It was even so. Frances had hidden herself away in the library; she could no longer sit in the glare of the many lamps, and listen to the laughing and talking going on around; and not only listen, but be obliged to talk herself. It was too much, she could not do it. Instead of trying, like Amy, to shake off the gloom that oppressed her, she nursed it, and sat alone, sullen and miserable. Had not her voice failed to persuade Charles to stay; failed to win one kind word from him? Had he not, the rather, heartlessly mocked at her anguish? Had he not left her and gone over to Miss Neville, and given her his last parting words, the last clasp of his hand? When, if he had cared for her, every moment would have been precious to him, even as it was to her. How she wished she could hate him? But still the cry of her heart was "He shall not love her." It was true she was advancing slowly, very slowly; but still, to advance at all, was better than making no progress, to feel that Amy was having it all her own way, and she without the power of preventing her, doomed to sit quietly and look on at the wreck of all her hopes of happiness. But that last should never be, and her eye flashed more brightly as she thought that not one single opportunity had she lost of loosening the hold Amy seemed to have over Charles's actions, the interest she had created in his breast. Ever on the watch, and restless when Charles was absent, lest he should meet with her rival, and she not be there to prevent his joining and walking with her, her life was one perpetual state of disquietude and excitement. He should never find out Amy loved him. Never! never! So Frances sat on in the gloom of the one small lamp, and thought such thoughts as these; and bitter enough they were to her. How she hated to see Amy enter the drawing-room each night, and more especially this last evening, when instead of sullenly standing aloof, as he had once or twice done, Charles had joined her. Had they met without her knowledge, and had she won him over to her again, sent all the jealous suspicions which Frances had instilled into his mind, to the winds? Oh! if it should be so? She sprung from the chair, and walked up and down the room, in utter desolation of heart. And so we must leave her, and return to Amy. The evening had worn on. It was growing late. Twice the butler had himself come in and replenished the fire. Was he also anxious? Amy thought so, as she watched his face, and noted how he loitered about the room, and was in no hurry to be gone; but glanced round gravely, as he went slowly out, and again, a few moments after, entered it once more, looked to the lamps, and a number of other things there was no occasion for.