ask me. I cannot go through more of this.
Seeing these new faces always distresses me
and makes me miserable. I am a wretched
oddity, but you know——"

"It is not that, dear cousin," she said, in
great excitement. "There's no new face,
Come to my room. I want to talk. Yes,"
she added, suddenly, "to show you all my
stores. Come, do."

"But, Fred," he said, absently, "we must
find Andy somewhere."

Andy was found, and the colonel went with
her. She was strangely excited, and as she
showed all her presents, seemed to be doing
this as an excuse for approaching some subject,
talking very rapidly all the time. He looked
and admired in a sort of abstracted way. She
then said:

"Oh, but the horse, too, you must see that.
I have not shown you half."

Howard seemed to be awaking gradually.
"But what is this? and I have contributed
nothing! Goodness, what a being I am! I
think of nothing. I don't know how to do
anything like other people. You must let me
make up for all this stupidity. Tell me quick
what you would like."

"Dearest cousin," she said, colouring, "how
kind you are."

"But you must promise me," he said, more
earnestly; "I don't understand these things. I
am quite helpless—a bracelet, a necklace—you
must tell me, and fix on something."

In her eyes was twinkling a sense of some
eager and secret plan. "There is a present
you could give me, dearest cousin, which would
make me—and make us all so supremely happy;
but I know that you could not give it to me,
and that I have no right to ask it of you."

"What is it?" he asked, eagerly. "I am
so glad to hear this. Let it be as great as you
like. Don't be afraid."

"If I thought you cared for me enough,"
she said, hanging down her head sadly. "But
I have no right to expect that, and you would
think me forward, and——"

"But what can you mean, my dear child," he
said, wondering, and with a troubled air. "You
know that I like you, and it would make me,
oh! so happy, to be allowed to make you
happier even in that trifling way; for since I
have come into this house, I seem to have come
into a kind of peace that I have not known
before, for from your eyes the old light seems
to come, and I seem to be in a presence that
I have long missed. And you think I could
refuse you, when I seem to hear that voice,
and to see those features?"

With an impetuous motion she put her arm
in his, and, with glowing cheeks and flashing
eye, began to pour out an eager whispering—a
perfect tide. Before she had done, he had
drawn himself away with a start—drawn
himself further and further away. He set himself
free, and covered his face with his hands.

"This is not right, cousin. Impossible!
I did not expect this from you!"

"Forgive me, you make me wretched. But
you promised all—you know you did—and I
told you you would be angry;" and she glided
down before him on to her knees.

He had walked away a little, then turned
hastily, and saw her kneeling before him.
"Dear child, you know not what you ask me.
How can I—how dare I do it? He hates me and
hates my boy." He was growing more and more
agitated every moment. "You do not know
the whole. You cannot understand. Anything
but that—no! no! no!"

She rose slowly,: and turned away impetuously.

"This was to be a happy day for me," she said,
tossing her head. "They all told me so. You
are determined I shall be wretched. Where is
your promise now? Do you suppose I care for
your presents, and bracelets, and such things?
You have made me feel, Cousin Howard, a
mortification that no one else has done—no one
else! Every one else has been good to me."

She walked away flushed and indignant. He
stood a moment irresolute, then in a faint voice
called her. "Lucy, come back. I did not
mean to be unkind. But if you. were to know
how I have suffered—what I suffer. But it may
have been all wrong, and I promise you now I
will try in future to think less uncharitably of
one who has so deeply injured— not me, but——"

"Who!" said she, running to him and covering
his hand with kisses. "There is a good,
kind, dear cousin. But that is not enough—
that is a very trifling marriage present for me.
Try? You must give me more than that.
Should you see him or meet him, you will
promise me to write—to speak—to forgive—to
hear him—tell him that you have misjudged him
a little—that he has done nothing to——"

"I can never do that," he said, passionately.
Then, suddenly checking himself, "Well, if it
pleases you, I do promise. It will not be for
long, and there is folly in all this. Some day
—if he writes—I may——"

"This is a promise," she said, panting with
eagerness; "a solemn one, mind; for I shall be
away, and you will not see me again for long,
and I have nothing to trust to but your honour
and promise."

"Then you have it, dear cousin."

"The first time you see him?"

"Yes."

In a second she had flown away from him,
and with a cry of delight called out:

"Edward! Edward!"

CHAPTER V. RECONCILIATION.

A YOUNG man, with fair hair and a fine open
face, came hurrying from some room, then
stopped irresolutely. Under the lamps stood
Colonel Howard, half turned away, and as his
brother drew near, with his hand half raised.
In a moment the eager girl had seized that
gentle hand in both hers, and drawn it softly
towards another that was half extended.

"You promised, you know," she whispered.
It was no use resisting, and the colonel turned