sunshine of each other’s love, surrounded by the comforts and ease of a bright and happy fireside.  Lady Bereford is within the privacy of her own apartments.  Grief and anxiety have left heavy marks upon her hitherto well preserved face.  The furrowed forehead, wrinkles and grey hairs, show full well the heavy blow which had been dealt her ladyship in the death of her first-born.  Time cannot eradicate the inroads made upon this high-minded woman.  Her failing health speaks of dissolution.  The mother’s heart that beat so wildly as she dreamt of the glorious future of her son, now feebly responded to the sluggish torpor of faded hopes.

Other friends are awaited at the Castle.  Ere we have time to turn aside, light steps are flying across the hall and a girlish figure is at our elbow, and the next instant in the arms of Lady Rosamond and Maude.  The childish face of Fanny Trevelyan once seen is not soon to be forgotten.  Oh no, Fanny, you occupy an important niche within our memory!  Two years were only a myth—­a dream to the young mistress of Trevelyan Hall, save when some other’s troubles aroused her sympathy and called forth the fine feelings of her nature.  The former playful glee is still alive in Fanny’s buoyant and lively manner.  Her gaiety at times subsides to gaze upon Lady Rosamond’s thoughtful face.  The heart of this maiden is still fancy free.  Guy Trevelyan is not disappointed in his sister, he being yet the dearest object of her heart.

“Dearest Maude,” cried Fanny, in rapturous delight, “will we not form a happy family when Mary joins us.”

“One would consider you a happy family already if happiness bears comparison by merriment,” ventured a well-known voice from the outside apartment—­a voice that had power to stir the soul of Lady Rosamond to its lowest depths, and kindle the smouldering passion time had vainly tried to smother into a fierce and steady flame.  Strange that her ladyship must pass another fiery ordeal—­that she must add more sorrow to her hitherto sad, eventful life.

No quivering lip or trembling form gave hope to Guy Trevelyan as he pressed the small white hand of one whom he loved tenderly and passionately—­one whose image had been engraven upon his memory since he had given his boyish affections to the lovely, high-born, gentle girl, when a guest at Government House in Fredericton.  Like the last moments of a drowning man, scenes he had almost forgotten flashed before him in countless array—­scenes, varied and infinite, in which Lady Rosamond formed the pleasing foreground.

Face to face with this beautiful woman Guy Trevelyan was ready to fall down in adoration and pour out the tale of his sorrow with the ardor of undying love.  What is the tenor of his thoughts while engaged in quiet and easy conversation with her ladyship and the other occupants of the drawing-room?  Guy Trevelyan is wondering if he dare avow his love—­if by any means he can find hope to approach Lady Rosamond on a subject which engrosses his waking thoughts.