her time, that she attributed her carelessness
of herself.

Deeply, however, did she err, and cruelly was she destined to be
undeceived.

The early days of autumn had arrived, and the woods had donned their
many-colored garments, when on a calm, sweet evening--one of those
quiet and delicious evenings peculiar to that season--Blanche and
George Delawarr had wandered away from the gay concourse which filled
the gardens, and unseen, as they believed, and unsuspected, had turned
into the old labyrinth where first they had begun to love, and were
wrapped in soft dreams of the near approach of more perfect happiness.

But a quick, hard eye was upon them--the eye of Agnes; for, by chance,
Lord St. George was absent, having been summoned to attend the king at
Windsor; and being left to herself, her busy mind, too busy to rest
for a moment idle, plunged into mischief and malevolence.

No sooner did she see them turn aside from the broad walk than the
cloud was withdrawn, as if by magic, from her eyes; and she saw almost
intuitively all that had previously escaped her.

Not a second did she lose, but stealing after the unsuspecting pair
with a noiseless and treacherous step, she followed them, foot by
foot, through the mazes of the clipped hornbeam labyrinth, divided
from them only by the verdant screen, listening to every
half-breathed word of love, and drinking in with greedy ears every
passionate sigh.

Delawarr's left arm was around Blanche's slender waist, and her right
hand rested on his shoulder; the fingers of their other hands were
entwined lovingly together, as they wandered onward, wrapped each in
the other, unconscious of wrong on their own part, and unsuspicious of
injury from any other.

Meanwhile, with rage in her eyes, with hell in her heart, Agnes
followed and listened.

So deadly was her hatred, at that moment, of her sister, so fierce and
overmastering her rage, that it was only by the utmost exertion of
self-control that she could refrain from rushing forward and loading
them with reproaches, with contumely, and with scorn.

But biting her lips till the blood sprang beneath her pearly teeth,
and clinching her hands so hard that the nails wounded their tender
palms, she did refrain, did subdue the swelling fury of her rebellious
heart, and awaited the hour of more deadly vengeance.

Vengeance for what? She had not loved George Delawarr--nay, she had
scorned him! Blanche had not robbed her of her