The winter had come. Frost and snow lay chillingly upon the ground, when one afternoon the visiting-carriage of Mrs. Hildyard drew up to her house, and Frances, followed by her mother, leaped lightly out of it. A radiant smile of happiness was on her beautiful face, for a well-known cab, elegant in all its appurtenances, was in waiting at the door, giving sure token that its owner was within.
Lord Winchester's visits had been frequent and constant; and oh, the change that had come over the feelings of Frances Hildyard—over her whole life! She had learned to love; but few could imagine how wildly and passionately.
There he was, as she entered the morning-room, striding up and down it impatiently. A hasty embrace, while they were yet uninterrupted, and Lord Winchester walked forward to shake hands with Mrs. Hildyard.
"So, Frances," he whispered, when an opportunity, offered and others were in the room to draw off attention from them, "you are tiring already of your conquest?"
Tiring of him! A faint blush upon her pure cheek, and a look of inquiry, formed her only answer.
"It was unkind not to reply to my note, when I so earnestly urged it."
"What note?" she asked.
"The one I sent you yesterday."
"I had no letter from you yesterday."
"Think again, my love. James tells me he delivered it as usual into the hands of your own maid."