"How dare you follow me here, Sir?" The poor animal looked up wistfully, not knowing in what he had offended, since his master patted his head so caressingly as they stood outside the door together. On the table was a half finished drawing, the paper still damp with the last touches, the brushes all scattered about; one had fallen on the edge of the paper; Charles took it up, carefully washed out the mark it had left, and laid it by carefully. Amy's work-box stood invitingly open. He looked in, and turned over the contents: there was a piece of embroidery; small holes that had been cut out and sewn over, the "_holy work_," as he called it, that he hated so much. Somehow this small piece appeared to have a curious interest in his eyes, he looked at it, put it down and then looked at it again. There was the needle still in the half finished flower, and a small mark as though the finger had been injured in the sewing. This decided him, and with a half frightened, guilty look he put it in his pocket, just as Bob, evidently with the view of making friends, rubbed against his legs. "Ah! my friend," said Charles, looking down, "Your warning comes too late. The deed is done." "What is too late?" asked Frances advancing into the room, "and what have you done?" "You here," stammered Charles. "Yes, why not? since Mr. Charles Linchmore designs to come." "Then I came--, that is you forget," said he recovering himself, "I sometimes take my nieces for a walk." "I forget nothing," replied she, "my memory serves me well." "Why are you here?" asked he, "surely you can have no excuse for coming." "It was chance directed my footsteps," replied she carelessly. This was scarcely true. Ever since Frances had seen Amy talking with her cousin on the evening of his arrival, a strange fascination to speak with the governess had taken possession of her; why she hardly knew or questioned; but now at this moment, as she stood so unexpectedly face to face with Charles and marked his confusion, a jealous hatred crept slowly, yet surely over her heart, a jealousy that was to be the bane of her after life, to influence her every action, almost thought, and lead her to follow blindly all its revengeful promptings, undeterred either by the oft-times whispered voice of conscience, or the evident and consequent sufferings of others. What woman is not jealous of the one she fears is supplanting her, or obtaining an interest in the heart of him she loves? but here Frances had barely reason for her jealousy, Charles never having given her sufficient cause to think he cared for her, beyond a cousinly regard; yet she loved him as much as her proud heart was capable of loving. "This drawing is beautifully done," said she, advancing and examining it closely. "What have you done with the copy?" The copy? What if she had named the "Holy Work?" He cast a furtive glance at his pocket as he replied, "I have not seen it. I suppose Miss Neville draws without one."