Mrs Clarendon received her, as always, with a sort of combative tenderness, as if in competition for her favour with some powerful adversary unseen. There was in her a constant readiness to outbid that adversary, to offer more than she did, of which Frances was usually uncomfortably conscious, but which to-day stimulated her like a cordial. “I suppose you are being taken to all sorts of places?” she said. “I wish I had not given up Society so much; but when the season is over, and the fine people are all in the country, then you will see that we have not forgotten you. Has Sir Thomas come with you, Frances? I supposed, perhaps, you had come to tell me----” “Sir Thomas?” Frances said, with much surprise; but she was too much occupied with concerns more interesting to ask what her aunt could mean. “Oh, aunt Caroline,” she said, “I have come to speak to you of something I am very, very much interested about.” In all sincerity, she had forgotten the original scope of her mission, and only remembered her own anxiety. And then she told her story--how Captain Gaunt, the son of her old friend, the youngest, the one that was best beloved, had come to town--how he had made friends who were not--nice--who made him play and lose money--though he had no money. “Of course, my dear, I know--Lord Markham and his set.” At this Frances coloured high. “It was not Markham. Markham has found out for me. It was some--fellows who had no mercy, he said.” “Oh yes; they are all the same set. I am very sorry that an innocent girl like you should be in any way mixed up with such people. Whether Lord Markham plucks the pigeon himself, or gets some of his friends to do it----” “Aunt Caroline, now you take away my last hope; for Markham is my brother; and I will never, never ask any one to help me who speaks so of my brother--he is always so kind, so kind to me.” “I don’t see what opportunity he has ever had to be kind to you,” said Mrs Clarendon. But Frances in her disappointment would not listen. She turned away her head, to get rid, so far as was possible, of the blinding tears--those tears which would come in spite of her, notwithstanding all the efforts she could make. “I had a little hope in you,” Frances said; “but now I have none, none. My mother sees him every day; if he lives, she will have saved his life. But I cannot ask her for what I want. I cannot ask her for more--she has done so much. And now, you make it impossible for me to ask you!” If Frances had studied how to move her aunt best, she could not have hit upon a more effectual way. “My dear child,” cried Mrs Clarendon, hurrying to her, drawing her into her arms, “what is it, what is it that moves you so much? Of whom are you speaking? His life? Whose life is in danger? And what is it you want? If you think I, your father’s only sister, will do less for you than Lady Markham does----! Tell me, my dear, tell me what is it you want?”