so many after all! Ah! who knows but
that I may even outlast Gregory."

Norah accompanied Lucy to her room. It
was such a novelty to her to have one of her
own sex near her, that she clung to Lucy as
if she had been her sister. She seemed so
kind and gentle and soft-hearted to poor
Norah, crushed by her father, scorched by
her lover, and terrified by both, that, if she
could, she would never have left her side.
Yet Lucy was only a year older than her
young hostess, for all she patronised and
played mother over her to such perfection.

Lucy spoke of Gregory. Her lids fluttered
for a moment over her dark blue eyes, as she
said with girlish frankness:—

"O, Norah! what a magnificent person
your cousin is!"

"Yes, he is very handsome," said Norah;
"or, at least, people say so."

"But don't you think him so yourself,
Nory?"

"I do not admire that dark style,"
answered Norah. "His mother was a
Nubian, I believe, and the mark of his race is
too visible."

"Well, I like it," cried Lucy. "It gives
a life and animation which our red and white
Saxon men want. His features are regularly
and beautifully cut, and I think that the dark
blood improves them. It would have been
different if he had been like a negro in feature."

"I am glad you like him," said Norah
simply. "And he thinks you beautiful,—too
beautiful to go about the world alone. He
said so."

"Did he!" laughed Lucy, looking more
pleased than proud. "Rather an impertinent
speech to a bride-elect, was it not,
Nory? What did you say to him in return?
Did you not scold him?"

"No; I said to him just what I said to
you—that I was glad he admired you."

''How charmed he must have been with
your good sense!" said Lucy.

"No, he was not," answered Norah, not
as if making a complaint, but speaking quite
tranquilly, as if it was a normal condition of
things, and she was used to it. "On the
contrary, he was angry and excited. He
wanted me to be jealous: but I am not of a
jealous nature, and if he thought every
woman in the world handsomer than I, it
would not disturb me. Indeed, I would be
very glad if it quieted him, and took him a
little more out of himself, and away from me.
Well! I must not keep you up after your
journey. Good night, dear. O! how glad
I am that you are here!"

She bent her forehead to her friend's lips,
and then went up to her own bed-room;
where, the sad formula of the night, she cried
herself to sleep like a child.

"Poor Norah!" said Lucy. "She does
not love that man as much as I love my
parrot! What a tragedy is preparing for
them all! But what a superb fellow he
is!"

Gregory, riding home, could not help
giving a thought to Lucy. He was living
over the evening again, and the new guest
came in for her rightful share of the
canvas.

"She is excessively handsome," he thought,
"but I do not like her. Something about
her repels me. Her eyes are too free and her
manners too confident; but she can love,—if
indeed any man could be found to care for a
love which would give itself without being
sought. O! Norah's iciest coldness is more
enchanting to me than this over-freedom of
giving, this prodigal generosity of love in
this bold-eyed beauty. But Norah! Norah!
can I ever make you love me as I would be
loved!"

He took off his hat, so that the night-wind
might blow cool upon his feverish forehead,
and setting spurs to his horse, galloped
many a long mile, seeking by violent exercise
to counteract the tumult within him.

Norah, pale and weeping in her sleep,
murmured, "Why may I not die! O! why
cannot I die now!"

CHAPTER THE THIRD.

LUCY threw the light of a new life into
Lyndon Hall. Before she had been there
four days, the Colonel was in love with her.
Seldom has there been so swift a fall, so
sudden a conquest. And now, with the
insolence of youth, she showed his fetters to
all the world. There was not a petty girlish
act of tyranny and self-will of which she was
not guilty. She deranged all his habits and
overthrew his authority. She made him
wait for dinner, contradicted him before the
whole household, beat him at chess, scolded
down his assertions respecting woman's
inferiority and the good of absolute
submission, shook all the starch out of his
military demeanor, and made him a pliant
nobody, whom she twisted round her fingers
at her pleasure. But all was done so
graciously, her insolence was accomplished by
means of such beaming eyes and sunny
smiles, it was such a graceful cruelty and
played by such a lovely comedian, that the
Colonel was forced to submit, despot and
autocrat as he was. But he apologised to
himself for his loss of dignity on the same
plea that a grave man would use if caught
romping with his child. It was his pleasure,
his will. He suffered these petty pretty
liberties because he liked them: they were
not taken by force, they were granted. He
submitted, like Hercules to Omphale, to a
tyranny he could crush between his fingers
and thumb to-morrow, if he chose. He was
Samson bound by Dalilah; but not asleep,
nor with his locks shorn. The threads round
him were but the fragile threads of a
woman's caprice, which he could break at a
moment, if he put forth his strength in never