every stitch in them was aware that she had
got into a scrape. They all knew exceedingly
well that she had been thinking far too much
about Sir Archie, and what he could mean, and
what he could not mean; that she had followed
a rash impulse and out-stepped all maidenly
dignity in speaking of Sir Archie to his aunt;
although Mrs. Hazeldean had been too noble
to show displeasure at her conduct, to do
anything but make an effort to soothe her.
Though Mrs. Hazeldean had even gone too
far in the effort, saying something most strange
and startling, the meaning of which Hester
in her confusion had not taken hold of; for
it was not to be admitted for one moment that
some words which fast clung to Hester's
memory could endure to bear the construction
which a daring mind might put upon them.

So when the frills got far too wise, Hester
bundled them away, and sat brooding over her
fire like a second Cinderella, not unhappy because
she could not go to a ball, but because
her poor little lonely heart was sore, with an
aching and a burning to which all her former
troubles looked as mere flying shadows, as
the fretting of a babe for broken toys.

And this brooding over the fire would not
do. Hester had sense enough to take out her
desk, and to task herself to the writing of some
letters.

A letter to Lady Humphrey, and a letter to
the Mother Augustine, and lastly one other,
which ought to have been written long ago, a
letter to Mr. Pierce in which his ring was to
be enclosed. So a little note was penned,
hoping that Mr. Humphrey would excuse the
regretful writer, who had found herself unable
to fulfil his wishes about the ring. And when
the letters had been folded and addressed
Hester went into her bedroom for some wax
which she had bought. And she left that
foolish ring upon her desk among the papers.

Meantime the letters by evening post had
arrived in the castle drawing-room. Miss
Golden had had her share, had read, and had
not been pleased. She was always looking out
for some writing in one particular hand; and as
this never appeared, it is not likely that her
letters should make her glad. Lady Helen
was asleep upon her sofa, so her letters had
been laid beside her, at her hand. Miss
Madge had read a letter from her good
friend M., who had helped her to make
that memorable pasty. Miss Madge was somewhat
flushed, Miss Madge was quite elated.
Miss Madge began to hum in a low voice to
herself:

                  The French are in the bay!
                         Says the Shan van Vocht.
                  The French are in the bay!
                         Says the Shan van Vocht.
                  The French are in the bay!—

"What's that you are saying about the
French, Madge?" asked Lady Helen, wakening.
"I wish you would not talk about them, blood-
thirsty wretches!" And Lady Helen began to
break the seals of her letters.

A scream followed the reading of the first,
just as the drawing-room door opened, and Sir
Archie came in.

"Archie! Archie!" cried her ladyship, " is
this true, what they have written me? There is a
rumour that a fleet of war-ships has left France,
and that it is coming to the assistance of the
rebels."

"I have heard it," said Sir Archie, " and I
think it likely to be true. But you need not
be uneasy, mother, they are not going to storm
you in your drawing-room."

Sir Archie looked pale, yet cheerful. But
Lady Helen was carried to her bed. And
Miss Madge was in haste to reply to the letter
of her friend M.; and she went humming her
snatch of song up the stairs to her tower-room,
where she locked herself in, with pen and ink,
for the night.

Miss Golden felt herself lonely and ill-treated.
There was no chance of peace and a little
gaiety to be had in this miserable country.
The troubles were getting thicker in it every
day that shone. And here was she, miles and
miles away from the only friend she cared
about, all for a foolish quarrel of her making,
which ought to have been cleared up long ago.
And now he was not thinking of her, would
leave her here to her fate. Oh, Pierce! Pierce!
would that she were at home in England, near him!

Miss Janet was getting nervous when she
indulged such thoughts as these, for she was
not given to heaping reproaches upon her
own so wilful head. And in such a desponding
frame of mind she walked into Hester's room.

Hester was not there. Hester was in her
bedroom. Miss Janet stood at the fire, and
then Miss Janet walked to the table. On the
table she saw letters, and one of them addressed
to Mr. Pierce Humphrey, captain in his
majesty's—— regiment. And she also saw a
ring which she knew to be her own, at least a
ring which had once been her own; and it was
fastened to a ribbon which had been worn
round the neck. And the sight made her sick
of the letter and of the ring.

The sight made her sick, because she was
not in her usual frame of mind. If she had
been like her ordinary self she would have
called in a loud voice for Miss Hester to come
forth out of her bedroom; and she would
probably have with difficulty, if at all, restrained
herself from boxing both the ears of that young
woman, and pinching both her pale dainty
cheeks. But there was a lump in Janet's
throat, and a genuine unwonted throe of
anguish and remorse tightening her heart. She
crept away to her room in the humiliation of
tears, and she certainly hated Hester the sly
thing—from that night.

But the next day she was not so sickly and
sentimental. She took occasion to instal
herself for an hour in Hester's room, and she sat
staring at the girl and putting questions to
her.