“I suppose that was true.”

“So do I, as things stood then.  She meant Frank to be a sort of connecting link, against the time when she could come back here; but we, poor children, never thought of that, and went on together, not exactly saying anything, but quite understanding how much we cared.  Indeed, I know Camilla impressed on him that, for his mother’s sake, it must go no farther then, while he was still so young; and next came our journey on the Continent, ending in our coming back here last July.”

Jenny remembered that Raymond’s engagement had not been made known till August, and Frank had only returned from a grouse-shooting holiday a week or two before the arrival of the brides.

“Now,” added Eleonora, “Camilla has made me understand that nothing will induce her to let papa consent; and though I know he would, if he were left to himself, I also see how all this family must hate and loathe the connection.”

“May I ask, has Frank ever spoken?”

“Oh no!  I think he implied it all to Camilla when she bade him wait till our return, fancying, I suppose, that one could forget the other.”

“But why does she seem so friendly with him?”

“It is her way; she can’t be other than smooth and caressing, and likes to have young men about; and I try to be grave and distant, because—­the sooner he is cured of me the better for him,” she uttered, with a sob; “but when he is there, and I see those grieved eyes of his, I can’t keep it up!  And papa does like him!  Oh! if Camilla would but leave us alone!  See here, Jenny!” and she showed, on her watch-chain, a bit of ruddy polished pebble.  “Is it wrong to keep this?  He and I found the stone in two halves, on the beach, the last day we were together, and had them set, pretending to one another it was only play.  Sometimes I think I ought to send mine back; I know he has his, he let me see it one day.  Do you think I ought to give it up?”

“Why should you?”

“Because then he would know that it must be all over.”

“But is it all over?  Within, I mean?”

“Jenny, you know better!”

“Then, Lenore, if so, and it is only your sister who objects, not your father himself, ought you to torment poor Frank by acting indifference when you do not feel it?”

“Am I untrue?  I never thought of that.  I thought I should be sacrificing myself for his good!”

“His good?  O, Lenore, I believe it is the worst wrong a woman can do a man, to let him think he has wasted his heart upon her, and that she is trifling with him.  You don’t know what a bad effect this is having, even on his prospects.  He cannot get his brain or spirits free to work for his examination.”

“How hard it is to know what is right!  Here have I been thinking that what made me so miserable must be the best for him, and would it not make it all the worse to relax, and let him see?”