There was a look of horror in her eyes as they were fastened upon that handsome face, her lips were drawn and pinched, and the pain that was clutching at her heart betrayed itself in a low, sobbing moan. There was no mistake—although she could scarcely credit her own senses—she knew that dark, chestnut-crowned head, that handsome, smiling face, that straight, stalwart form but too well, even though a cruel mist was creeping up before her eyes to hide him from her sight. She knew that clear, ringing voice, even though the roaring sound in her ears seemed striving to drown it. Josephine’s guest—her accepted lover she had tried to make it appear—the titled stranger, Lord Carrol, of Carrolton, was no other than _her betrothed, Archibald Sherbrooke_! CHAPTER XVII. “WHY HAS HE DONE THIS THING?” What could this strange thing mean? What was Archibald Sherbrooke—the man who, two days before, had told her that he loved her and no other—doing there in that character of Lord Carrol? Why was he there, laughing, chatting, and exchanging greetings in that familiar way with Mrs. Richards and her family? Star’s heart nearly ceased its beating; she grew faint, giddy, and absolutely soul-sick. Her face paled until it was as white as those cold, waxen berries at her throat; her very life-blood seemed to be congealing. What could it mean? Looking down upon the little group, she saw that Josephine’s eyes were fastened upon him—_her_ lover—with an expression that there was no mistaking. It was full of pride and wistful affection. Her voice was low and sweet when she spoke to him, her laugh silvery clear as it rang out upon the still evening air at some light jest of his; and Star knew that she loved him deeply, passionately; that she would stop at nothing to win him, if, indeed, he was not already won. Oh, what—what could it all mean? It was cruel, cruel as death, to have her short, bright dream shattered thus; to have given all the wealth of her warm young heart to the handsome young stranger who had called himself Archibald Sherbrooke, and now to discover him to be a myth—that there was no such person, that she had been made the plaything of an idle hour. And yet it had all appeared so real; he had _seemed_ so true and loyal, and to have loved her so fondly. But stay—might she not be jumping to conclusions, after all? A different solution to the mystery flashed into her mind. She started eagerly up, the color coming back to her face, a joyful light flashing into her eyes. Archie had told her that he should “come to her Monday or Tuesday—that he could not wait longer;” but she had not thought he would come to-night. She _did_ expect him to-morrow, and perhaps he had arrived. On the other hand, Lord Carrol had, perchance, disappointed his friends. They had gone to meet him, and had not found him as they expected.