ill. Katharine might not have spoken to her indeed, had she been

available for purposes of confidence--the calmness and steadiness of the lady's nature might have repelled her, for this was an unfortunate effect which those qualifies had frequently produced upon the impetuous and passionate young girl; but now that she was away, she felt that she would have done so, and regarded Mrs. Stanbourne's absence as an additional grievance and aggravation of the bitterness of her lot. The season was over, town was thinning fast, their own particular set had all broken up, and autumn engagements were either being eagerly discussed or busily entered upon. Days wore on--how wearily, they only who know how long time is to those who watch and wait, can tell--and Katharine did not see the face of Gordon Frere or hear his name. The girl changed visibly under the suffering of this period; the anxious look, so strange to her lustrous eyes, became fixed in them; the soft music of her laugh ceased to ring in the ears of her companions; her girlish gracefulness hardened into something defiant, very attractive to strangers, but which would have made one who loved her sad to see, and apprehensive for her future; but no one who loved her was there to watch the change in Katharine Guyon with prescient eyes.

The day was hot, sultry, breathless; the autumn had fairly set in, and beat fiercely upon the weary Londoners; the sense of oppression produced by the immense circumference of stone and brick was heavy upon such of the world as had any chance of escaping from it. Such as had no chance probably did not like it; "but then," in homely expressive speech, they had to "lump it;" and very few were likely to trouble themselves about them. The last flicker of the gaieties of the season had died out; and even Mr. Guyon had found it impossible to get up a Greenwich dinner-party to comprise more than four individuals, including Robert Streightley and Daniel Thacker. He had avoided his daughter as much as possible of late; and Mr. Streightley had sedulously sought her society, with every kind of tacit encouragement within her father's power to give him. It was the day named for the Greenwich dinner; and Katharine, glad to be alone, and yet feverish and miserable in her solitude, had refused to go to Lady Henmarsh's, there to hold a _causerie_ on their several autumn plans.

"She will drag poor old Sir Timothy to some German baths or French watering-place, and she wants me to back her up in the cruelty," thought Katharine, as she contemptuously twisted up the note, which had contained the invitation, and desired Lady Henmarsh's page to tell his mistress she was busy and could not come; "but I won't. Why can't she go down to Deanthorpe and keep quiet?" She had been dawdling over her luncheon and feeding her Skye terrier, without taking any interest in either occupation; and she now leaned idly against the window-frame and gazed out wearily. She saw the hot, baked streets; she saw the poor old woman opposite sitting by her basket of full-blown blowsy nosegays, sheltering them and herself under the shade of a huge umbrella, fallen from its high estate on some family coach-box, and displaying sundry patches ignominious in their discrepancy with each other and general incongruity with the original fabric. The old woman was yawning, and sleeping by snatches, and Katharine's impatient weariness was increased by watching her. She turned away, and went upstairs to her own room. A newspaper lay on the table in the hall, and she took it up mechanically, and carried it with her. Her own room was spacious and airy, and physical ease and refreshment at least came to her with its stillness and its shade.

She sat down in an arm-chair by the window, and fell a-thinking on the invariable subject; wondering, yearning, raging, as she had done now for days which had run on into weeks, during every hour which had not been tranquillised by the anodyne of sleep. After a while she looked idly at the newspaper in her hand; and in a few minutes her eyes lighted on a paragraph which announced the departure of Lord A---- as British _chargé d'affaires_ to the court of F----, accompanied by Mr. Gordon Frere, who attended his lordship in the character of private secretary, and a numerous suite.

Katharine Guyon was not a fainting woman. She had never fainted in her life, and hysterical affections she held in equal suspicion and disdain. No merciful weakness came to lessen the physical anguish she experienced, when these few lines conveyed to her shrinking soul the full assurance of the fate that had befallen her. The physical suffering of a sudden grief is always terrible, most terrible where strength reigns with tolerable equality in body and mind. Her flesh crept and burned; acute, agonising pain darted into her eyeballs, and transfixed them; a slow shivering anguish seized upon her limbs, and caused her lips to part and shudder over the clenched teeth. No cry escaped her, nor sound except a moan, half of mental pain, half of the deadly sickness, the actual nausea, which every one who has ever sustained a severe shock of pain or fear knows is its invariable accompaniment. Black rings formed themselves in the air, and dropped from under her eyes, into what seemed to her like infinite space. She wondered dimly whether this could be any thing like death; and sat there, so feeling, so wondering, she had no idea what length of time. Her maid came to her when the hour for dressing for dinner arrived, and found her pale, motionless, and tearless.

"I'm not well, Marwood," she said; "as papa is out, I need not go down. If you'll help me to undress, I will go to bed."

The woman was utterly surprised. Illness was unknown to Katharine's vigorous frame and eager spirit. She acknowledged that her mistress looked ill, and suggested sending James for a doctor.

