Our plots fall short like darts that rash hands throw With an ill aim that have so far to go, Nor can we long discovery prevent, We deal too much among the innocent. --_Howard_. Lord Vincent was at Castle Cragg. Unable to absent himself long from the siren who was the evil genius of his life, he had come down on a quiet visit to her. A very quiet visit it was, for he affected jealously to guard the honor of one who in truth had no honor to lose. The guilty who have much to conceal are often more discreet than the innocent who have nothing to fear. Mrs. MacDonald was still at the castle, playing propriety to the beauty. A very complacent person was Mrs. MacDonald. This precaution deceived no one. The neighboring gentry rightly estimated the domestic life at Castle Cragg and the character of its inmates, and refrained from calling there. This avoidance of her society by the county families galled Faustina. "What do they mean by it?" she said to herself. "I am the Honorable Mrs. Dugald. Ah, they think I have lost myself. But they shall know better when they see me the Viscountess Vincent, and afterwards, no one knows how soon, Countess of Hurstmonceux and Marchioness of Banff! Ah, what a difference that will make!" And Faustina consoled herself with anticipations of a brilliant future, in which she would reign as a queen over these scornful prudes. But Faustina reckoned without Nemesis, her creditor. And Nemesis was at the door. It was a wild night. The snowstorm that had been threatening all day long came down like avalanches whirled before the northern blast. It was a night in which no one would willingly go abroad; when everyone keenly appreciated the comfort of shelter. Very comfortable on this evening was Mrs. Dugald's boudoir. The crimson carpet and crimson curtains glowed ruddy red in the lamplight and firelight. The thundering dash of the sea upon the castle rock below came, softened into a soothing lullaby, to this bower of beauty. Lord Vincent and Mrs. Dugald were seated at an elegant and luxurious little supper that would have satisfied the most fastidious and dainty epicure. Three courses had been removed. The fourth--the dessert--was upon the table. Rare flowers bloomed in costly vases; ripe fruits blushed in gilded baskets; rich wines sparkled in antique flasks. On one side of the table Faustina reclined gracefully in a crimson velvet easy-chair. The siren was beautifully dressed in the pure white that her sin-smutted soul, in its falsehood, affected. Her robe was of shining white satin, trimmed with soft white swan's- down; fine white lace delicately veiled her snowy neck and arms; white lilies of the valley wreathed her raven hair and rested on her rounded bosom. She looked "divine," as her fool of a lover assured her. Yes, she looked "divine"--as the devil did when he appeared in the image of an angel of light.