so minute degree. This disguised lord was
still the lord, though he might masquerade
in the slave's attire for his own good
pleasure: and he—his will was none the
less iron nor his purpose adamant, because
he made himself the supple toy of a pretty
woman; let her go an inch too far, and
then she would find how much of this
cruelty was based on her intrinsic power,
and how much on his complaisance. So
he comforted his damaged dignity with
such soliloquies as those; and sat at the
feet at his Omphale while she rated him,
or followed while she led him hither and
thither, and took his lion's skin for her
footstool, and laughed at his demi-godship to
his face.

Norah looked on in silent wonder. To
see her father, of whom she stood in almost
superstitious awe, cajoled and trifled with
by a girl only a year older than herself,
seemed a miracle. She felt almost afraid as
if some new and mysterious power had risen
up beside her. It was so strange that her
father, who had so crushed her, who laid
his own will so heavily on the household,
should now be paraded before them all like
a tame monster, and pushed to the very
verge of ridicule by his facility. She did
not recognise him. Lucy could do
anything she pleased with him. After keeping
dinner waiting a full half-hour—a slight
which Colonel Lyndon had once resented
from a peer—Lucy would come down
into the drawing-room all smiles and
composure, conscious power, all exquisite attire
and fabulous perfumes, sailing in as
tranquilly as if she were no delinquent; then
saying, if the Colonel looked haughty and
sulky:

"Has the dinner-bell sounded yet?"

What her motive was for her conduct,
Norah never asked; and even if she had,
Lucy would have been puzzled for an
answer; for she had no definite plans as
yet—no actual motive. And as Norah
was too quiet and indifferent to trouble
herself much about what any one did, Lucy
found no very officious censor or inquirer in
her.

The person most perplexed of all was
Gregory. He, as all the world, saw Lucy's
evident flirtation with the Colonel, and he,
like Norah, let it pass without comment. He
was too much absorbed in his own real love
to care about the mock-play of others. Why
did those strange fixed looks meet his when
no one was by?—looks that left a very sound
of words behind them. Why did she start
when he came upon her suddenly? Why
did she look after him so earnestly or so
sadly when he withdrew? Why did she
surround him with her influence, so that he
could not escape from her, and was forced,
as if by mesmeric will, to turn to her,
and at least to watch her? Why, in the
midst of all this possession—for it was a
real possession—did he hate her fiercely,
and wish that she had never entered Lyndon
Hall?

Gregory was restless and distracted at his
unusual state of feeling. He chafed and
raged under it as under a concealed wound;
for if Gregory had the faults, he had also the
virtues of a savage. If he believed in the
right of might, he believed also in the beauty
of truth, and he practised the virtue of
sincerity. It was only sincere then in him to
hate Lucy, while fascinated in a strange
repellant way by her. It was only natural to
him that, while dreaming of her beauty and
her love, which he did so often now, he should
also dream of hatred. For, true to his origin,
he believed in spells and witchcraft, and he
had no doubt that Lucy was casting a spell
round him now, which he did not feel quite
sure of resisting, and which he had full right
to abhor.

Such a mute world of passion and fierce
forbidden thought as it all was in this dim
old stately Lyndon Hall! Such a stormy
world, surging and boiling up round little
Norah as the centre figure; she, the only
calm one of them all, though the saddest of
them all; but still and motionless, as
philosophers say is the characteristic of storm-centres.

What could Colonel Lyndon do to please
his beautiful guest? He had presented her
with a bridesmaid's bracelet; that was
something, for Lucy adored jewellery. But what
more could he do for her? The Colonel was
a cautious rnan, and went by easy marches.
He did not know Lucy's family: and,
infatuated though he was, his pride was greater
than his love; and he would sacrifice even
Lucy, rather than make a mésalliance. He was
anxious to win her heart—to thoroughly gain
her mental consent—and then, on further
knowledge, he would decide on what was
best for himself. He did not wish to commit
himself too early; but he wanted to be
secure. This was his programme. Lucy?
what was hers?

But what could he do to please her?  Ah!
he had it!—the very thing!—and good policy
too. He would ask her brothers to Norah's
wedding, as an attention to herself, and for
his own private inspection. That would do
—a fitting clasp to the diamond bracelet—
perhaps a clasp never to be unloosed. Lucy
was charmed. She caught at the idea with
eagerness; for it flashed a thought, a means,
a way, into her mind which hitherto she had
not been able to seize. Yes; Launce and
Edmund must come. Edmund was pining to
find his ideal; Norah was dying under
Gregory's love. If they found what each was
seeking for in the other—then, Gregory's
first anger over; then—Lucy buried her
face in her hands; but the very roots of her
hair were crimson, and her heart beat so
loud, that she might have counted the
strokes.