mistress of Tracy Park, which she would have graced so well, for in all
the town there was not a fairer, sweeter girl than Amy Crawford, or one
better beloved.

It did not matter that she was poor, and her mother was only a
housekeeper. She had never felt a slight on that account, and had been
reared as carefully and tenderly as the daughters of the rich, and if
away down, in her mother's heart there had been a half defined hope that
some time the master of Tracy Park might turn his attention to her, it
had been hidden so closely that Mrs. Crawford scarcely knew of it
herself until she learned what her daughter was and what she might have
been. But it was too late now. There was no turning back the wheels of
fate.

Forcing herself to be as calm as possible, she took the note to Arthur,
who had breakfasted alone, and was waiting impatiently in the library
for the appearance of his friend.

'Lazy dog!' Mrs. Crawford heard him say, as she approached the open
door. 'Does he think he has nothing to do but to sleep? We were to start
by this time, and he in bed yet!'

'Are you speaking of Mr. Hastings?' Mrs. Crawford asked, as she stepped
into the room.

'Yes,' was his crisp and haughty reply, as if he resented the question,
and her presence there.

He could be very proud and stern when he felt like it, and one of these
moods was on him now, but Mrs. Crawford did not heed it, and sinking