The Hawkhurst carriage with its liveried servants was in waiting at the Canterbury station when they alighted. Lord Towyn assisted the ladies into the vehicle, bade them adieu, and as they drove away followed them with a lingering gaze. “How beautiful Neva is!” he murmured to himself. “And so pure and sweet and tender, yet spirited! I wonder if she remembers our childish betrothal? I don’t like that Artress, and I do not quite like Lady Wynde. I hardly think Neva will be happy with her, their natures being so dissimilar. I must go out to Hawkhurst to-morrow, and judge whether they are likely to get on together. If Neva does not like her step-mother, she has but one avenue of escape from her dominion before she becomes of age, and that avenue is marriage. If she would only marry me. I love her already. Love her! I could adore her.” A passionate flush arose to his fair cheek, and a tender glowing light to his warm blue eyes, and he descended the steps and strode out of the station, his heart thrilling with the strange and new sensation which he now knew was love. And as he walked along the street, he vowed within himself that he would woo and, if he could, would win young Neva Wynde to be his wife. Ah, he little knew the gulfs that would arise between him and her--the dangers, the perils, the sorrows, they two must taste. And even as he strode along, acknowledging to his own soul that he was Neva’s lover, Neva was speeding across the pleasant country toward the home where her enemy awaited her with schemes perfected, and an evil heart hidden under a smiling face. CHAPTER VIII. THE SON OF THE HONORABLE CRAVEN BLACK. Upon the morning of the day on which Neva Wynde and Lord Towyn so strangely encountered each other upon the dingy packet-boat--an encounter that was destined to be fateful--a scene transpired in one of the London suburbs to which we would call the attention of the reader. In an upper room, in one of the dingiest houses of one of the dingiest crescents at New Brompton, a young man, a mere youth, was engaged in painting a picture. The room was bare and comfortless, with threadbare carpet, decrepit and worn-out furniture, and springless sofa-bed--one of the poorest rooms, in fact, a lodging-house of the fourth rate can furnish. There were two windows without curtains, and provided only with torn and faded blue paper shades, rolled up and confined with cotton cord. A few ashes were in the grate, showing that although the season was summer, a fire had lately burned there. The picture which the youth was painting stood upon an easel before one of the windows, and was but little better than a daub. It had been sketched by a bold and vigorous hand, but was faulty in conception and ill-colored. The light upon it was bad, and the hand that wielded the brush was trembling and impatient, weakened by fasting and emotions.