now suddenly he was satiate of her.  But Katherine, he had thought, was so young and bright and beautiful; a child that had lived within the cloister and had grown to maidenhood in sweet innocence.  ’Twas like finding in some tropic clime, embowered and shaded by thick, waxy leaves, a glorious, ripe pomegranate, which he would grasp and drink from its rich, red pulp, a portion that would cool and ’suage a burning thirst; while Constance, by the side of Katherine, was like a russet apple, into whose heart the worm of worldly knowledge had eaten its surfeit and taken all sweetness away, and the poor thing hung low, all dried and spiritless upon a broken bough to the convenience of any passing hand.  “Nay, nay; give me only the rich, ripe pomegranate; my Katherine, Kate!  Kate!” and blinded thus by the fever of desire to possess only his sweet Kate, he swung wide the door of Constance’s room and passed to the bedside and leant over and kissed her.

She flushed red as she met his eyes—­now cold and unimpassioned—­looking into the very depths of her own.  He saw the sudden scarlet that mantled her face, and knew—­knew she loved him.  And his heart went out to her, for he was attached to the russet thing, an attachment heretofore unnamed, but now—­now suddenly christened with that parsimonious appellation—­pity; the object of which is never satisfied.  But he had naught else to give, for Katherine had suddenly impoverished him.

“’Tis generous of thee, Cedric, to break from thy gay company; what are they engaged in?”

“Various,—­some at cards, others at music—­”

“And what was thy pastime that thou couldst sever thyself so agreeably?”

“I was listening to Bettie, and she on a sudden remarked of thy indisposition.  I straightway came to note thy ailing.  I have talked not with thee in private since thy arrival, and there is much news.  Hast seen her, Constance, to talk with her?”

“Whom meanest thou?  There are many ‘hers’ in the house!”

“The beauty that flew to me over seas, of course; whom else could I mean?”

“Oh! oh! to be sure; the maid from Quebec.  Aye, I talked with her some.  Thou sayest she is Sir John Penwick’s daughter?”

“Aye, and she’s a glorious beauty, eh, Constance?”

“But how camest thou by her?”

Cedric reached to that nearest his heart and drew forth Sir John’s letter and gave it opened into Constance’s hand.  She read it with blazing eyes and great eagerness; for ’twas a bundle of weapons she was examining and would take therefrom her choice.  She flashed forth queries as to the probability of this or that with a semblance of interest that disarmed Cedric and made him wonder if this woman loved to such an extent, she could fling aside her own interests and submerge all jealousy, all self-love into the purest of all sacrifices, abnegation?

“What! no estates?  That looks ill, for at one time Sir John was affluent, for Aunt Hettie has told me of him many a time.”