“Why has he done this thing?” she moaned, sitting up and clasping her icy hands across her burning brow. “Why has he deceived me thus, making a fool and a plaything of me merely to pass an idle hour? Why did he call himself Archibald Sherbrooke, when he is Lord Carrol, of Carrolton. Why could he not have left me alone when I was content with my music, my studies, and my simple life? Oh! why need my whole future be blighted thus? I could have gone on my way—I could have carried out my plans and gratified my ambition to become a teacher and be independent, and believed myself happy, if he had left me to myself. But now—if I could only die—if I could even go mad—_anything_ to make me forget how I have allowed myself to love him, and built all my future hopes on his love for me!” The sound of gay voices and laughter came floating up to her from below as she sat there mourning her blighted life; it smote her like the stab of a knife, and she shivered from head to foot, every nerve cringing with keenest pain. In imagination she could see how Josephine was assuming her most bewitching airs to win the treacherous man who had blotted out every hope of joy from her existence, and who, perhaps, was bending over her, speaking soft and tender words, even as he had done to her only two days ago. Yesterday and the day before she had lived upon the mountain-tops—“upon the heights”—where life had seemed opening out before her like a paradise; to-night, in a single moment, she had been hurled into the very depths of misery. She got up from the floor, tottered to the window and shut it, to keep out those hateful sounds from below which nearly drove her into a frenzy; then, too weak to sit up, she crept into her bed, where she lay shaking as with an ague and moaning with pain all the long night through. Morning found her burning with fever, with an aching head and a crushed and breaking heart. She could not rise, and, although faint, the very thought of food filled her with loathing, and yet her throat and mouth were dry and hot with a terrible thirst. Thus good Mrs. Blunt found her about ten o’clock. She had missed her from breakfast—something very unusual, for Star was as prompt as the day itself generally—but she had not had time to inquire into the cause of her absence until now, for there had been lively doings down in her department that morning. “Merciful sakes alive! whatever in the world has happened to you, Miss Star?” she cried, when, on thrusting her heated face in at the door, she saw the young girl in her wretched condition lying on the bed. “I believe I do not feel very well this morning,” Star said, wearily. “I should think not, indeed! You’ve got a high fever, and yet you’re shaking with the cold. Goodness gracious, child! and you all dressed out like this, too! What has happened?” Mrs. Blunt cried, aghast, as she pulled back the coverlid and saw at a glance that she had been lying all night in her clothing.