"Lord Chandon, Major Elton, and Sir Richard Hastings," said Lady Dartelle, stiffly. "Great heavens," groaned the girl to herself, "what shall I do?" "Did you speak, Miss Holte?" inquired the elder lady. "No," replied Hyacinth, stretching out her hand as though she were blinded. Then Lady Dartelle took up her pen and began to write. This was a signal of dismissal. Presently a sudden idea occurred to her. "I had almost forgotten to say that I should wish the rules I have mentioned to be conformed to to-day. It is possible my son may arrive this evening or to-morrow morning. Good morning, Miss Holte." One meeting Hyacinth would have thought she had been struck with sudden blindness. She stumbled as she walked; with one hand outstretched she touched the wall as she went along. It seemed to her that hours elapsed before she reached her own room; but she found herself there at last. Blind, dizzy, bewildered, unable to collect her thoughts, unable to cry out, though her silence seemed to torture her, she fell on her knees with a dull moan, and stretched out her hands as though asking help from Heaven. How long she knelt there she never knew. Wave after wave of anguish rolled over her soul--pain after pain, each bitter and keen as death, pierced her heart. Then the great waves seemed to roll back, and one thought stood clearly before her. He from whom she had fled in sorrowful dismay--he whom she loved more dearly than her own life--he whose contempt and just disdain she had incurred--was coming to Hulme Abbey. She said the words over and over again to herself. "Adrian is coming--Heaven help and pity me, Adrian is coming!" Great drops stood on her white brow, her whole body trembled as a leaf trembles in the wind. A wild idea of escape came to her--she could run away--there was time enough. Ah, now! they were coming perhaps to-night, and if Adrian heard that some one had run away from the house, he would suspect who it was. She wrung her hands like one helpless and hopeless. "What shall I do?" she cried. "Dear Heaven, have pity on me, for I have suffered enough. What shall I do?" Another hope came to her. Perhaps, after all, her fears were groundless. Lady Dartelle had said "Lord Chandon." It must be the old lord; she had never heard or read of his death. Adrian was to be Lord Chandon some day; but that day might be far distant yet. She would try to be patient and see; she would try to control her quivering nerves. If it were indeed Adrian, then she must be careful; all hope of escape was quite useless; she must keep entirely to her room until he was gone. She tried to quiet the trembling nerves, but the shock had been too great for her. Her face was ghastly in its pallor and fear. Clara looked at her in dismay. "I do not feel well," she said, in a trembling voice; "you shall draw instead of read."