“What a selfish cold-hearted thing is grandeur!” thought Mary, as Lady Emily and she sat like two specks in the splendid saloon, surrounded by all that wealth could purchase or luxury invent; and her thoughts reverted to the pious thanksgiving and affectionate meeting that graced their social meal in the sweet sunny parlour at Lochmarlie.

Some of those airy nothings, without a local habitation, who are always to be found flitting about the mansions of the great, now lounged into the room; and soon after Adelaide made her entree. Mary, trembling violently, was ready to fall upon her sister’s neck, but Adelaide seemed prepared to repel everything like a scence for, with a cold, but sweet, “I hope you are better this morning?” she seated herself at the opposite side of the table.  Mary’s blood rushed back to her heart; her eyes filled with tears, she knew not why; for she could not analyse the feelings that swelled in her bosom.  She would have shuddered to think her sister unkind, but she felt she was so.

“It can only be the difference of our manners,” sighed she to herself; “I am sure my sister loves me, though she does not show it in the same way I should have done;” and she gazed with the purest admiration and tenderness on the matchless beauty of her face and form.  Never had she beheld anything so exquisitely beautiful; and she longed to throw herself into her sister’s arms and tell her how she loved her.  But Adelaide seemed to think the present company wholly unworthy of her regard; for, after having received the adulation of the gentlemen, as they severally paid her a profusion of compliments upon her appearance, “Desire Tomkins,” said she to a footman, “to ask Lady Juliana for the ‘Morning Post,’ and the second volume of ‘Le——­,’ of the French novel I am reading; and say she shall have it again when I have finished it.”

“In what different terms people may express the same meaning,” thought Mary; “had I been sending a message to my mother, I should have expressed myself quite differently; but no doubt my sister’s meaning is the same, though she may not use the same words.”

The servant returned with the newspaper, and the novel would be sent when it could be found.

“Lady Juliana never reads like anybody else,” said her daughter; “she is for ever mislaying books.  She has lost the first volumes of the two last novels that came from town before I had even seen then.”

This was uttered in the softest, sweetest tone imaginable, and as if she had been pronouncing a panegyric.

Mary was more and more puzzled.

“’What can be my sister’s meaning here?” thought she.  “The words seemed almost to imply censure; but that voice and smile speak the sweetest praise.  How truly Mrs. Douglas warned me never to judge of people by their words.”

At that moment the door opened, and three or four dogs rushed in, followed by Lady Juliana, with a volume of a novel in her hand.  Again Mary found herself assailed by a variety of powerful emotions.  She attempted to rise; but, pale and breathless, she sank back in her chair.