"Thank you, Phoebe," said Mr. Lethbridge; "come in. I want to introduce Mr. Linton to you." How little did the bright and beautiful girl suspect that within the last few moments an awful and tragic thread had been woven into her life! She entered the room, and looked timidly at the poor author. "Not a word for me?" said Kiss. "Yes, Mr. Kiss," said Phoebe, giving him her hand. "Mr. Linton--Phoebe," said her uncle Leth, encircling her waist with his arm. "This is my niece, Mr. Linton, whom I love as a daughter." "Mr. Pamflett was speaking of you yesterday," said Mr. Linton. "Mr. Pamflett!" exclaimed Phoebe, shrinking at the name. "Yes. He said you were the most lovely girl in all London, and that there was no service you could call upon him to render which he would not cheerfully perform." "I scarcely know him, sir," murmured Phoebe. "Let us go in to tea," said Mr. Lethbridge, "or mother will be impatient. A terrible tyrant, Mr. Linton; a terrible tyrant!" CHAPTER XII. THE READING OF THE NEW PLAY. It was the merriest tea-party imaginable; and Aunt Leth's mind was at ease, in consequence of the time which had been afforded her to make suitable preparations for so eminent a guest as the dramatic author. In pouring out the tea, she helped him last, saying gaily, "The first of the coffee, Mr. Linton, the last of the tea." "A good homely saying," he observed. "I used to hear it from my mother. Though, really, I do not deserve such attention." "Don't believe him, Aunt Leth," said Kiss. "Your dramatic author is as fond of the best as any common mortal."