Stella sat silent, her head thrown back, her eyes fixed on the stars. He saw she was very pale, and there was a strange, intent look in her eyes. There was also a dull aching in her heart which was scarcely distinct enough for pain, but which annoyed and shamed her. What could it matter to her--to her, Stella Etheridge, the niece of a poor painter--whom Lord Leycester, future Earl of Wyndward, married? Nothing, less than nothing. But still the dull aching throbbed in her heart, and his face floated between her and the stars, his voice rang in her ears. How fortunate, how blessed, some women were! Here, for instance, was this girl of twenty-three, beautiful, famously beautiful, noble, and reigning like a queen in the great world, and yet the gods were not satisfied, but they must give her Leycester Wyndward! For of course it was impossible that he should resist her if she chose to put forth her charm. Had not her uncle just said that she could fascinate?--had she not even evidently fascinated him, the dreamer, the artist, the man who had seen and who knew the world so well? For a moment she gave herself up to this reflection and to the dull aching, then with a gesture of impatience she rose, so suddenly as to startle the old man. "What is the matter, Stella?" he asked. "Nothing, nothing," she said. "Shall we have lights? The room is so dark and still, and----" her voice broke for a moment. She went to the mantel-shelf and lit a candle, and as she did so she looked up and saw her face reflected in the antique mirror and started. Was that her face?--that pale, half-startled visage looking at her so sadly. With a laugh she put the dark hair from her brow, and gliding to the organ began to play; feverishly, restlessly at first, but presently the music worked its charm and soothed her savage breast. Yes, she was savage, she knew it, she felt it! This woman had everything, while she---- The door opened and a stream of light broke in from the lamp carried by Mrs. Penfold. "Are you there, Miss Stella? Oh, yes, there you are! I thought it was Mr. Etheridge playing; you don't often play like that. There's a note for you." "A note! For me!" exclaimed Stella, turning on her stool with amazement. Mrs. Penfold smiled and nodded. "Yes, miss; and there's an answer, please." Stella took the note hesitatingly, as if she half expected it to contain a charge of explosive dynamite; the envelope was addressed in a thin, beautiful hand to Miss Stella Etheridge. Stella turned the envelope over and started as she saw the arms stamped upon it. She knew it, it was the Wyndward crest. For a moment she sat looking down at it without offering to open it, then with an effort she tore it open, slowly, and read the note enclosed.