‘I never gave him leave to fall in love with Nora!’ she thought, with an unmistakable pang of common ordinary jealousy. She had been so long accustomed to take her property in Sorell for granted!—and the summer months had brought her into such intimate contact with him. ‘And he never made love to me for one moment!—nor I to him. I don’t believe he’s made love to Nora—I’m sure he hasn’t—_yet_. But why didn’t he tell me of that Greek lesson?’ She stood before the glass, pulling down her hair, so that it fell all about her. ‘I seem to be rather cut out for fairy-godmothering!’ she said pensively to the image in the glass. ‘But there’s a good deal to do for the post!—one must admit there’s a good deal to do: Nora’s got to be fixed up—and all the money business. And then—then!’ She clasped her hands behind her head. Her eyelids fell, and through her slight figure there ran a throb of yearning—of tender, yet despairing passion. ‘If I could only mend things _there_, I might be some use. I don’t want him to marry me—but just—just⸺’ Then her hands fell. She shook her head angrily. ‘You humbug!—you _humbug_! Who are you posing for now?’ (_To be continued._)