She was under the impression that a little harmless flirtation was taking place, but she had no idea of its nature or extent. Had she been aware of this, in all likelihood she would have mentioned the subject to her young mistress or his lordship. She, however, deemed it expedient, for divers reasons, to remain silent. The very last person in the whole establishment to suspect the state of affairs was the master of Broxbridge. He had unlimited faith in the integrity of his daughter, and, indeed, to say the truth, there was not much excuse to be made for her, save that she was charmed with her lover’s handsome person, his musical voice, his fascinating and engaging manners. She was infatuated――so much so, indeed, as to be heedless of the great wrong she was doing, but she had now gone too far to retract. She consented to elope with her music-master, who had repeatedly suggested a clandestine marriage. She persuaded herself that he was a gentleman, although a poor one. He was an artist, a man of polished manners, and equal in many ways to her father’s friends and companions――in some respects he was their superior. Poor, giddy, thoughtless girl, she knew but little of the world. Had she mixed more in society she would have hesitated before she took the first false step which led to untold misery both to her and hers. The end came. She stole one afternoon from the time-honoured walls of Broxbridge, and eloped with Signor Montini. It would be impossible to describe the despair of Lord Ethalwood when he heard of his daughter’s flight. He was frantic for a time, after which he was preternaturally calm; but a storm raged within more terrible than any sudden burst of passion. She had written to him avowing her love for Montini, and informing him at the same time that she took it for granted he would never give his consent. Hence it was she had consented to a clandestine marriage. She implored him to forgive her, to pity and pardon her for her disobedience. No member of the old Inquisition could have looked more relentless and spectral than did the lord of Broxbridge when he read this epistle. “She has passed from me, even as did her mother,” he ejaculated, in a low deep whisper. “Even as did her mother,” he repeated, like the burthen of a song. “Fool that I was, I never counted on this blow.” He took an oath never to look upon her face again. Dear as she had been to him, he was resolved upon thinking only of her as one dead. This terrible oath he kept unbroken. He knew but little of Montini, and, strange to say, he was not so embittered against him as might have been supposed. The full measure of his wrath fell upon the head of his undutiful thankless daughter. His love for her had changed to the most deadly hate, which neither time nor circumstances would change.