At last the fatigue of the morning brought the respite of sleep, and when she waked she found late evening shadows in her room, and learned that Mr. Muir had arrived, it being his purpose to spend the Fourth and the remainder of the week with his family.

Weariness and despondency are near akin, and in banishing one Madge found herself better able to cope with the other.  At any rate, she determined to show no weakness.  If Graydon would never love her he should at least be compelled to respect and admire her, and he should never have cause to surmise the heart-poverty to which she was doomed.  Still less would she give her proud rival a chance to wound her again.  Miss Wildmere might make Graydon’s devotion as ostentatious as she pleased, but should never again detect on Madge’s face a look of pained surprise and solicitude.

She made a careful toilet for the evening, telling Mr. Muir and her sister not to wait for her, as she had overslept herself.

“Where is Madge?” Graydon asked, at the supper-table.

“She did not wake up in time to come down with us,” Mrs. Muir replied.  “What does it matter?  Miss Wildmere so fills your eyes that you see no one else.  When is it to be, Graydon?”

“Madge evidently sees quite as much of me as she cares to,” he replied, somewhat irritably.  “I have not asked when it’s to be or whether it’s to be at all.  I suppose,” he added, satirically, “that in consideration of my extreme youth I should obtain permission from my family before venturing to ask anything.”

“That remark is absurd and uncalled for,” Mr. Muir replied, gravely.  “Of course you will please yourself, as I did, and we shall make the best of it.  But you have no right to expect that we shall see the lady with your eyes.  I cannot help seeing her as she is.  I do not like her, but if you choose to marry her, rest assured I shall give neither of you cause for complaint.  Now, according to my custom, I’ve had my say.  You could not expect me, as your brother, to be indifferent; still less could I pretend an approval that I don’t feel; but I recognize that you are as free as I was when Mary’s suitor, and I do not think you can reasonably ask more.  Our relations are too intimate for misunderstanding.  You know that, in my present plans and hopes, I looked forward to receiving you as a partner at no distant time, if such purposes are carried out our interests must always be identical.”

“Pardon me, Henry,” said Graydon, warmly, “and do not misunderstand my hasty words.  I know you have my best welfare at heart—­you have ever proved that—­but you misjudge my choice.  Even Mary begins to see that you do, and woman’s insight is keener than man’s.  You attribute to the daughter the qualities you dislike in the father.  Is it nothing that she has waited for me during my long absence, when she could pick and choose from so many?”

“I’m not sure she has been waiting for you; her manner toward Mr. Arnault yonder suggests that she may still pick and choose.”