Ten years ago Clara Joyce--she had lately adopted the name of Kingscott, bequeathed her by a maiden aunt, who left her nothing else but her patronymic, which she could wear or not as she pleased, for there was no one living to question her right to the same--filled the position of English governess at a _Pensionat des Filles_ in the _Rue des Courcelles_ in Paris. The school was a famous one, and is a famous one still, so we must not be too particular about names or dates exactly. Her previous life had been one of hardship, slavery, and neglect. Her parents had died when she was quite young, and she was placed at school, not to learn merely her education like her mates, but to learn her profession. She was to be a governess, and her earlier years were but a training for what she had afterwards to go through. First, she was a scholar _pur et simple_; next, she became a sort of general drudge, or female usher, as she grew older; and then her aunt--when the harpy who watched over her budding intellects grew tired of her temper, and declared her to be sufficiently taught to be able to teach others,--told her she could do nothing more for her, having recommended her to a situation, where she was engaged to teach every possible and impossible grace and accomplishment at starvation rate, and _ma tante_ washed her hands metaphorically of her. This aunt of hers, who was the only relative that Clara Joyce ever remembered coming across, was by no means the sort of person to impress anyone with the idea of domestic affection, so houseless, homeless, and friendless, the girl had been all her school life, and houseless, homeless, and friendless she was when turned out into the world. The very marrow of her nature had been frozen by her surroundings, and the life of a governess was not one to imbue her with any better feelings, although it increased her knowledge of human nature. One situation after another she filled in England until she was fairly sick of her country, and she eagerly accepted the position offered her in the _pensionat_ in Paris, thinking that it might throw her into a fresh field and improve her chances of rising in the social scale. She had been an _intriguante_ early, her experiences of life already had deepened her convictions that in order to succeed she must skilfully manoeuvre the wires, looking upon her fellows as puppets; but even then if she had had a fair chance--good heavens! how many of us are there not crying out for a fair chance--Clara Joyce would have turned out a very different person from the Clara Kingscott, of our story; but it was not to be.