“Well, my child,” said the mother, as she seated herself by the side of her daughter, who hastily endeavored to conceal her tears, “when are we to have another wedding?  I trust everything is settled between you and Mr. Moseley, by this time.”

“Mother!  Mother!” said Grace, nearly gasping for breath, “Mother, you will break my heart, indeed you will.”  She hid her face in the clothes of the bed by which she sat, and wept with a feeling of despair.

“Tut, my dear,” replied the dowager, not noticing her anguish, or mistaking it for a girlish shame, “you young people are fools in these matters, but Sir Edward and myself will arrange everything as it should be.”

The daughter now not only looked up, but sprang from her seat, her hands clasped together, her eyes fixed in horror, her cheek pale as death; but the mother had retired, and Grace sank back into her chair with a sensation of disgrace, of despair, which could not have been surpassed, had she really merited the obloquy and shame which she thought were about to be heaped upon her.

Chapter XVII.

The succeeding morning, the whole party, with, the exception of Denbigh, returned to the hall.  Nothing had occurred out of the ordinary course of the colonel’s assiduities; and Jane, whose sense of propriety forbad the indulgence of premeditated tete-a-tetes, and such little accompaniments of every-day attachments, was rejoiced to see a sister she loved, and an aunt she respected, once more in the bosom of her family.

The dowager impatiently waited an opportunity to effect, what she intended for a master-stroke of policy in the disposal of Grace.  Like all other managers, she thought no one equal to herself in devising ways and means, and was unwilling to leave anything to nature.  Grace had invariably thwarted all her schemes by her obstinacy; and as she thought young Moseley really attached to her, she determined by a bold stroke to remove the impediments of false shame, and the dread of repulse, which she believed alone kept the youth from an avowal of his wishes, and get rid at once of a plague that had annoyed her not a little—­her daughter’s delicacy.

Sir Edward spent an hour every morning in his library, overlooking his accounts, and in other necessary employments of a similar nature, and it was here she determined to have the conference.

“My Lady Chatterton, you do me honor,” said the baronet, handing her a chair on her entrance.

“Upon my word, cousin,” cried the dowager, “you have a very convenient apartment here,” looking around her in affected admiration of all she saw.

The baronet replied, and a short discourse on the arrangements of the whole house insensibly led to some remarks on the taste of his mother, the Honorable Lady Moseley (a Chatterton), until, having warmed the feelings of the old gentleman by some well-timed compliments of that nature, she ventured on the principal object of her visit.