movement
did her good, and met with an outbreak of still more dangerous choler
the remonstrances which her secretary at length ventured to make. On
the day following this characteristic scene, Constance was at work in
the library, when the door opened, and Lady Ogram came in. Walking
unsteadily, a grim smile on her parchment visage, she advanced and
stood before the writing-table.

"I made a fool of myself yesterday," sounded in a hollow voice, of
tremulous intonation. "Is it enough for me to say so?"

"Much more than I like to hear you say, Lady Ogram," answered
Constance, hastening to place a chair for her. "I have been afraid that
something had happened which troubled you."

"Nothing at all. The contrary. Look at that photo, and tell me what you
think of it."

It was the portrait of a girl with features finely outlined, but rather
weak in expression; a face pleasant to look upon, and at the first
glance possessing a quality of distinction, which tended however to
fade as the eye searched for its constituents, and to lose itself in an
ordinary prettiness.

"I was going to say," began Constance, "that it seemed to remind me
of--"

She hesitated.

"Well? Of what?"

"Of your own portrait in the dining-room. Yes, I think there is a
resemblance, though far-away."

Lady Ogram smiled with pleasure. The portrait referred to was a
painting made of her soon after her marriage, when she was in the prime
of her beauty; not good as a work of art, and doing much less than
justice to the full-blooded vigour of the woman as she then lived, but
still a picture that drew the eye and touched the fancy.

"No doubt you are right. This girl is a grand-niece of mine, my
brother's son's daughter. I only heard of her a week ago. She is coming
to see me."

Constance now understood the significance of Mr. Kerchever's visit, and
the feverish state of mind in which Lady Ogram had since been living.
She felt no touch of sympathetic emotion, but smiled as if the
announcement greatly interested her; and in a sense it did.

"I can quite understand your impatience to see her."

"Yes, but one shouldn't make a fool of oneself. An old fool's worse
than a young one. Don't think I build my hopes on the girl. I wrote to
her, and she has written to me--not a bad sort of letter; but I know
nothing about her, except that she has been well enough educated to
pass an examination at London University. That means something, I
suppose, doesn't i