“Great Heaven!” she murmured, stopping suddenly in the centre of the floor, and clasping her hands; “to know that it has come to this! She thinks I love Harrington. How shall I undeceive her! How shall I undeceive him! How extricate myself from this maze! O, for a friend, a counsellor! Richard, Richard, how can you treat me so basely! To turn from me—and in my very sight to turn from me to her! O, that I could die, that I could die!” Wringing her clasped hands, a wild heart-break in her face, she heard a light step in the passage. The door opened, and Muriel reappeared, gay and elegant as usual, and bending into a graceful courtesy, half playful, half unconscious, as she came forward. As for Emily, no one could have discovered a trace of emotion in her. At the sound of Muriel’s footsteps, she had dissolved into a sumptuous beauty, with a rich, indolent smile on her brilliant-colored face, her bare, rounded arms folded on her bosom, and her figure in nonchalant and queenly repose. “Ah, neglectful one,” said Muriel, shaking a finger at her, “to let your moulding drop to pieces for lack of a little water! I told you yesterday that you ought to wet the clay. Just now I looked into the studio, and saw the poor Muriel almost crumbling. Thou naughty girl!” “I declare I forgot it,” replied Emily. “I meant to water the bust yesterday, and it slipped my mind. I will see to it presently.” “If you don’t, I’ll never give you another sitting,” returned Muriel. “So take notice.” All sorts of studies and arts were pursued at the house in Temple street. Muriel, amidst her botany, drawing, moulding, music, Latin, French, German, Italian, miscellaneous reading, and her vigorous calisthenics, had for a year past interpolated the art of fencing, which Harrington had taught her, and which was at present her grand passion. Emily, who had been absent at Chicago for the last ten months, had previously learned from Wentworth and Muriel how to mould in clay, and upon her return, urged on chiefly by him, had resumed this crowning accomplishment of hers, and began to develop in it unusual talent. The bust referred to was one of Muriel, which she had been working on. Lately, the check she had received in her love for Wentworth, had sadly damped the ardor of her passion for sculpture, and the bust had been neglected. “Don’t let your belief in Wentworth’s flirtations interfere with your pursuit of the fine arts, _mignonne_,” continued Muriel, gaily. “Dear me, no!” languidly returned Emily. “His flirtations are nothing to me.” “Certainly not,” said Muriel, sportively patting her on the shoulder. “And as you owe the bad boy a debt of gratitude for showing you how to mould, be civil to him, I pray.” “Civil? And am I not civil to him?” returned Emily, smiling with lazy serenity.