“Why, yes. I understand that one of Miss Barham’s young friends was to be married this morning to an officer at Woolwich; and as a graceful compliment to one whom she esteems as rightly occupying her proper station in society, my daughter consented to attend as bridesmaid.” “_Who_ is the bride?” inquired Charles, with quickness; a strange, wild thrill of anger, pain, and bitter jealousy shooting across his heart: something forewarned him whose name he should hear; it was with difficulty he could control himself. “A young lady you know, I believe; the daughter of the Vicar of Hurstdene: a most respectable man he is, and one whose connection with our family entitles him to more consideration from _us_, than it is exactly requisite to show to others in the same station.” “Ah!” cried Mr. Huyton, suddenly starting up. “I am sorry I have forgotten――I have an engagement――I must hurry away, or I shall be too late!” “Shall we see you again to-day? my daughters will be sorry to miss you,” said Mr. Barham, looking with a sort of speculative wonder at Charles’s countenance. It was not surprising, that his face should catch the attention of even the egotistical and self-centered man. There was something so wild and strange in the expression. “I don’t know! perhaps, if I can――; may be I shall leave town,” was the incoherent reply, in a low, changed, husky voice. “You are ill, I fear,” said the other, frightened, and laying a hand on his arm; “let me ring for something.” “No! no! only hurried, my dear sir,” said Charles, with a painful smile. “Good-day.”