With slight notice of his sister or the rest, Fergus passed into the other
room, and standing beside Neria, said impatiently,

“When are you going home, I wonder?”

“To Bonniemeer?”

“Yes, I am tired of stumbling over that mooning Percy every time I come
here. As for Chilton, I am afraid that some day I shall take the trouble to impart
to him my opinion of himself; and that might lead to unpleasant results.”

Neria placed her cool hand upon his.

“Dear Fergus,” said she, “cannot you make your circle of tolerance a little
larger? One is so much happier in charity and love with all men. And it
grieves us when you are ill-pleased.”

“I cannot flatter myself that my words are so important,” said Fergus, sullenly.

“You wrong yourself and us in saying so; us, by doubting our love and
sympathy, and yourself in refusing to accept this love and sympathy, which
would, admitted to your life, render it so much more peaceful and beautiful.”

“Others are not like you, Neria,” said the young man, in a softer tone.

“All here are like me in caring for you, Fergus.”

“How much does Francia care, when she encourages that profligate fellow,
after the expression of my disapprobation; after her own promise to give up his
acquaintance?” asked Fergus, gloomily.

Neria looked troubled, but presently answered cheerily,

“Franc is so charming and so much admired, that we must be reconciled
to seeing a good deal of homage offered at her shrine, and sometimes by

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unworthy worshippers. It does not harm her, and by-and-by she will be tired of
her position as divinity. “We women have four seasons like the year,” and it is
spring-time with her yet.”

“Some women's spring-time has all the freshness of her's without its crudeness,”
said Fergus, smiling into Neria's eyes.

“But not the rich and glowing promise,” returned Neria, half sadly. “See,
Mr. Chilton is going.”

“That is a pity—for Francia.”

“Now, Fergus, don't be cross with the poor child. You have not been kind
to her for some weeks.”

“Because she has allowed Chilton to haunt her like her shadow.”

“To be unkind to her yourself, is only to make his courtesies seem the more
agreeable. She is coming in here, and I shall go away and leave you to make
friends. We go home next week, and it is quite time you were on good terms
again. Be gentle and careful.”

Francia approached with a nervous smile upon her flushed face.

“I thought Mr. Percy was here,” said she to Neria, but glancing timidly at
Fergus while she spoke.

“He went away a few moments ago. Sit down, dear, and sing us that little
barcarolle, won't you? Fergus has not heard it.”

Francia seated herself, played a simple prelude with faltering fingers, and
tried to sing; but in the first notes her voice trembled, broke, and in a sudden
burst of tears she ran away from the piano, and sought shelter in the deep baywindow.

With an expressive glance at Fergus, Neria went into the other room, and
seated herself near Vaughn, who was carrying on a desultory conversation with
Mr. Livingstone.

Fergus hesitated a moment, and then followed Francia, who crouched sobbing
upon an ottoman.

“Franc!” said he, softly, as he seated himself beside her.

No answer.

“Don't cry, Francia. I'm not angry.”

“But you will be.”

“No, I won't. I suppose you couldn't help his coming.”

“N-o-o.”

“But you need not have let him whisper in your ear.”

A fresh burst of sobs.

“O Franc, I wish you would be more womanly; show a little more dignity,
or at least a little more regard for me.”

“There, I knew you would.”

“Would what, child?”

“Would scold. And you will be so angry.”

“No, but I am not angry, and not going to be, only sorry. I love my little
cousin too much to be really angry with her.”

“I don't think you have loved me very much this last month,” murmured
Francia out of her handkerchief.

“It is because I love you so well that I have been sorry to see you—well, I
won't say any more. So you thought I didn't love you, little girl?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I never thought you didn't love me, so you see I was the wiser of the

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two. Now I will tell you what I shall do to prevent any such mistakes in future.
I shall tell all the world that I love you and you love me, and that you are
my own little Franc, and no one else is to come within six feet of you, or to
speak to you any lower than they would to Mr. Livingstone. Then I shall send
you back to Bonniemeer, and keep you safely there until I have a nice little
cage all ready for you here or somewhere else; and then I shall come and bring
you to live in it forever and a day, and—how do the story books end?

Lived happy all their lives,

He put his arm round her as he spoke, and drew her close to his side, but
even in the dim light was startled to see the pale face and wild eyes she raised
to his.

“O, Fergus, Fergus!” cried she. “Why did you not tell me sooner?
How could I know—and—and I am engaged to Rafe Chilton.”

Fergus started to his feet, and looked down with terrible eyes upon the fair
young face, that seemed to wither beneath his gaze.

“I would not have believed,” said he, at last, “that you could sink so low.
Forget from this moment, as I do, that any other tie than our unfortunate relationship
has ever drawn us together.”

He left the room, the house, without another word; and Francia, sinking upon
the floor, child-like, cried herself to sleep.

So Neria found her an hour later when Vaughn, the last of the guests, had
departed, saying to his ward as he bade her good-night,

“I have something to say to you to-morrow. Will you ride with me at
eleven?”

“Yes, Sieur.”