“Pshaw! she does not mean all that nonsense. I would never let her do that, but she shall not stand in my Isabel’s light. Ah, my daughter! I was thinking of you; was I speaking my thoughts aloud?” He had spoken the last words audibly, just as the object of his thoughts entered the room. “What is the matter, papa? I just passed Iris in the hall, looking like a ghost, and came in here to find you raving about somebody standing in my light. Tell me what it is all about, please; I hate anything approaching a mystery.” Isabel spoke in the cold, imperious tones that were peculiar to her, but her father answered her almost humbly: “There is no mystery, my darling; do not distress yourself. Don’t go yet, Isabel, I want to talk with you. You have not told me how you enjoyed yourself at Mrs. Laurier’s last night. Were there many there? Was Mr. St. John among the guests at any time during the evening?” The last question was asked so earnestly that Isabel showed her white teeth in a laugh. “You are always so anxious about Chester St. John, papa; I think you have set your heart upon having him for a son-in-law; is it not so, _mon père_?” Mr. Hilton answered his daughter gravely: “I would like it of all things, Isabel; I should like to see you Chester St. John’s wife.” Isabel’s dark, handsome face flushed, and she spoke somewhat bitterly: “I would consent to be his wife if he asked me, papa, because he is the richest man I know, and the handsomest; but I do not like him. I think him proud, scornful, and sarcastic; and if the day ever comes when I--but I must not make idle threats; take comfort in the thought, my father, your dutiful daughter will employ every art in her power to bring Chester St. John to her feet.” CHAPTER XLIV. A CRUEL ORDEAL. Chester St. John, waiting rather impatiently for the appearance of Iris in the parlor, came forward with warm words of greeting to meet the little white-robed figure, when the girl at last made her appearance, failing, in the semidarkness of the room, to notice the unusual pallor of her face, or the strange constraint of her manner. “Iris!” He could only speak the two soft, sweet syllables of her name, thinking how well it suited her--Iris--like a rainbow, always bright. He tried to take her hands in his own, for--although he had as yet made no actual declaration of his love, he knew he had shown her in many ways how dear she was to him, and if he was not mistaken in the language of her sweet, beautiful eyes, he felt equally confident that his love was returned. It was not until her hand lay in his own, and he felt it cold as ice in his clasp, that he took the alarm.