Three years and more have elapsed since we accompanied the cousins on their picnic up Schiehallion, and Nora is a young lady now—a very pretty one, we must confess. She stands now as when we first saw her, poising the costly diadem in her hand, wearing, however, a more thoughtful face than she did then. She is attired in a simple dress of white, worked muslin, her dark-brown, wavy hair simply braided, but caught up at the back of her beautifully-formed head by a comb, from which it fell in a profuse quantity of natural curls down her neck. Her face still has the same sweet, open expression of her childhood's days; but there is a sad look in her blue eyes as they rest on the diadem.
In reply to her cousin's words she said, resolutely, "I am finished, Clara, but I shall not wear the diadem to-night; I am too young for such an ornament. Another year, perhaps, I may, but not yet. I tried it on, and it felt strange. I could not wear it."
And as she spoke the girl raised her head, as if to efface the mark the coronet had left on her hair. As she did so a slight shudder passed over her, and words she had thought forgotten recurred to her memory. Once more old nurse's voice seemed sounding in her ear:
"I'm wonderin', my lambie, what kind o' a crown is to sit on your bonnie brow. Is it to be the crown o' a vain world's folly, or the everlastin' one your mother prayed might rest there?"
Then, as if to stifle thought, she put the diadem once more into the casket and shut it in with a sharp click.
"Well, Nora, you are a queer girl, and no mistake," said Clara. "Not going to wear your beautiful diadem after all, and you know Walter Lushington and Alick, and even little Pedro, have been longing to see you with it on."
"No; for once you're wrong, Clara," said Nora, testily. "Walter and Alick may have said so, but not Pedro: boy though he is, he would rather one day see another crown on my head."
And as she spoke she took the casket and locked it in her drawer.
Clara gazed at her in amazement. "Well, perhaps you are right about Pedro, but then he has such peculiar, old-fashioned notions. But what's wrong with you to-night, Nora? you're not a bit like yourself. I don't believe you'll enjoy the party at all in that mood; and really, you know, it's your first quite grown-up ball, and you don't look a bit glad about it."
"Well, Clara, to tell the truth, I don't feel glad. I wonder if it is the right sort of life for me, or—" and her lip quivered as she spoke—"if mamma would have cared for me entering on it; aunt does not, and Ronald does not, and—" But the sentence was left unfinished, for Clara broke in indignantly—