"The lightest heart--ah, me! the happiest girl--there was not one so happy! Proud, because every one told me how much I had to be proud of. I was beautiful, and the Duke of Downsbury's only daughter. What people call high prizes in this world ought to have been mine. Listen to what I have won. At eighteen I made my _debut_ in the great world, and before I had even time to look round me, I had a number of lovers and admirers, thanks to the prestige of my father's name. I had more offers during the first season than falls to the lot of most young ladies. There was not one among the crowd of admirers for whom I cared; none interested me, none touched me. Young as I was, I longed for something that I did not find. I had great ideas of the happiness and sanctity of love. In this new world I heard but little of it. People talked of diamonds, opera-boxes, country-houses, pin-money, settlements; but I heard little of love. I had firmly resolved in my own mind that when I married it should be for love alone. I had everything else--rank, title, wealth, position. I wanted love. One great man after another--great according to the world's estimation--laid title and wealth before me, the Duke of Downsbury's heiress. I had flattery, homage, compliments, praise, but not what I thought to be love. In discussing different offers my mother would say: 'This one belongs to the oldest family in England;' of another, 'He has the fairest estates in the country;' of another, 'He is a great favorite at court;' of another, 'He can give his wife jewels fit for an empress;' but she never urged as a recommendation that any one loved me. As a rule, one values least that which one has, and longs most for that which one has not. I was born and reared in the very heart of luxury--I knew nothing else--so that I valued splendor and magnificence, luxury and wealth far less than I valued love; and while wiser heads than mine were occupied in discussing which would be the most advisable suitor for me, I was occupied in looking for some one who would love me. Is it natural, Earle Moray, that one should long to be loved?" He looked at the pale, sad face. "Just as natural, Lady Hereford, as that the thirsty flowers should long for dew," he replied. "So I think. I made a terrible mistake. I wrecked my whole life; yet I think that if I had to live over again I should look first for love. "One evening there was a ball at the palace, and I went with the duchess, my mother. On our way she began to talk to me about a certain Lord Alverton, whose proposal of marriage had delighted her. "'I should certainly advise you, my dear child,' she said, 'to accept him. He will be at the palace this evening, and I shall be pleased to hear that you have accepted him.' "'But I do not love him, mamma,' I said. "She looked surprised.