Miss Eliza drew close to the woman whom she had come deliberately to wound, and took her hand. She dearly loved to create a sensation of any kind, and took the pallor and distress in that proud face as a personal compliment. “Do not distress yourself, sweet friend, my almost mother; but have faith, as I do, in the immutable truth of love. He may wander away from me; he may have one of those fleeting fancies for another which sometimes disturb the most faithful heart, but in the end he will return; he will be mine—all mine!” A smile quivered around Mrs. Savage’s mouth, spite of her distress; but it passed away, leaving a stern expression there. The evil was too serious not to sweep away all sense of ridicule in her mind. “Now tell me quietly, and in as few words as possible, exactly what you have seen or know about this affair. Excuse me if I have seemed rude; but you took me by surprise. Now let me know the whole.” “I have told you all, sweet friend—that is, all as regards your son; but as for that artful young person, Burns, really, as a young girl, hedged in from such knowledge by all sorts of refinement, I cannot tell you, without burning blushes, how unworthy she is.” Mrs. Savage half started from her chair. “You surprise, you astonish me,” she said. “If ever innocence was depicted in a face, I thought it was in hers.” “She is artful enough to deceive you. She has deceived your son. Even Georgiana will believe nothing against her.” “If she is what you say, there is little danger for Horace; there is too much refinement and discrimination in his character for a deception of that kind to last long with him,” said the mother. Miss Eliza instantly took the alarm. She saw that Mrs. Savage had too much faith in her son’s principles for any fear of a person who could shock them, and with crafty adroitness sought to undo the impression she had made. “Perhaps I have gone too far,” she said, retreating gracefully. “My own love of truth is so profound, that the least deviation seems to me like a crime. She professes to be every thing that is meek and good, yet I cannot believe in it. Without some falsehood, some deception, she could not have won such influence over a heart that is, in reality, all mine, as those who saw him kneeling at my feet that night must have felt.” “Let that pass,” broke in Mrs. Savage, with a gesture of impatience. “You really know nothing against this girl, except that she is beautiful and lovely?” “I never said she was beautiful,” cried Miss Eliza. “Never!” “But I know that she is, and, to all appearance, a modest, well-bred girl. Seeing all this, I was an idiot to introduce her as I did.” “I thought so all the time,” said Miss Eliza, demurely. “Not that I think of her as beautiful or well-bred—far from it; but those artful young creatures do fascinate men some way quite unaccountably. I cannot bear to think of it.” “You are sure that he visits her house?” “Sure as I am of my own life.”