"Mamma, that must be she; that must be Lady Heath," whispered the younger of the two strangers, when they had passed beyond hearing.
"Lady Heath!" was the scornful repetition, accompanied by a flash of anger from the dark eyes of the elder woman.
"Well, mamma, you know of course who I mean. She must be the girl whom Lady Linton wrote about."
"I imagine so. She answers the description that Miriam gave of her photograph. Yes, hark! she has just opened her door, and surely that was a baby's cry."
"Well, at last we have seen her," returned the girl, "and I must confess, I think she is perfectly lovely. She has such beautiful eyes, such a fair, delicate complexion, and is so peculiarly dainty every way. I do not blame Sir William for falling in love with her."
"Mercy, Sadie, how you do chatter! no one would believe, to hear you, that you had been almost heart-broken because this very girl, over whom you are so enthusiastic, had ruined your prospects," returned her mother, impatiently.
The young girl flushed crimson at this shaft.
"Thank you, mamma, for reminding me of the fact," she said, bitterly. "It is true that through her all my fondest hopes have been blighted, and I suppose I ought to bitterly hate her for it; but truly her exceeding beauty and sweetness half disarm me."
The elder woman made no reply to this, but her manner betrayed both contempt and irritation, her brow was clouded with a wrathful expression, and her lips were drawn into a straight, rigid line, denoting some cruel and inflexible purpose.
It will readily be surmised that these two ladies were none other than Mrs. Farnum and her daughter, who, as we learned in the previous chapter, were traveling in the United States, in the hope of improving the health and spirits of the latter.