She was as old as his new wife, willful, proud, accustomed to rule, not likely to obey.  He had said nothing to Clementina of her existence; he had said nothing to his daughter of his marriage; and now both facts could no longer be concealed.

But Frederick Kurston had all his life trusted to circumstances, and he was rather disposed, in this matter, to let the women settle affairs between them without troubling himself to enter into explanations with either of them.  So, to Athel he wrote a tender little note, assuming that she would be delighted to hear of his marriage, as it promised her a pleasant companion, and directing her to have all possible arrangements made to add to the beauty and comfort of the house.

To Mrs. Kurston he said nothing.  The elegantly dressed young lady who met her with a curious and rather constrained welcome was to her a genuine surprise.  Her air of authority and rich dress precluded the idea of a dependent; Mr. Kurston had kissed her lovingly, the servants obeyed her.  But she was far too prudent to make inquiries on unknown ground; she disappeared, with her maid, on the plea of weariness, and from the vantage-ground of her retirement sent Felicite to take observations.

The little French maid found no difficulty in arriving at the truth, and Mrs. Kurston, not unjustly angry, entered the drawing-room fully prepared to defend her rights.

“Who was that young person, Frederick, dear, that I saw when we arrived?”

This question in the very sweetest tone, and with that caressing manner she had always found omnipotent.

“That young person is Miss Athel Kurston, Clementina.”

This answer in the very decided, and yet nervous, manner people on the defensive generally assume.

“Miss Kurston?  Your sister, Frederick?”

“No; my daughter, Clementina.”

“But you were never married before?”

“So people say.”

“Then, do you really expect me to live in the same house with a person of—­”

“I see no reason why you should not—­that is, if you live in the same house with me.”

A passionate burst of tears, an utter abandonment of distress, and the infatuated husband was willing to promise anything—­everything—­that his charmer demanded—­that is, for the time; for Athel Kurston’s influence was really stronger than her step-mother’s, and the promises extorted from his lower passions were indefinitely postponed by his nobler feelings.

A divided household is always a miserable one; but the chief sufferer here was Mr. Kurston, and Athel, who loved him with a sincere and profound affection, determined to submit to circumstances for his sake.

One morning, he found on his table a letter from her stating that, to procure him peace, she had left a home that would be ever dear to her, assuring him that she had secured a comfortable and respectable asylum; but earnestly entreating that he would make no inquiries about her, as she had changed her name, and would not be discovered without causing a degree of gossip and evil-speaking injurious to both himself and her.