LITMIR.BIZ

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in Parliament. It is rather strange that she should have come down at this time."

      Stella colored, and a feeling of vague irritation took possession of her—why, she scarcely knew.

      "I should think that everyone would be glad to come to Wyndward Hall at any time—even Lady Lenore Beauchamp," she said, in a low voice.

      He nodded.

      "Wyndward Hall is a fine place," he said, slowly, "but Lady Lenore is accustomed to—well, to palaces. There is not a ball-room in London where her absence will not be noticed. It is strange. Perhaps"—and he smiled—"Lady Wyndward has some motive."

      "Some motive?" repeated Stella, turning her eyes toward him. "What motive can she have?"

      "There is Leycester," he said, musingly.

      "Leycester?"

      The word was out of her lips before she was aware of it, and a vivid crimson dyed her face.

      "Lord Leycester, I mean."

      "Yes," he answered. "Nothing would please his mother more than to see him marry, and he could not marry a more suitable person than Lenore. Yes, that must be it, of course. Well, he could not do better, and as for her, though she has refused greater chances, there is a charm in being the future Countess of Wyndward, which is not to be despised. I wonder whether he will fall into the trap—if trap it is intended to be."

      Stella sat silent, her head thrown back, her eyes fixed on the stars. He saw she was very pale, and there was a strange, intent look in her eyes. There was also a dull aching in her heart which was scarcely distinct enough for pain, but which annoyed and shamed her. What could it matter to her—to her, Stella Etheridge, the niece of a poor painter—whom Lord Leycester, future Earl of Wyndward, married? Nothing, less than nothing. But still the dull aching throbbed in her heart, and his face floated between her and the stars, his voice rang in her ears.

      How fortunate, how blessed, some women were! Here, for instance, was this girl of twenty-three, beautiful, famously beautiful, noble, and reigning like a queen in the great world, and yet the gods were not satisfied, but they must give her Leycester Wyndward! For of course it was impossible that he should resist her if she chose to put forth her charm. Had not her uncle just said that she could fascinate?—had she not even evidently fascinated him, the dreamer, the artist, the man who had seen and who knew the world so well?

      For a moment she gave herself up to this reflection and to the dull aching, then with a gesture of impatience she rose, so suddenly as to startle the old man.

      "What is the matter, Stella?" he asked.

      "Nothing, nothing," she said. "Shall we have lights? The room is so dark and still, and——" her voice broke for a moment.

      She went to the mantel-shelf and lit a candle, and as she did so she looked up and saw her face reflected in the antique mirror and started.

      Was that her face?—that pale, half-startled visage looking at her so sadly. With a laugh she put the dark hair from her brow, and gliding to the organ began to play; feverishly, restlessly at first, but presently the music worked its charm and soothed her savage breast.

      Yes, she was savage, she knew it, she felt it! This woman had everything, while she——

      The door opened and a stream of light broke in from the lamp carried by Mrs. Penfold.

      "Are you there, Miss Stella? Oh, yes, there you are! I thought it was Mr. Etheridge playing; you don't often play like that. There's a note for you."

      "A note! For me!" exclaimed Stella, turning on her stool with amazement.

      Mrs. Penfold smiled and nodded.

      "Yes, miss; and there's an answer, please."

      Stella took the note hesitatingly, as if she half expected it to contain a charge of explosive dynamite; the envelope was addressed in a thin, beautiful hand to Miss Stella Etheridge. Stella turned the envelope over and started as she saw the arms stamped upon it. She knew it, it was the Wyndward crest.

      For a moment she sat looking down at it without offering to open it, then with an effort she tore it open, slowly, and read the note enclosed.

      "Dear Miss Etheridge:—Will you redeem the promise you made me this afternoon and come and see me? Will you ask Mr. Etheridge to bring you to dine with them to-morrow at eight o'clock? I say 'them' because I dine always alone; but perhaps you will not mind coming to me after dinner for a little while. Do not let Mr. Etheridge refuse as he generally does, but tell him to bring you for my sake."

      "Yours very truly,

       "Lilian Wyndward."

      Stella read it and re-read it as if she could not believe her senses. Lady Lilian's invitation had sounded so vague that she had scarcely remembered it, and now here was a direct invitation to Wyndham Hall, and to dinner.

      "Well, miss?" said Mrs. Penfold.

      Stella started.

      "I will give you the answer directly," she said.

      Then she went across to her uncle and stood beside him, the letter in her hand. He was lost in thought, and quite unsuspicious of the thunder-clap preparing for him.

      "Uncle, I have just got a letter."

      "Eh? Where from, Stella?"

      "From Lady Lilian."

      He looked up quickly.

      "She has asked me to dinner to-morrow."

      "No!" he said. She put the letter in his hand. "Read it, will you, my dear?" he said.

      And she read it, conscious that her voice trembled.

      "Well?" he said.

      "Well?" she repeated, with a smile.

      He put his hand to his brow.

      "To dinner—to-morrow? Oh, dear me! Well, well! You would like to go?" and he looked up at her. "Of course you would like to go."

      She looked down, her face was delicately flushed—her eyes shone.

      "Of course," he said. "Well, say 'Yes.' It is very kind. You see, Stella, your wish is gratified almost as soon as you utter it. You will see your paragon—Lady Lenore."

      She started, and her face went pale.

      "I have changed my mind," she said, in a low voice. "I find I don't want to see her so badly as I thought. I think I don't care to go, uncle."

      He stared at her. She was still an enigma to him.

      "Nonsense, child! Not care to see Wyndward Hall! Nonsense! Besides, it's Lady Lilian; we must go, Stella."

      She still stood with the letter in her hand.

      "But—but, uncle—I have nothing to wear."

      "Nothing to wear!" And he looked at her up and down.

      "Nothing fit for Wyndward Hall," she said. "Uncle, I don't think I care to go."

      He laughed gently.

      "You will find something to wear between now and half-past seven to-morrow," he said, "or my faith in Mrs. Penfold's resources will be shaken. Accept, my dear."

      She went slowly to the table and wrote two lines—two lines only.

      "Dear Lady Lilian.—We shall be very glad indeed to come and see you to-morrow. Yours very truly,"

      "Stella Etheridge."

      Then she rang the bell and gave the note to Mrs. Penfold.

      "I am going to Wyndward Hall to-morrow," she said, with a smile, "and I have got nothing to wear, Mrs. Penfold!" and she laughed.

      Mrs. Penfold threw up her hands after the manner of her kind.

      "To

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