“She has been up these two hours,” answered Artress. “She has been all over the house, has talked with the butler and the servants, has visited the stable and gardens, and has even been into the park. She means to assert her dignity as mistress of Hawkhurst, and to win the hearts of her dependents, so that in case she disagrees with you they will support her.” Lady Wynde frowned darkly. “Miss Neva is not yet of age, and so, although she owns Hawkhurst, there may be a question whether she is its mistress, or whether I, who am her guardian and her father’s widow, am mistress here.” Her ladyship pulled the bell cord at her bed head, summoning her maid. Artress retired into Lady Wynde’s sitting-room, and upon the appearance of her attendant, the widow arose and attired herself in a white morning wrapper with crimson trimmings, and put upon her head a small square of white lace adorned with crimson bows. She had some time since discarded her widow’s cap, as “too horribly unbecoming.” She ascertained that Neva was now in her own rooms, and took her way thither, the forged letters in her hand. Neva was alone when her step-mother, after a preliminary knock upon the door, entered her sitting-room, and she greeted Lady Wynde with a smile and look of welcome. Neva was looking very lovely this morning, flushed with her early exercise, her red-brown eyes strangely brilliant, her red-brown hair arranged in crimps and braids. She wore a simple dress of white lawn, made short to escape the ground, and her ribbons and ornaments were of black. Lady Wynde fancied that Neva’s half-mourning attire was a reproach to her, and this fancied reproach, coupled with Neva’s bright, spirited beauty, gave an impulse to her incipient dislike to the girl. A vague jealousy of Neva’s youth and loveliness had found place in her heart on the previous evening. Now that faint spark became fanned into a burning flame. She aspired to be a social queen, and here under her very roof, and under her chaperonage, was a girl whom she felt sure would eclipse her. She would not be known in society as the handsome Mrs. Black, but as the chaperon of the beautiful Miss Wynde. But, despite her anger and jealousy, nothing could have been more bland and affectionate than the greeting of Lady Wynde to her step-daughter. She kissed her with seeming tenderness, and caressed her bright hair as she said: “How animated you look, my dear--fairly sparkling! I should fancy that you have an electric sort of temperament--all fire and glow. Is it not so? You remind me of your father, Neva. It will be very sweet to have you with me, but my grief at my husband’s awful death has been so great that until now I could never bear to look upon his daughter’s face. I fancied you would look even more like him, and I could not have borne the resemblance in my first grief.” Lady Wynde sighed deeply, and sat down upon the blue silken couch, drawing Neva to a seat beside her.