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residing at the Manor-house, who would be happy to avail herself of Lord Merton's politeness; but as she would have no escort, she would wait in the carriage, ready to join his party when they should arrive at the concert

room.

It wanted yet a week to the time, and the interval was to Helen a very trying one indeed. Each day she had to endure a strain of ironical congratulation or taunting reproach, which threw a damp over the pleasure of anticipation. She thought that no pleasure, however great, could compensate for the preliminary of these daily endurings; yet it would be a great one to go to a concert-she had been at so few; and, but for Miss Horton's kindness, she would never have been at one.

At length the evening arrived, and Helen went into the drawing-room, waiting in readiness for the carriage to drive round. Mrs. Kingley was there.

"Bless me!" she said, getting up to examine Helen's dress, "just look here!"

As she spoke she took hold of the skirt of her robe, and, in endeavouring to rectify something which she fancied to be wrong, she gave it such a jerking pull, that a large part of the skirt was severed from the body, and it hung down in a state of dilapidation. Just then the hall-bell announced that the carriage was at the door.

"Bless me but it does not signify-it doesn't signify!" and Mrs. Kingley hurried out of the room, leaving Helen to repair the injury as best she could.

Helen arrived at the door of the concert-room precisely at the right moment-her carriage was the one immediately behind Lord Merton's. She saw the party descend, and then his lordship advanced to hand her out. It was something very grand indeed to be handed out by a lord, and to have the arm of a lord offered as an escort into the concert-room. Helen was all elation and happiness. Poor girl! she had paid a hard penalty to purchase the enjoyment of that

moment, but it was an enjoyment. They were in good time, though the house was filling fast.

In the box opposite to Lord Merton's was the party from Forest Hall. Helen had not seen them since their return from London. They at once recognised and continued to look at her with an earnestness that was embarrassing. At first she attributed this to their surprise at seeing her of Lord Merton's party, but their attention continued riveted; and, perhaps owing to some mesmeric influence, she could not for any length of time keep her eyes withdrawn from them-she never looked without seeing some of the party gazing intently on her.

The overture commenced; to this succeeded a grand dramatic concerto. The next in order of succession was a solo by the young débutante. All anxiously expected her appearance; some were predisposed to be pleased, others to be critical, and a few to show the superiority of their judgment by dwelling only on the faults. The entrance of the young lady was succeeded by loud plaudits; indeed, her appearance was such as to prepossess all in her favour. She was dressed with perfect simplicity, in a robe of white silk, and without any ornament. Her dark hair, braided, hung on her neck in a profusion of rich ringlets, and her deep blue eyes beamed with intelligence. She curtsied, and the plaudits were renewed.

Meantime Helen had risen from her seat, forgetful of her position, forgetful of everything, and overpowered by astonishment, there she stood, her hands were tightly clasped, and she gazed intently on-Edith!

"Edith! can it be possible? Is it indeed Edith ?”

The exclamations were unheard; but the Forest Hall party were now sure Helen had not known who was to be the débutante.

The plaudits ceased, and Helen was still standing; then, becoming aware of the singularity of her position, she sank down on the bench, conscious that the notice she

excited was not now exclusively confined to the party in the opposite box. Her heart beat violently; she thought she should be obliged to leave the concert-room. She covered her face with her hands, and was insensible to the whispered inquiries of Lady Merton; one idea alone filled her mind"It was Edith!-it was her sister-it was Edith! And Edith was singing in public!"

The song was over; the plaudits were repeated, and they were loud and continuous. At length Helen began to recover; but when she looked up Edith was gone. She was sensible that she must assign some reason to Lady Merton for the agitation she had been so unable to control. "She had been overpowered by a strong resemblance at first she thought the young lady was a very dear friend; the surprise, the great surprise of seeing that friend in such a position had been too much for her; but it was a mistake—she was sure it must be so. She was quite ashamed, quite shocked, to have had so little power over her feelings. But now she was better, and she thanked Lady Merton, and was very sorry to have diverted her attention." All this was said with a smile so bland, that few could have guessed the vortex of emotions that had been, and still were, contending in her heart. She was at length so far able to command herself as to take an interest in the music; and when Edith appeared again, she listened with pleasure and astonishment.

When Helen reached the Manor-house, it was a great relief to find that Mr. and Mrs. Kingley had retired for the night. Indeed, it was one of the points about which the Justice was very particular-never to be out of bed when the clock struck eleven; and his lady, having at an early age imbibed the impression that nothing is so destructive to the freshness of beauty as late hours, had continued the practice long after the cause had ceased to be. It was Mrs. Mitten who opened the door. She said that she had prepared coffee, which was in readiness in her room. Indeed, she seemed disposed to have what she called "

M

a nice com

fortable chat;" but Helen, taking the candle from her in the hall, pleaded a very bad headache, and went at once to her

own room.

And now Helen is alone. Her head did ache, and a heavy pain is at her heart. The confinement of her dress is oppressive; hastily taking it off, and putting on a dressinggown, she approaches the window, which she throws wide open. She snatches the flowers from her hair, and lets the cool night-wind play among her loosened tresses. The moon is at the full, illuminating the distant landscape with its pure light, and it shines on her. She watches it as it pursues its course in "throned majesty." The tranquillity of the scene tended to diffuse its calmness over her mind ; its influence was salutary, and she became softened and subdued. Tears-genuine, heart-felt tears streamed silently and unchecked. She sat half-reclining on the old-fashioned window-seat, her head resting on her arm, till the chilly air of early morning roused her to a sense of her position. The candle which she had left on the dressing-table had long been extinguished, and the light of the moon was waning. She closed the window with a slight shiver, and, without attempting to undress further, she threw herself on the bed.

Helen could not sleep. Other thoughts succeeded, and these were tumultuous ones. Now she thought of her sister in connection with herself; she compared their positions, and she felt that the position of Edith was one to have attained which she would have sacrificed every prospect of her own. When she left her humble home, and came to the Manor-house, she believed it to be the first step in an unknown future that would lead to worldly grandeur. But had she been happy? No; her life was one of daily endurance and daily self-sacrifice; and for what?—and what was her reward? Not the only one that could have cheered her on, for there was no sense of duty to actuate her progress; and had she not, by her own conduct, rendered her position one of humiliation? While Edith-who could have anti

cipated such a lot for her? She was "gathering golden opinions;" she was becoming "the observed of all observers." Then was roused in her soul the demon Jealousy. What had elicited this latent talent? What were the circumstances that had caused its development? And now came a sense of injury to herself. Why had it been concealed from her? Why had the discovery been left to accident? Why had she been thus disregarded ?—thus treated with neglect? Was she altogether a cypher? Was every sense of what was due to her as a daughter and a sister extinguished? And the sense of injury became

stronger and stronger.

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE stable-clock struck seven. Though Helen had not slept, the voice of time had proclaimed the passing hours unheededly; but she heard it now, and, starting up, she looked around on the disorder of the room. The dress, fallen from the back of the chair, where she had thrown it so hastily, was lying on the floor; her flowers, caught in the window-curtain, hung suspended; her gloves and fan were on the bed, and the room was still telling of the self-extinguished light.

There were yet two hours till breakfast time, and Helen, hoping to find in a morning walk escape from tormenting thoughts, hastily arose. The cold water relieved her head, and, after arranging the room, and giving to the bed the appearance of having been slept in, she finished her toilet, and put on her bonnet. She opened the door leading to the forest, and left the house without being observed.

She walked far, wholly preoccupied with her own thoughts, though she felt the cool morning air blow upon her refresh

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