Poor Kate! she bent over her sewing, and seemed intent only on placing at proper distances the delicate white roses which looped the gauze drapery of Louisa’s new dress; but she felt a sudden faintness come over her, which required all her habitual self-control to subdue. Not until the dress was finished and displayed upon the sofa to her mother’s criticism; not until the pearl ornaments had been laid upon the beauty’s dark curls by the skillful fingers of the all-enduring Kate; not until she had listened to all her sister’s ideas respecting the sash, which was to be tied at the side, with long floating ends; in short, not until all the important trivialities of a belle’s ball-costume had been discussed and decided upon by the aid of Kate’s taste, was she at liberty to retire to her own room. At last she was released, and as Louisa sprung up stairs, humming a lively Opera air, Kate, gathering up her sewing materials, slowly followed till she arrived at the door of her own apartment, which, in consideration of its being the smallest room in the house, and in the fourth story, she was permitted to occupy _alone_. This had long been poor Kate’s sanctuary, where she could think and feel and act as she pleased. Now she quietly locked the door, and then, when she had secured herself from intrusion, she sat down in the rocking-chair which had been her companion from childhood, and gave way to the tears which were pressing so painfully against her hot eye-lids. Kate had often wept—much oftener than those who called her indifferent and cold in temper, could have imagined—but never had she shed such bitter, burning tears as now. There was grief and shame, and wounded affection, and mortified pride, all blended in the emotion which now agitated her. She could not have analyzed her own feelings; she only knew she was very unhappy and very lonely. That evening Kate was too unwell to accompany her sister to the ball. A severe headache, arising from an attack of influenza, which accounted for the humid eyes that would weep in spite of all poor Kate’s efforts, was sufficient apology. So Mrs. Lorimer, with her tall son and beautiful daughter, were whirled off to the gay scene, leaving Kate to read the newspaper and play backgammon with her rheumatic father, who never went out after sunset. But the old gentleman’s evenings were generally short. By nine o’clock he was comfortably fixed in bed, and Kate sat alone in the deserted drawing-room, when she was startled by the sound of the door-bell. It was too late for a visiter, and Kate’s first thought was that it might be a message for a parcel for her brother. She did not alter her position, therefore, but sat with her head bent, her hands listlessly lying in her lap, and her whole attitude one of the deepest dejection. A gentle footstep, and the tones of a well-known voice, startled her from her painful dream, and as she looked up her eyes fell on the stately form of Clarence Ferrers.