It was perhaps a week after that snowy day when Azalia Brooke sat, looking back with dim, wet eyes into her shadowy past, that Jewel Fielding reclined at ease in a beautiful boudoir hung in white and gold, and listened to the roar of the winter wind as it whistled in the eaves of the handsome but ancient old mansion that she called home.

The house had been built by an Englishman almost a century ago, and outside it looked like a small-sized castle, while within it was of peculiar construction, having some very large and beautiful rooms, with others so small and ill-ventilated that Jewel turned up her pretty nose at them, declaring that they were stuffy holes, fit for nothing that she could see but lumber-closets. There was a great, big, noisome cellar under the house, too, that in winter often stood feet deep in water, and was therefore never used for any purpose, but given over to the use and occupancy of immense rats.

But there were plenty of elegant, comfortable rooms in the grand house, and the beautiful boudoir where Jewel lay was fine enough for a queen, and Jewel herself was not unlike a queen in her purple velvet robe, with its border of silvery fur that was so becoming to the dusky beauty of her dark, sparkling face, with its crown of jetty braided hair.

It was a gloomy, overcast afternoon, with a keen, north-east wind blowing, and heavy patches of last week's deep snow still cumbering the ground. But the curtains were drawn and the gas ablaze in Jewel's room, while the leaping flames inside the grate added tropical warmth to the large room with its beautiful furniture and tall stands of blooming flowers.

Jewel's eyes were shining with pleasure, for her maid had just brought in for her inspection a new dress that she was to wear that night—a marvel of richness, a stately purple brocade and plush, in which, with her costly diamonds, Jewel knew that she would look imperially lovely.

"Leave it there, Marie," she said to the pert French maid with her dainty, beribboned cap; "I wish to study the fall of the drapery at my leisure. I will ring when I desire you."

Marie bowed and withdrew, and the vain beauty lay idly at full length, her arms thrown over her head, her dainty slipper tapping the carpet, and feasted her dark eyes on the shining robe.

"I shall look like a queen—there will be no one to rival me!" she declared, triumphantly. "Let me see, what flowers shall I wear?—crimson roses, or creamy-white ones? Or the delicate gold of the MarÉchal Niel? I declare, I can not make up my mind. I shall have to let Marie decide. She has exquisite taste."

Suddenly a slight frown wrinkled the beautiful forehead, and the dark eyes flashed.

"Ah, I forgot," she muttered. "They say that that English beauty will be there! Pshaw! What does it matter? I shall eclipse my Lord Ivon's great-granddaughter, in spite of the prestige of her position, for they say she is a blonde, and her pink-and-white charms will stand no chance against my brunette beauty. All blondes look insipid. I never saw but one that could hold her own against me, and that was my twin sister—ah, I forgot—I mean Flower."

She shivered a little, and the slow opening of the door gave her a violent start.

It was Marie, who had been flirting with the postman at the door.

She carried a letter on a salver.

Jewel snatched it up eagerly, and dismissed her maid.

In a moment she had drawn the letter from the envelope and was quickly perusing it.

Her face darkened with anger, and she gnawed her crimson lower lip sharply with her pearly teeth, muttering vindictively:

"I will not do it—never, never! She shall stay there till she dies!"