“You forget, Josephine,” interposed her mother, “that she did not know anything about his title, and so you are all wrong in your surmises.” “True,” she replied, somewhat crestfallen; “but when do you suppose he engaged himself to her?” “I am sure I do not know—very recently, he said. I tried to make her tell me about it last night, but I couldn’t get a word out of her. One would have thought, by the way that she faced me, that she was already my lady somebody. But I reckon I fixed it so that she will not be at present. I made her think that his lordship had told the story in a way to make her appear as ridiculous as possible, and she has gone away, believing him to be as faithless as it is in the power of man to be;” and the hardhearted woman threw herself back in her chair with a sigh of satisfaction at the thought. “It is a shame, anyhow. Everything has gone wrong, and I—I really was fond of him,” Josephine confessed, with a passion of tears. Mrs. Richards’ face darkened. She never could tolerate anything which interfered with the desires and whims of her only child. “Well, we will not give up hope, even yet,” she said, trying to speak comfortingly. “We shall go back to Brooklyn next week, and we will try to see him as often as we can. We will visit his studio, and look at his pictures and those of his friends, and if he is unsuccessful in his search for that girl, he may turn to you again for comfort.” “I cannot get over it that _she_, with her great eyes and yellow hair, should have attracted him and won him, when we have strained every nerve and spent hundreds for him,” Josephine said, angrily. At this moment a servant entered the room and handed her a note. She opened it eagerly and read it. Her face flushed a deep crimson, and, with a passionate gesture, she instantly tore it in two. “What is it?” questioned her mother. “It is too dreadful!” the spoilt beauty cried, stamping her foot; “and I believe that girl will be the death of me yet.” “Tell me what it is,” persisted Mrs. Richards, growing pale. “It is a note from Lord Carrol himself,” Josephine answered, her cheeks still hot from mortification and anger. “When we were at Long Branch, he noticed this cameo ring that I wear—I happened to put it on the last night that we were there, unfortunately—and said that it was very much like one which belonged to a friend of his. He appeared rather strangely when he said it, and told me that his friend’s name was Archibald Sherbrooke. Of course I can understand now why he would not say that it had belonged to him. I told him that it was given to me by a relative, and he did not appear like himself after that.” “But how came you by it—who gave it to you?” interrupted her mother, who had never noticed the ring until now, for Josephine had so many trinkets that she could not keep track of them all. The girl flushed again, guiltily.