ever ceased to love
her; for this woman had made herself a mother in every respect, aye,
even more watchful and exacting. While acting in a servant's capacity,
doing the most menial of service, she developed in the maid those
seemingly trifling motives of mind and soul which in the end make up
the character of a life; and very few mothers ever have the tact to
so understand these very minute details that so develop a child's
passion. Janet had ever developed in her charge an inclination for all
beauty; not failing, however, to show wherein weakness crept; where
grace of countenance oft screened defect of character. Indeed this
maid was one of Janet's own creation, save in flesh and blood, and no
one knew any better than she, herself, the vanity to rout the faults
and frailties inherited. She strove the harder to overthrow such
imperfections by perfecting and cultivating the maid's receptive mood.
She was ever fencing with her in words, working out in detail exchange
of thought wherein Katherine might, if 'twere in her, make a clever
reply. At times Mistress Penwick would pick up such threads of Janet's
teaching as would bring her to a semblance of conscience of present
environment, and she would see in a vague way the right and wrong of
things. For the moment she would read all in Cantemir's handsome
face that it masqued and would turn from it only to become lost in
contemplation of what life would be if she were free from Cedric's
guardianship, never thinking of the greater bondage of espousing a
knave. Ever and anon her eyes sought the young lord of the castle,
forgetting she was his ward--and there would come to her such a
feeling of overwhelming conviction she was for the moment submerged
in ecstasy, and with the hot blush still upon her face she would flee
from him as if he were an evil tempter. He brought her near to that
great unknown, upon whose threshold she stood trembling and expectant,
eager to know what was before her. And so, not understanding her own
mind, and being of such tender years, drifted along with the tide that
was carrying her to destruction. Her mind was set upon her own way,
and sheer perversity deigned not to let her see the hands stretched
toward her.

The afternoon sun fell aslant the black oak parquetry where sat her
Grace of Ellswold, Lady Constance and Mistress Penwick, engaged with
limning and embroidery. Lord Cedric and Sir Julian entered, attired
in the most modish foppery of the tim