“It should be,” said Theodora; “you were not born to sigh. Sighs should be for those who have no country, like myself; not for the daughters of England—the beautiful daughters of proud England.” “But you have your husband’s country, and that is proud and great.” “I have only one country, and it is not my husband’s; and I have only one thought, and it is to set it free.” “It is a noble one,” said Lady Corisande, “as I am sure are all your thoughts. There are the gentlemen; I am sorry they have come. There,” she added, as Monsignore Catesby entered the room, “there is his evil genius.” “But you have baffled him,” said Theodora. “Ah,” said Lady Corisande, with a long-drawn sigh. “Their manoeuvres never cease. However, I think Monday must be safe. Would you come?” she said, with a serious, searching glance, and in a kind of coaxing murmur. “I should be an intruder, my dear lady,” said Theodora, declining the suggestion; “but, so far as hoping that our friend will never join the Church of Rome, you will have ever my ardent wishes.” Theodora might have added her belief, for Lothair had never concealed from her a single thought or act of his life in this respect. She knew all and had weighed every thing, and flattered herself that their frequent and unreserved conversations had not confirmed his belief in the infallibility of the Church of Rome, and perhaps of some other things. It had been settled that there should be dancing this evening—all the young ladies had wished it. Lothair danced with Lady Flora Falkirk, and her sister, Lady Grizell, was in the same quadrille. They moved about like young giraffes in an African forest, but looked bright and happy. Lothair liked his cousins; their inexperience and innocence, and the simplicity with which they exhibited and expressed their feelings, had in them something bewitching. Then the rough remembrance of his old life at Falkirk and its contrast with the present scene had in it something stimulating. They were his juniors by several years, but they were always gentle and kind to him; and sometimes it seemed he was the only person whom they, too, had found kind and gentle. He called his cousin, too, by her Christian name, and he was amused, standing by this beautiful giantess, and calling her Flora. There were other amusing circumstances in the quadrille; not the least, Lord St. Aldegonde dancing with Mrs. Campian. The wonder of Lady St. Aldegonde was only equalled by her delight. The lord-lieutenant was standing by the duke, in a comer of the saloon, observing, not with dissatisfaction, his daughter, Lady Ida Alice, dancing with Lothair. “Do you know this is the first time I ever had the honor of meeting a cardinal?” he said. “And we never expected that it would happen to either of us in this country when we were at Christchurch together,” replied the duke.