The last guest departed, and as the door closed behind her, Fergus turned
to Neria, saying:

“Now, Neria, give me a little real music after the miserable tinkling of that—
Percy do they call him? I am perfectly sick with it.”

“Then I am quite sure I could not please you, monsieur,” said Neria, gaily;
“and I must go directly to my room and dress for our drive. Are you coming,
Francia?”

“In a minute,” replied that young lady, affecting to be busy in arranging

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some flowers upon the table. Neria left the room, and Fergus, with an abstracted
look, was following her, when a timid voice recalled him.

“Did you see this rose-camelia, Fergus?”

“No, is it remarkable?” asked the young man, coming slowly toward the
table.

“I don't know. It is very pretty.”

“I see. Is that all you have to say?”

“Aren't you going to drive with us?”

“Not to-day.”

“You have not been here lately.”

“I am flattered that you should notice my movements so closely.'

Francia blushed scarlet, and bent lower over the flowers.

“You have not been without company, however,” pursued her cousin, “I
see that Mr. Chilton has established himself here upon a very familiar footing.
You will be much improved by such association.”

“O, Fergus, don't speak in that tone. How have I offended you?”

“Offended me? Not at all. I was speaking of Mr. Chilton in terms of the
highest commendation, was I not?”

“Please, Fergus! Tell me what I have done, and let me say I am sorry,
and then forgive me.”

The clasped hands, tender blue eyes full of tears, quivering rosebud lips were
very pathetic, and a half smile softened the stern lines of Fergus's mouth; but
he said, coldly:

“I have no right to be offended; but I will own I was rather surprised at your
conduct the other night.”

“What conduct?” faltered Francia.

“In the first place, dancing round-dances half an hour with the same partner,
and he one of the most notorious profligates about town; then wandering
off into the conservatory with him, allowing him to unmask you, to take your
hand, to say I don't know what to you. I did not try to listen, although I
could not help seeing. Then, when I came to extricate you from your ridiculous
and indecorous position, you absolutely refused to accept my guardianship,
and clung to your new acquaintance as if he were a lover. Afterward you
allowed him to take you down to supper, and danced with him again.”

“Only a cotillion,” interposed Francia.

“You danced with him—no matter what,” pursued Fergus, severely. “And
now, the next time I see you, this fellow is at your side, offering his insulting
attentions in so conspicuous a manner that every person who goes away from
here to-day will have a sneer for you the next time your name is mentioned
in their company. You can do as you choose, or as my uncle chooses, I suppose,
but you will excuse me if I say that I can give neither respect nor confidence
to a young lady, who deliberately encourages the attentions of a libertine
like Rafe Chilton.”

“If Claudia and Mr. Livingston encourage his coming to the house, they
cannot believe him so very bad,” said Francia, with some spirit.

“I do not undertake to regulate my sister's affairs,” said Fergus, coldly;
“nor do I wish to discuss her movements—they do not concern either you or
me. I was only explaining to you the reason of the change in my manner,
which seemed to annoy you.”

[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]

“I was not annoyed, Fergus, I was grieved.”

The young man trifled a moment with the toys upon the table, and then
said, reproachfully:

“You do not find Neria running into such follies, although she has the same
opportunities.”

“Neria isn't so gay—so—”

“So thoughtless as you. That is true enough; but to be thoughtless in
these matters is something more then a foible, Francia. It is to estrange your
friends, to injure your own prospects, to give foul tongues an opening to meddle
with your name. Mr. Chilton's acquaintanceship is enough to ruin any woman's
reputation; but if you choose to cultivate it, of course it is no affair of mine.
Good morning.”

“Good morning,” said Francia, in a tone as cold as his own, and with sparkling
eyes and heightened color, she walked toward the window. Fergus went
to the door, but his gloves still lay upon the table where he had placed them
while speaking. He returned for them, waited to put them on, and was again
moving toward the door, when a soft voice whispered:

“Fergus!”

He silently turned and looked toward Francia. Fluttering, blushing, tearful,
she glided to his side, and sweetly looked into his face. He took her hand,
whispering:

“What is it, Franc?”

“I am so sorry. I won't if you don't want me to. Please, dear Fergus!”

He put his arm about her slender waist, he laid his hand beneath her
rounded chin, and raising the rosy face that fain would droop, he looked deep,
deep into the blue depths of her innocent eyes, and then—how does it go?

“Rixœ, pax, et”—what comes next?

Fergus stayed to dinner, and spent the evening. When Francia went to
her room that night, she stood a long time looking from the window; and, as
she turned away, murmured half aloud: “But he is my cousin, almost—just like
a brother.”