Phœbe had all along mourned for Mr. Tallant with all the sorrow of a daughter; she had often felt, as my readers know, that all her love was not reciprocated, but she knew how much her mother had been loved, and how deeply her loss had affected him, and she loved him as a daughter and would continue to do so. She could not for the moment bring herself to look upon Mrs. Somerton as her mother: she had always admired Luke, and had spent many an hour talking to him amongst the poultry and the sheep, and in the corn-fields. It was no degradation to be the daughter of such a man as Luke Somerton, and none, perhaps, for that matter, to be the daughter of his wife; but it was a great change--too great for Phœbe to comprehend it thus far. Her first thought had been for Amy, and Amy’s first thought had been for Phœbe. But in a few short hours Phœbe’s highly-wrought sensibilities began to reflect back upon her the true meaning of the change in her position. She was only a visitor here. She had enjoyed many privileges in this house, and many advantages; she was thankful for them, but they had not been hers by right, and now they were hers no longer in any sense. She would go home. Something like a shudder came over her as she said this to herself in her own room, and she rebuked herself for it, and knelt down and prayed, thanking God for all his mercies, and earnestly soliciting His guidance and protection. What a sweet, fair face it was, turned upwards in supplication; the deep blue beseeching eyes, the half-opened lips, the pale cheeks, the round, arched neck, the long wavy hair thrown back: what more beautiful picture than such a woman kneeling in prayer? How different was Amy’s occupation. Pacing to and fro in her room, and looking at herself now and then in the long mirrors which adorned the wardrobes, she was torn by contending feelings, too varied for peace, too strong for aught else, at that moment, but walking. She was overcome by her advancement. Lately we have seen how high her ambition had soared; we have seen how she had changed, how she had marked out a new line of action, how she had set her heart on something almost beyond the romantic dreams of mere ambition. Her love for Lionel Hammerton--her deep, mad love had been trampled on, and she had risen a new being, with all the pride of her dead mother beating in every vein, with a sense of insult and wrong far beyond what she had a right to feel, far beyond the measure of Hammerton’s offence. The appearance of Earl Verner at Barton Hall that day had given a new tone to her life. He had appeared at the very moment when decision seemed wavering; he had come upon her like an interpretation of her own thoughts, as if Fate said, “Here is your opportunity;” and then it was that she determined to play for high stakes, even at the risk of ridicule and failure.