Lady Wetheral glided among her guests with an ease and grace of manner truly bewitching. No one could have supposed her heart was swelling with triumph at the events which were shortly to deprive her of the society of two children, or that her present attention was deeply fixed upon Clara and Sir Foster Kerrison. Every turn of the baronet's countenance was eagerly noted by her acute eye; and though, to common observers, Sir Foster was looking stupidly before him, winking his eye, and tapping his leg with a cane, her keen perception drew conclusions from impossible things, and it added increased graciousness to her insinuating manners. Far less satisfied was Sir John Wetheral's mind, as he glanced from Tom Pynsent to the effeminate figure of Lord Ennismore, and thought of Julia's futurity with a man whose mind appeared to be as imbecile as his person was unmanly. Christobelle could trace his thoughts in the expression of his eyes, now gazing with pleasure upon Anna Maria, and anon resting mournfully on his beautiful Julia. Christobelle was too young to sorrow with him, or understand the deep feeling of his mind; but the remembrance of his expressive emotions often came over her in after-life, when experience had enlightened her in suffering, and when the bitter pangs of parental disappointment were more clearly understood. There was a pause of some moments, after the general hum of a first meeting had subsided, as though all parties awaited a summons to the chapel, which in Wetheral Castle still remained untouched by the hand of time, since the days of the seventh Henry. It was a large, and generally well-filled pile of building, many of the nearer neighbours preferring to attend Wetheral Castle for its accommodation in point of distance, and perhaps with reference to the gay luncheons which awaited their return into the great hall. The deep silence was broken by Mrs. Pynsent. "Here, hallo! what are we waiting for? John Tyndal has been in his canonicals this half hour. Now, Sir John Wetheral, will you lead Anna Maria? Tom, you be hanged; not so fast, stupy; take Miss Spottiswoode. There you go! Hoy, Charley Spottiswoode, leave Pen, and trot by the side of Mistress Boscawen." "My wife is under my own charge, thank you," said Mr. Boscawen, bowing smilingly to Mrs. Pynsent. "Lord, what an ass! Here, Sir Foster, you have tapped a hole in your trowsers with that cane; do move on with Clara Wetheral; she is Anna Maria's bridesmaid. Don't keep humming a tune, my good fellow--get on." Sir Foster passed on as he was directed, but he took no notice of Mrs. Pynsent's address. He went forward, humming an air, and winking his eye. Clara leaned upon his arm, in white muslin and satin. Never had she looked so very handsome. Perhaps Sir Foster operated as an excitement to her powers of captivation. If a woman could charm Sir Foster Kerrison, she might animate an image of clay; but Clara liked to be spurred on by difficulties.