
Stella drew back a step, and eyed her mother in blank surprise.

"Is it possible that you know him?" she asked.
"Mr. Romayne doesn't go into Society, or we should have met long

since," Mrs. Eyrecourt replied. "He is a striking person--and I
noticed him when he shook hands with you. That was quite enough

for me. I have just introduced myself to him as your mother. He
was a little stately and stiff, but most charming when he knew

who I was. I volunteered to find you. He was quite astonished. I
think he took me for your elder sister. Not the least like each

other--are we, Lady Loring? She takes after her poor dear father.
_He_ was constitutionally indolent. My sweet child, rouse

yourself. You have drawn a prize in the great lottery at last. If
ever a man was in love, Mr. Romayne is that man. I am a

physiognomist, Lady Loring, and I see the passions in the face.
Oh, Stella, what a property! Vange Abbey. I once drove that way

when I was visiting in the neighborhood. Superb! And another
fortune (twelve thousand a year and a villa at Highgate) since

the death of his aunt. And my daughter may be mistress of this if
she only plays her cards properly. What a compensation after all

that we suffered through that monster, Winterfield!"
"Mamma! Pray don't-- !"

"Stella, I will _not_ be interrupted, when I am speaking to you
for your own good. I don't know a more provoking person, Lady

Loring, than my daughter--on certain occasions. And yet I love
her. I would go through fire and water for my beautiful child.

Only last week I was at a wedding, and I thought of Stella. The
church was crammed to the doors! A hundred at the wedding

breakfast! The bride's lace--there; no language can describe it.
Ten bridesmaids, in blue and silver. Reminded me of the ten

virgins. Only the proportion of foolish ones, this time, was
certainly more than five. However, they looked well. The

Archbishop proposed the health of the bride and bridegroom; so
sweetly pathetic. Some of us cried. I thought of my daughter. Oh,

if I could live to see Stella the central attraction, so to
speak, of such a wedding as that. Only I would have twelve

bridesmaids at least, and beat the blue and silver with green and
gold. Trying to the complexion, you will say. But there are

artificial improvements. At least, I am told so. What a house