pretty."

"She is altered, mamma," began Valentine.

"Altered!" interrupted Lady Charteris. "I should imagine she is,
and unhappy, too. She is frightened to speak--she has no style,
no manner, no dignity. He must have been insane."

"I am quite sure he loved her," said Valentine, warmly, "and
loves her now."

"That is just the mystery," replied her mother--"a clever man
like he is, accustomed to intelligent and beautiful women. I
shall never understand it."

"Do not try," said Valentine, calmly. "She is evidently nervous
and sensitive. I mean to be a true friend to Ronald, mamma; I
shall try to train and form his wife."

Poor Dora! She was already trained and formed, but no one would
understand that. People do not expect the perfume of the rose in
a wild strawberry blossom, or the fragrance of the heliotrope in
a common bluebell. Yet they wondered that in this simple girl,
ignorant of the world and it ways, they did not find a cultivated
mind, a graceful manner, and a dignified carriage. Their only
thought was to train and form her, whereas Nature and not Art had
done both.

"Dora," said Ronald, as the carriage disappeared from view, "try
to like Lady Charteris and her daughter; they are so kindly