g, which she took from her finger; but recollecting herself, she drew
the letter out, and handed it to Clara, with a smile that kindled her
whole face.

Clara read the letter, threw her arms around the old lady, and covered
her faces with kisses.

"Oh, grandmamma, you are too good! Do you--do you really mean it? Ah,
this is happiness!"

"You shall help me make out the invitations. There was a time when
Houghton had no empty chambers. It will go hard, my dear, if we cannot
find entertainment for your father and the lady he has married. On that
day, Clara, I will present you to the world as my grandchild and
heiress."

"Not yet! oh, not yet! Wait till you know more of me."

"Hush! hush! This is not my only object. If I have wronged your
stepmother, or neglected your father, the whole country shall see that a
Carset knows how to make reparation. Lady Hope, too, shall be presented
to my friends as an honored guest. This entertainment will be my last,
but they shall find that the old countess knows how to receive her
guests."

"Grandmother, you are an--an--. You are just the sweetest old lady that
ever drew breath! If you were to live a thousand years, I should love
you better and better every day! To see you and Lady Hope together will
be splendid! And they are to stay at Houghton a month. By that time you
will love each other dearly."

Clara took up her work again, but the needle flashed like a thread of
lightning in her unsteady fingers. She could not work after this
glorious news.

The old lady smiled blandly, and sank down among her cushions,
exhausted.

"Go out and take a walk in the park," she said, observing that Clara was
fluttering over her embroidery like a bird in its cage. "It will do you
good, and I will try to sleep a little."

CHAPTER XXIV.

DOWN BY THE BROOK AMONG THE FERNS.

Clara put on her hat and wandered off into the park, as happy as a bird.

She had found the dearest old fairy godmother. She saw a glorious light
breaking in upon the life of her stepmother, and out of all this
generous conduct in the old countess sprang a vague hope that she might
yet be won to sanction her marriage with the man of her choice.

She took no heed of the way, but wandered on, treading the earth like a
sylph, and breaking into little snatches of song whenever the birds in
the branches put her in mind of it. She was descending into a little,
ferny hollow, with a brook creeping along the bottom, al