“Upstairs, reading; she would not come down, though I tried hard enough to make her. But go along to your friends, an old woman like me is not worth minding, besides, I’m going to bed presently.” She waved her hand the same as she had to Isabel, and Lady Randal moved away, feeling anxious and miserable, despite her assumed indifference. Unpleasant memories had been rudely aroused to-night, and the sting of conscience, mingled with remorse, was severe. “Whatever could have made her rake up those old times?” she muttered, uneasily, as she glanced at her son, who was hovering about Isabel like a moth about a candle. “Can it be that she also noticed those jewels? It is lucky for me that Lord Dunforth never discovered the part I played in that tragedy—he never would have forgiven it. I wonder what I did with that note—destroyed it, I suppose. Oh, dear, what a memory Aunt Ruxley has! It is as keen as her tongue, and she has made me exceedingly uncomfortable; but I would not offend her for anything, on Charles’ account. I do hope he will be happy, and that he has chosen wisely; he is too good to be deceived—he is like his father, poor man! Ah, me! how many men have been taken in by the girls they have married; however, it is too late to be helped now.” Such were Lady Randal’s reflections after leaving her aunt. Doubtless she has been recognized before this as being the girl of whom Miss Mehetabel Douglas had told Brownie as having been the cause of her lifelong misery. Yes, Lady Randal was that same Helen Capel. Finding, after she had accomplished her foul purpose, that she could not console her cousin, Lord Dunforth, for his loss, she turned her charms in another direction, and at last succeeded in winning a good and true man, Sir Ralph Randal, for a husband. She had not lived the pleasantest life in the world with the baronet, or rather, it should be said, that he had discovered his mistake when it was too late. She could not deceive him always, and after the irrevocable step had been taken he found that instead of a true, loving, and domestic wife, he had been entrapped into marrying a vain, frivolous girl, who cared more for fashion and society than she did for her family. His death had not seemed to break her heart, for after the year of mourning expired, she returned to society with as much zest as ever. But when her eldest son was taken from her she felt the blow more keenly, and it seemed to change her. Charles, the younger son, had always been the favorite, and she feared lest she should lose him, too, and from that time she devoted herself to him, and during her later years became apparently the self-sacrificing and loving mother. All her hopes now centered in him, and she bent all her energies toward carving out a brilliant future for him. And yet there were times when she seemed so troubled and melancholy that for days, and even weeks, she would be unlike herself, and as if brooding over some hidden grief or sin.