“My dear girl!” she said, effusively kissing one of Lady Elaine’s pale cheeks, “how sweet of you to be so considerate! Here you are quite ready, and we shall be back at the Lodge in time for lunch.” Then Margaret Nugent came forward and greeted Elaine with a great show of affection. She could afford now to be affectionate in reality, for she no longer regarded Lady Elaine as a rival. The drive to the Lodge was without incident, and Lady Gaynor showed the girl to a suite of shabbily-furnished rooms. The curtains were dingy, the carpets threadbare, and there was an air of mustiness everywhere that was stifling. “Ah! I can see disappointment in your face,” her ladyship said, with well-assumed regret, “but this is the best that I can offer. Let us hope that you will soon reign as mistress of a home equal to the one you have left. I shall then expect you to requite the kindness I am endeavoring to extend to you now. Ah! how selfish poverty makes us all, Lady Elaine. You do not care to come down for lunch? Well, you shall have a cup of tea up here and spend the rest of the day as you please, assisting your maid to unpack.” Lady Gaynor went away, and a little later Margaret Nugent came to say good-by. “I am going home,” she said, “because mamma has a fresh attack of fancied woes. Shall I bring the pony-carriage to-morrow, and we will have a long drive?” “No, thank you, Margaret,” said Lady Elaine, “I think that I hate the old, familiar scenes. My great trouble has fallen on me with the weight of an avalanche. I do not seem able to realize it yet. My lover--my father--all--at one blow. My energy--my spirit is killed within me!” “Time will soften your grief, Elaine,” said Margaret, gently. “There is a great future before you--a future bright with triumph and splendor, if you only grasp it aright.” There seemed to be a hidden meaning in Margaret’s words. “I believe that I understand you, Miss Nugent,” Elaine said, coldly; “but I fail to appreciate your counsels. In some way my troubles began when I was weak enough to listen to your advice. I accepted it against my better judgment, and I beg of you not to refer to matters which particularly concern myself again. In my present loneliness I need friends badly enough, Heaven knows, but I can never associate you with anything but unpleasantness and misery. I feel that you are my enemy, and am only sorry that I did not make the discovery sooner. The very fact that you are a close associate of my oppressors precludes the possibility of any sympathy between us, and I shall consider it a favor if you will cease making any pretenses of affection for me in the future. I must now know upon whom I can depend, Miss Nugent, and I can neither accept you as a confidante nor an adviser. I am not superstitious, but there is a fatality about some people which it is impossible to withstand, and everything in connection with yourself has resulted in evil for me.”