It had been a most unfortunate thing for her, the visit to Downsbury Castle; but for it she might in time have grown reconciled to her lot; she might have learned to love and appreciate Earle; she might have lived and died happily; but for it this story had never been written: it was the turning point in her life; it seemed to bring into sudden and vivid life all the evil that had lain dormant; it roused the vanity, the ambition, the love of luxury and pleasure, the love of conquest and admiration, until they became a living flame nothing could extinguish. How plain and homely the little farm seemed to her after the magnificence of Downsbury Castle! How homely and uncouth Mattie and her mother were after the languid, graceful Lady Estelle! Nothing pleased her, nothing contented her. "I have been foolish," she thought; "I wish I had not promised to marry Earle. Who knows but there might have been a chance for me to win this handsome lord. Lady Doris Vivianne!--I like the sound of that name; what a difference between that and Mrs. Earle Moray. How foolish I was to be in such a hurry." So that evening, when poor Earle came, impatient to see her, longing for one kind word, thirsting to talk to her, he was received with great coldness by her. Ah, heaven! how pitiful it was to see the handsome face droop and sadden, the lips tremble, the eyes grow dim with tears. He might be master of the English language, that he certainly was; he might be master of the heart of poesy, but he was a slave to her, to her whims, her caprices, her humor. It was the first time she had been cold to him, the first time her face had not brightened for him. She did not even smile when he entered the room. He hastened up to her, and bending down he kissed the beautiful face. "My darling Doris," he said, "I thought the day would never come to an end. I have been longing to see you." Another time the sweet face would have been raised to his; she would have given kiss for kiss; she would have welcomed him as he loved best to be welcomed; but to-day she merely turned impatiently aside. "I wish you would be more careful, Earle," she said. "You make my hair so untidy." "I am very sorry, dear," he said, gently. "It is such beautiful hair, Doris, and I think it looks even more beautiful when it is what you call untidy." "There is no reason why you should make it so," she retorted. Then he looked with wondering eyes into her face. "You are not well, or are you tired; which is it?" "I am tired," she replied; "tired to death, Earle. Do not tease me." "I ought to have remembered your long journey--of course you are tired. You ought to lie down, and I will read to you. That will rest you." "Pray, do not be fussy, Earle. Other people get tired, but no one likes a fuss made over them."