“You are a clever woman, Adelaide; with you to help me I cannot fail.”

And he did not fail.  Adelaide had arranged her plans too skillfully for that.  She began by saying how much Allan admired Marion; then, seeing the idea was not displeasing to the young heiress, she gradually told her how he was certain to die of love for her.

If a wise mother had trained the girl, she would have been less susceptible; as it was, the notion of a handsome young artist dying for her was not at all unpleasant.  She was seventeen, and had never had a lover.  Other girls had talked about their flirtations; nothing of the kind had ever occurred to her.  True, whenever she went out she could not help noticing how men’s eyes lingered on her face; but that one should love her—­love her so dearly as to die for her, was to her romantic imagination strange as it was beautiful.  Adelaide Lyster could play upon her feelings and emotions skilfully as she played upon the chords of a piano.

“I was saying to Allan yesterday how sorry I am that he ever came to Miss Carleton’s.  What do you think he said?”

“I cannot tell,” replied Miss Arleigh, her beautiful young face flushing as she spoke.

“He said, ah! that he would rather love you unhappily than be blessed with the love of a queen; he would rather look upon your face once than gaze for years on the loveliest of all created women.  How he worships you!  Are all men of genius destined to love unhappily, I wonder?”

“Is he so very unhappy?” asked the young lady, sadly.

“Yes; I do not believe he knows what peace or rest is.  He never sleeps or enjoys himself as other people do.”

“Why not?” asked the girl, to whom this flattery was most sweet and pleasant.

“His life is one long thought of you.  If you were poor, he would not mind; there would be some hope of winning you; he would not let any other barrier than riches stand before him—­that is one that honorable men cannot climb.”

“I do not see it,” said Miss Arleigh.

“Because you do not know the world.  You are so noble in mind yourself, you do not even understand want of nobility in others.  Do you not know that there are many people who would pretend to love you for the sake of your fortune?”

“I wish I had no fortune,” said the young girl, wistfully.  “How shall I know, Adelaide, when any one loves me for myself?”

“When they are, like Allan, willing to die rather than to own their love; willing to suffer everything and anything rather than be suspected of fortune-hunting.”

“No one could suspect your brother Allan of that.”

“No one who knows him.  But, Miss Arleigh, what would your guardian, Lord Ridsdale, say—­what would Miss Carleton say—­if Allan went to them, as I know he wants to do, and asked permission to work for you, to try and win you?  Listen to me—­I am telling you the truth.  They would not be content with insult, with dismissing him ignominiously, but they would mar his future.  You do not know the power vested in the hands of the rich and mighty.  An artist must court public opinion, and if one in the position of Lord Ridsdale was his determined enemy and foe, he could expect nothing but ruin.”