Very complacently Madam Conway looked on, reading aright the admiration which Arthur Carrollton evinced for Margaret, who in turn was far from being uninterested in him.  Anna Jeffrey, too, watched them jealously, pondering in her own mind some means by which she could, if possible, annoy Margaret.  Had she known how far matters had gone with Henry Warner, she would unhesitatingly have told it to Arthur Carrollton; but so quietly had the affair been managed that she knew comparatively little.  This little, however, she determined to tell him, together with any embellishments she might see fit to use.  Accordingly, one afternoon, when he had been there two months or more, and Maggie had gone with her grandmother to ride, she went down to the parlor under pretense of getting a book to read.  He was much better now, but, feeling somewhat fatigued from a walk he had taken in the yard, he was reclining upon the sofa.  Leaning over the rocking-chair which stood near by, Anna inquired for his health, and then asked how long since he had heard from home.

He liked to talk of England, and as there was nothing to him particularly disagreeable in Anna Jeffrey he bade her be seated.  Very willingly she complied with his request, and, after talking a while of England, announced her intention of returning home the last of March.  “My aunt prefers remaining with Madam Conway, but I don’t like America,” said she, “and I often wonder why I am here.”

“I supposed you came to be with your aunt, who, I am told, has been to you a second mother,” answered Mr. Carrollton; and Anna replied:  “You are right.  She could not be easy until she got me here, where I know I am not wanted—­at least not altogether.”

Mr. Carrollton looked inquiringly at her, and Anna continued, “I fully supposed I was to be a companion for Margaret; but instead of that she treats me with the utmost coolness, making me feel keenly my position as a dependent.”

“That does not seem at all like Maggie,” said Mr. Carrollton; and, with a meaning smile far more expressive than words, Anna answered:  “She may not always be alike.  But hush! don’t I hear bells?” and she ran to the window, saying as she resumed her seat:  “I thought they had come:  but I was mistaken.  I dare say Maggie has coaxed her grandmother to drive by the post office, thinking there might be a letter from Henry Warner.”

Her manner affected Mr. Carrollton perceptibly, but he made no reply; and Anna asked if he knew Mr. Warner.

“I saw him in Worcester, I believe,” he said; and Anna continued, “Do you think him a suitable husband for a girl like Maggie?”

There was a deep flush on Arthur Carrollton’s cheek, and his lips were whiter than their wont as he answered, “I know nothing of him, neither did I suppose Miss Miller ever thought of him for a husband.”

“I know she did at one time,” said his tormentor, turning the leaves of her book with well-feigned indifference.  “It was not any secret, or I should not speak of it; of course Madam Conway was greatly opposed to it too, and forbade her writing to him; but how the matter is now I do not positively know, though I am quite sure they are engaged.”