probable that she had evaded altogether, or had so scientifically glossed over as to have smoothed away, the real features of that terrible secret which lay over the Kinniside family like the shadow of death itself. Still, it was no business of his, he argued. Sir James was old enough to look out for himself, and, if he was not, his own friends ought to do his work for him. It could scarcely be expected that he, Mr. Carter, the legal adviser of Mrs. Kinniside, and Clementina's guardian under her father's will, would draw a trail up to his own weak places, and fling down the key of the citadel to the enemy. So he sketched out the settlements with an equable mind, so far as his own conduct was concerned; for all that he thought and said: "Sir James ought to know," and "Mrs. Kinniside, you ought to be perfectly frank, ma'am, or harm will come of it."
To which the lady had answered, impatiently: "I said what I considered sufficient to the purpose, Mr. Carter; so let the matter rest, if you please."
But the truth was, Sir James Walshe knew nothing. Had he even guessed at half the truth, Clementina Kinniside would never have stood on the threshold of Her Ladyship.
While Mr. Carter and Mrs. Kinniside were discussing the terms to be proposed to Sir James—for he, with the dashing liberality of a young man, generous, and not disinclined to the pomp of generosity, had placed the matter entirely in their hands—Clementina and her friend Bessie Bailey were strolling on the lawn together, pending the arrival of the young lover for his usual evening visit. The two girls, though bosom friends, were in striking contrast together—as utterly unlike as any two to be found in England. Clementina was tall, fair, slight, languid, intensely reserved, and by no possibility to be roused into any display of enthusiasm or excitement Bessie was small, dark, round, full of color and fire, like a damask rose burning in the sun, while the white and stately lily shone, star-like, in the shade, or like a small fountain of boiling lava by the side of a still, half-frozen lake. Yet, on the principle of extremes meeting, they were all in all to each other, as girls are all in all, and quarrelled (at least Bessie quarrelled with Clementina), and then made up again, and fought and loved, as is the way with girls all the world over—pretty innocents!
"I cannot understand you Clemmy!" said Bessie, continuing the conversation. "You look more as if you were going to take the veil than to be married, this day week, to the nicest and handsomest and richest man in the place. I wonder at you being so cold! I cannot make it out!" She spoke with rather more than her usual warmth; Clementina, as if for contrast, drew within herself with rather more than her usual reserve.
"I do not think it anything to go into ecstacies about," she answered, quietly. "Indeed, I think that the nearer the marriage the less a girl would be inclined to high spirits, and the more she would shrink from it and everything else."
"Oh, well! we are different!" said Bessie, shaking her curly head, while a deep blush crimsoned her cheeks and neck. "I confess I do not envy your self-possession, Clemmy; and I must say I wish you had not quite so much of it."
"I am as nature made me, Bessie," said her friend.
"Nature! you are as nature did not make you, Clem!—nature has very little to do with this kind of indifference in a girl; you have made yourself so ever since you went to that horrid school, where they made you confess or do penance, and play at being a Roman Catholic; you have never been the same girl since, and never will be now. And what can Sir James think of the way you go on to him? It is as if you did not care for him!" And again she blushed; but