"Not on any account," said Katharine; "I am suffering for my obstinacy in riding too long in the sun yesterday, and eating ices last night. I shall be quite well in the morning."

The woman assisted her to undress, and left her, and Katharine lay down in her bed, feeling as if she should never rise from it again. The evening fell, the beautiful autumn night succeeded the brief twilight, and the fair morning dawned, and still she lay quite motionless, tearless, sleepless; speechless too, but for one short sentence whose agony of anger and outraged feeling defied restraint. It sounded strangely in the quiet of the room:

"He was only amusing himself, after all. He _dared_ to amuse himself with ME!"

Hester Gould had fulfilled her intention of finding out all she could about Robert Streightley's new friends, as she usually fulfilled all her intentions, quietly and completely. She had paid a friendly visit to Daniel Thacker's sisters, resident at Hampstead; and having timed her visit fortunately, or it would be more correct to say judiciously, she had met Daniel, and extracted from him all the information he was disposed to give. She was not in the least deceived in her estimate of his frankness; she knew that he had more to tell respecting Mr. Guyon and his handsome daughter (Mr. Thacker called her "stunning") than the general facts into the disclosure of which she led him; but she was not unreasonable, and she read character accurately. She had not seen much of Daniel Thacker; for not being mistress of her own time, she could rarely visit the dwellers at Corby House at the hours which found that gentleman in the bosom of his family; but she had seen enough of him to understand him much better than most of his acquaintances did, and to feel a comfortable assurance that she could gain an influence over him, if any thing should occur to make it worth her while to do so.

Daniel Thacker possessed at least one sterling virtue--he was an excellent brother. Nothing in reason and within the compass of his means did he deny the handsome, red-lipped, dark-browed girls, who strongly resembled him, and were even more Jewish-looking than he. They had a good house, a comfortable establishment, a sufficiency of society among their own persuasion generally, a sufficiency of theatre- and concert-going, and plenty of the savoury meat which their souls loved. They would have been happier perhaps--or they thought so--if their beloved brother, whom they devoutly believed to be the handsomest and most elegant man in Christendom or Jewry, had lived with them at Corby House; but he had fully explained the impossibility on "business" grounds, and the docile Hebrews, Rebecca and Rachel, acknowledged the plea without hesitation. They were among the firmest, warmest, and most useful of Hester Gould's friends, and they had been for a time her pupils. They had perseveringly spread her fame abroad among their _habitués_; and as music is an invariable taste among the Jews, and their musical entertainments are splendid and numerous, their praises had done her solid service, and Hester's time was fully filled by very lucrative engagements.

Rachel and Rebecca had been infinitely delighted by Hester's arrival to pass the evening with them, and had gushingly expressed their pleasure.

"Tuesday evening too, Daniel's evening: how delightful!--he hardly ever misses. I am so glad; isn't she a dear?" said Miss Rachel in a sort of monologue, while she applied her large red lips several times to Hester's olive cheek.

The calculations of the sisters did not deceive them. Daniel came, smooth, good-humoured, affectionate, and obliging; and they passed a very agreeable evening. Miss Gould had what she called a "confidential cab," which attended her on special occasions, of which this was one; and as she drove away, having accepted an invitation to accompany the sisters to a Botanical "promenade" (it was the last of the season they said, and dear Hester must come), she made a little calculation of the gain of her visit, thus:

"Mr. Guyon is a fast man out at elbows, and a great friend of Daniel Thacker's. That means that he is largely in Daniel's power. Miss Guyon is a handsome, high-spirited girl, much admired, and with no fortune. I can see that Daniel has no notion of her--he would be snubbed, rich as he is, I suspect, even by the out-at-elbows father. But he has seen Robert with Mr. Guyon, and for some reason or other--I don't know what reason _yet_--he is concerned in promoting a match between him and Miss Guyon. Can I prevent this? I fear not. We shall see; I must be most cautious not to purchase even a fair chance of doing so too dearly,"--here she thought intensely, and her brow clouded over heavily. "If I could find out that the girl does not care for him, I might make my way to her and put her on her guard; but suppose she does? No, no; I must not risk _all_ until I know _all_."

Mr. Daniel Thacker's perfectly appointed brougham was conveying him rapidly to St. James's half-an-hour later; and as he smoked a choice cigar (part of a bankrupt lot dirt cheap at the price), he pulled his silky beard, and meditated upon Hester Gould and her questions.

"Knows Streightley and his mother and sister very well, does she? Thinks him a 'nice' man, but easily led--thinks his mother is _so_ anxious he should marry, eh? Now what the deuce is _her_ little game? Can't be to marry him herself, I should think, or she's just the woman to do it--to have done it long ago. Devilish nice girl; real good-looking, and a rasper for determination, I should say. 'Gad, I should like to see a good deal more of Hester Gould."