“I am right,” he mused; “I am on the track; she chafes at the very mention of garden and moonlight. My experiment, too, succeeds--two suns may not shine in her hemisphere--she is already jealous of my attention to her little, simple, innocent sister. There is power in that. I will use it. I will have her completely in my grasp.” He moved towards Mrs. Grahame and the passionless statue, her daughter Margaret, perfectly at his ease, and as unconcerned as though the incident of the moment alone occupied his thoughts. Helen, too, appeared to commence her task in perfect serenity of mind, yet the words, “You remember that cross, Helen!” were ringing in her brain, and though she sang words and music correctly, and never faltered in the accompaniment, she prayed for the hour of release from the presence of guests, the sounds of voices, the glaring lights; to be again alone in her room, to wrestle with memories of passion and promise, to contend with conflicting emotions, to decide upon obeying the impulse of her heart, or to determine upon one great sacrifice, in order to secure the glittering’ triumphs of a brilliant position. Alone! What would she not have given at that moment, while singing with such charming taste, to have been alone! Before her song commenced, Mr. Grahame had been summoned to an interview with some person, who required to see him on business of importance, and during the performance of the song, while approving smiles were upon the features of his guests, and his wife and daughter Margaret sat in ineffable elation, he lay upon the floor of his library in a fit! CHAPTER XII.--A LIFE STRUGGLE. Where the lamps quiver, So far in the river, With many a light From many a casement-- From garret and basement, She stood with amazement-- Houseless by night! The bleak wind of March Made her tremble and shiver; But not the dark arch-- Or the black flowing river. Mad from life’s history, Glad to Death’s mystery Swift to be hurl’d Anywhere! anywhere-- Out of the world! --Hood. Within a close, narrow, scantily-furnished chamber, upon a miserable bed, sparely provided with bedclothes, lay a young girl, weak and wasted, struggling in the deadly grip of a fierce fever. The room--a back attic--bore evidence of the humble position of the householder, and, in addition to its native foul atmosphere, was impregnated with the sickly odour prevalent in chambers in which there is sickness.