Her emotions can better be imagined than described when instead she heard the story which the young man told her husband, and learned that Star, the despised and neglected waif, had secured the prize which she had so coveted for her brilliant daughter. A perfect tornado of wrath, jealousy, and hate raged within her heart as she heard his praises of her, and his manly confession of love for her, with the intention of making her his wife. Star, the beggar maid, as she had always regarded her, the burden reproach of her life, the wife of a peer of England! It could not be; she would not have it so, when she had plotted and schemed to win this proud, handsome young aristocrat for her daughter; when she had spent hundreds to snare him; and when, she knew but too well, Josephine had learned to love him with all the fire of her proud, passionate nature. If it had been a girl in a position equal to that which Josephine occupied whom he had chosen, the disappointment would not have been less severe, but the mortification would not have been so galling. This was what had made Star’s face so radiant, then, during the past week, making her seem to bloom into new beauty, and glorifying her with exceeding happiness. She had noticed, but could not understand it. This was the meaning of the unusual attention which she had bestowed upon her toilet last Saturday—for Josephine had told her of that little scene upon the veranda—and also of her protracted absence that day. For half an hour she sat there, white as alabaster with passion, her eyes glowing with hate for the innocent cause of all her disappointment. “Not in her room, eh?” she muttered at length, vindictively. “I’ll find the little vixen, and if it is possible to _widen_ this breach, it won’t be my fault if it is not done.” With a cruel expression on her still white face, she arose and swept noiselessly from the room by the same way that she had entered, and passed down the steps of the veranda out into the grounds. With a quick, swinging pace she walked down the avenue, casting keen glances among the trees and shrubbery as she went. But Star was nowhere to be seen. Mrs. Richards, however, was determined to have an interview with her before either her husband or Lord Carrol could do so. She did not think she had returned to the house, and had an idea that she might be at the lodge with Mr. Rosevelt, so she persevered in her search. She kept on her way until she came out by the lodge, where she saw John Mellen, who was both gardener and porter, sitting upon the porch. He looked greatly surprised as the light from the lantern at the gate fell upon her face. “Is anything the matter, marm?” he asked, touching his hat respectfully, but wondering to see her there at that hour, with no wrap, while he noticed that she was very pale. “No, John; but have you seen anything of Miss Gladstone?” she asked.