CHAPTER XIV.
MAKING AN ENEMY.
Hilvardine Van Straalen and Madam Chenoweth were seated before the open fire. The girl's cheek had lost something of its roundness and bloom, and deep, violet shadows rested heavily under the beautiful eyes.
“Dear Madam,” she was saying, “there is nothing before me but a life of misery. Father is inexorable. He says I must wed the Chancellor, and neither my entreaties nor mother's arguments move him a particle. What shall I do?”
Poor Hilvardine! The world seemed suddenly to have grown cold and dark in spite of the bright June sun, and her head drooped until it rested on Madam's knees.
“And dost thou love Conrad, my child?”
“His presence is like the brightest sunshine or the sweetest music. How can I give him up?”
“And Conrad loves you, my child, of that I am sure. Love to you both seems to mean only pain and separation. How often, when we pluck the
