“Oh, yes, I recollect perfectly.  Did he resemble mamma, Evelyn?  Was he tall or short, fair or dark?  Had he her lovely eyes?  Do tell me about him.”

“None of these things.  A sort of medium man; not at all like mamma, however, as far as I could see on such brief scrutiny, and as well as I remember; with fine eyes, however.  Not as good-looking as Claude Bainrothe, by any means.  Commonplace, very, with a seedy coat.  By-the-way, Miriam, he will be back next week, I believe, and then you will see this phenomenon.  You know Mr. Bainrothe and papa design you for one another.”

“Papa, indeed!  I suppose you mean Claude Bainrothe,” and I laughed disdainfully, I fear.  “Nay, it is you rather, Evelyn, who have captivated this piece of perfection, as far as I can learn.  At least, this is the report that—­” I hesitated—­colored.

“Finish your sentence, Miriam.  The report that your faithful spies, Laura Stanbury and George Gaston, have brought to you in your solitude.  They are very observing, truly,” she pursued.  “Creatures that never penetrate beneath the surface, though.  Self-deluders, I fancy, however, rather than story-tellers.”

“Do you pretend to deny it, Evelyn?  Now, look me in the eyes and say ‘No’ if you dare,” and I grasped her slender wrists playfully.  She opened her large, blue eyes and fixed them full on mine, responsively.

“No!  Now you have the unmitigated truth.  Ah, Miriam, I have no wish to interfere with you,” and she leaned forward and kissed my cheek tenderly, disengaging her hands as she did so.  Her manner had so changed to me of late that she was growing rapidly into my affections, and I returned her embrace cordially.

In the next moment we were laughing merrily together over the ridiculous schemes of the elder Bainrothe, so transparent that every one understood them perfectly, motive and all, and which my father winked at evidently, rather than favored or encouraged, as our charlatan thought he did—­“Cagliostro,” as we habitually called him.

“The fact is, prophetess, the person in question would not suit you at all, with your grand ways and notions and prospects.  I have fathomed his depth pretty successfully, and I find him full of shoals and shallows.  Pretty well for a flirtation, though, and to keep one’s hand in, but unavailable any further.”

“Having brought him to his knees, you are perfectly willing to pass him over to me as a bond-slave.  Is that the idea, Evelyn?”

“Exactly, Miriam; you are always so penetrating!  But don’t tell, for the world.  Old Bainrothe would never forgive me; and, as I once before told you in one of my savage moods, his enmity is dire—­satanic!”

“I am not afraid of Cagliostro, or his animosity,” I answered; “never was, Evelyn, as you know.  The best way to disarm him is to confront him boldly.  He is like a lion in that alone.  I wish, though, he would give me a little of his elixir of life, for dear papa; he has never looked himself since that attack, though better, certainly,—­oh, decidedly better, of course, than I dared to hope at one time ever to see him again.  Yet I am very anxious.”