be deceived.  And her godfather accepted Jael Dence and her claim to sympathy:  she was taken into his house, and set to nurse Henry Little’s mother:  poor Grace was slighted on all sides; she must not even write to Mrs. Little, nor take part in the pious falsehood they were concocting together, Raby and his Jael Dence, whom everybody loved best—­everybody except this poor faithful ill-used wretch, Frederick Coventry; and him she hated for loving her better than the man she loved had loved her.

Tender, but very proud, this sensitive creature saw herself dethroned from her love.  Jael Dence had eclipsed her in every way; had saved his life with her strong arm, had almost perished with him; and had tried to kill herself when he was dead.  She was far behind this rival in every thing.  She had only loved, and suffered, and nearly died.  “No, no,” she said to herself, “she could not love him better than I did:  but he loved her best; and she knew it, and that made her arm strong to fight, and her heart strong to die for him.  I am nobody—­nothing.”  Then the scalding tears ran down her cheeks.  But soon her pride got the upper hand, and dried her cheeks, and nearly maddened her.

She began to blush for her love, to blush for her illness.  She rose into that state of exasperation in which persons of her sex do things they look back upon with wonder, and, strange to say, all this without one unkind thought of him whose faults she saw, but excused—­he was dead.

She now began to struggle visibly, and violently, against her deadly sorrow.  She forced herself to take walks and rides, and to talk, with nothing to say.  She even tried to laugh now and then.  She made violent efforts to be gracious and pitiful to Mr. Coventry, and the next minute made him suffer for it by treating him like a troublesome hound.

He loved her madly, yet sometimes he felt tempted to kill her, and end both her torture and his own.

Such was the inner life of Grace Carden for many days; devoid of striking incident, yet well worthy of study by those who care to pierce below the surface, and see what passes in the hearts of the unhappy, and to learn how things come gradually about that sound incredible when not so traced, yet are natural and almost inevitable results of certain conflicting passions in a virgin heart.

One day Mr. Carden telegraphed from London to Mr. Coventry at Hillsborough that he was coming down to Eastbank by the midday express, and would be glad to meet him there at four o’clock.  He also telegraphed to Grace, and said, “Dinner at five.”

Both gentlemen arrived about the same time, a little before dinner.

Soon after dinner was over, Grace observed a restlessness in her father’s manner, which convinced her he had something private to say to Mr. Coventry.  Her suspicions were aroused:  she fancied he was going to encourage Mr. Coventry to court her.  Instantly the whole woman was in arms, and her love for the deceased came rushing back tenfold.  She rose, soon after dinner, and retired to the drawing-room; but, as soon as she got there, she slipped quietly into the veranda, and lay softly down upon her couch.  The dining-room window was open, and with her quick ears, she could hear nearly every word.