“Be at ease”—these words, though spoken in the softest key, and with the sweetest smile, somehow did not set her at ease; and “You will draw attention,” raised an anxiety that she had not felt before. Was it the dislike of drawing attention?—but she would wait. Oh, how she longed for the stupid evening to be over; it is so hard to bear calmly, cheerfully, a toothache or a heart-ache in company. It was long before they left the tea-table, and then it was long before they got ready to go home, and after they were all in their saddles and in their carriages on the road, it was long before Sophie’s smiling good night broke up the family circle for the evening. Sophie left the room with a congratulatory smile to Hagar, happy in the thought that their quarrel was made up. Raymond followed her, smiling, to the door, opened it, bowed her out, closed it, and returned; then with a sudden impulse went back, re-opened it, and passed out. Hagar awaited his return half an hour, and then sought her chamber. She expected him joyously, yet with a little undefinable anxiety. At last she heard his steps ascending the stairs, he opened the door, and came in; she turned quickly, and going to meet him, holding out both hands, exclaimed, “Dearest Raymond, I am so glad that we are alone, together at last, my heart has been ready to burst all the—” She stopped short, and gazed in surprise at him. How changed his aspect! was it the same Raymond that an hour ago was smiling, bowing, glancing, gliding through the lighted drawing-rooms? He stood with folded arms and curling lip; his cold eye crawling over her from head to foot, yet so fascinating in his beautiful scorn, that she could have uttered a death-cry of anguish, as love and pride tugged at her heart-strings. He passed her and threw himself upon a lounge. She had been prepared for this scorn and anger three hours before, but she was not now—not after having been subdued by soft smiles, sweet words, and gentle tones, that she had received in all trust—no, not now—the touch of the soft fingers that had sought and pressed her hand in drawing it through his arm; the touch of those soft fingers was yet quivering on _her_ fingers; the rays of those gentle eyes were yet beaming in _her_ eyes; the tones of that low, love-pitched voice yet breathing in her ear—no, she could not believe in this harshness, at _least_ she could not bear it. He was now sitting on the lounge, making entries in a note-book, with his usual air of elegant ease. She looked at him an instant, and then going up to him she stood before him; he continued his writing, without looking up; the flame flickered in and out upon her dark cheek; soon she dropped both hands upon his shoulders, and dropped her proud head until the long glittering ringlets fell each side of his cheeks, and sitting down beside him and dropping her face upon his bosom, she whispered softly,