Mr. Style was disgusted almost to loathing, and in his soul he shrunk from the false and deceitful woman, whose deliberate wickedness and folly his own senses had so unwillingly attested. But he gallantly bowed in obedience to Charlotte’s familiar challenge, and addressed something very common-place to Miss Tyler. She was transformed in a moment, and became all vivacity, and wit, and life. She joked and frolicked, and laughed till the attention of the company was attracted, and poor Charlotte began to be most cruelly jealous. Indeed, so entirely did Miss Tyler attach herself to Mr. Style, that emancipation was hopeless for the remainder of the evening. At a late hour the guests departed; and painful, indeed, were the disclosures Jessie made to Mrs. Tower, of the misery and mortification she had endured so innocently. “Do let me go to-morrow, dear Mrs. Tower, my mother; I can never endure that the humbleness of my station should expose you to reproach like this.” “No, Jessie,” replied Mrs. Tower, as she drew the weeping girl to her bosom. “You are my own daughter now, and by an instrument legally attested, no longer dependent on your own exertions, but my chosen and acknowledged heiress. It is no reproach to you, my dearest child, among those whose true elevation of mind and character places them above the necessity of those artificial props, which are always called to sustain assumption—that you were reared under the clouds of misfortune, or that your own hands supported an invalid father and mother. Jessie, I honor you for it, and the gift of a fortune is but a trifling reward. Say no more about leaving me—you cannot and you must not do it. Leave this matter all to my ‘elder wisdom,’ and forget it in the repose your mind and body need.” CHAPTER V. The following morning, as Mrs. Tower and Jessie were sitting in the library, with Emilie Jones and her brother, a servant brought in an awkwardly folded and hastily written note, and presenting it to Jessie, informed her that the bearer waited in the hall for a reply. Jessie opened the unsealed paper and read: “Miss Lincoln,—The buttons on my traveling dress, which you made, do not give me any satisfaction. This is for you to come to Mrs. Varley’s this afternoon, directly after dinner, and alter them, and I shall expect you to make no extra charge for it. “ELIZABETH TYLER. “P. S. Mrs. Varley’s family would be willing to employ you on my recommendation.” The color went and came in Jessie’s cheek, as she read the deliberate insult the writer evidently intended.