ntellectual power
of the other, all used for selfish ends. It was a very unprofitable
speculation for Eleanor; it left her further than ever from the
conclusion, and distressed her bitterly. From her mother she knew sadly
there was no help to be had. No consideration, of duty or pleasure,
would outweigh with her the loss of a splendid alliance and the scandal
of breaking off the preparations for it. The Sphynx would not look out
more calmly over the desert waste of all things, than Mrs. Powle's fair
face would overview a moral desolation more hopeless and more
cheerless, if but the pyramid of her ambition were firmly planted
there. And Eleanor's worst trouble after all was her doubt about duty.
If Mr. Carlisle had not loved her--but he did love her truly and
tenderly, and she, however misled, had given him permission. Could she
now withdraw it? Could she do anything but, at whatever risk, go on and
meet the obligations she had brought upon herself? Nature cried out
strongly that it must not be; but conscience and remorse, aided by
circumstances, withstood nature, and said it must be no other way.
Eleanor must marry Mr. Carlisle and be as good to him as she could. And
Eleanor's whole soul began to rise up stronger and stronger in protest
against it, and cry that she never would marry him.

The weary long night seemed but as one thought of pain; and when the
morning broke, Eleanor felt that she had grown old.

CHAPTER XIII.

IN DOUBT.

"We will have rings, and things, and fine array;
And kiss me, Kate, we will be married o' Sunday."

Eleanor was too sick to go down even to a late breakfast; and a raging
headache kept off any inquiries or remonstrances that Mrs. Powle might
have made to her if she had been well. Later in the day her little
sister Julia came dancing in.

"Aren't you going to get up, Eleanor? What's the matter? I am going to
open your window. You are all shut up here."

Back went the curtain and up went the window; a breath of fresh mild
air came sweetly in, and Julia danced back to the bedside. There
suddenly sobered herself.

"Eleanor, aren't you better? Can't you get up? It is so nice to-day."

Julia's fresh, innocent, gay manner, the very light play of her waving
hair, not lighter than the childlike heart, were almost too much for
her sister. They made Eleanor's heart ache.

"Where is everybody?"

"Nowhere," said Julia. "I am all the house. Mr. Carlisle went home
after breakf