“Thanks,” said Sebastian.  “Willingly, if—­” looking to Mrs. Harrowby.

“I have no engagement, and Edgar is master now,” said that lady.

“And mind that Leam comes too,” said Josephine, sharing her favorite brother’s action by design.

“And me,” cried Fina.

Whereat they all laughed, which made Fina cry, to be consoled only by some sweetmeats which Josephine found in her work-basket.

It was agreed, then, that the next day Leam and her father should dine at the Hill.

“Only ourselves,” Edgar said, wanting the excuse of her “being the only lady” to devote himself to Leam.  It was strange that he should be so anxious to see her nearer, and in company with his sisters and mother; for after all, why should he?  What was she to him, either near or afar off, alone or in the inner circle of his family?

But when the next day came Mr. Dundas appeared alone.  Leam had been taken with a fit of shyness, pride—­who shall say?—­and refused to accept her share of the invitation.  Her father made the stereotyped excuse of “headache;” but headaches occur too opportunely to be always real, and Leam’s to-night was set down to the fancy side of the account, and not believed in by the hearers any more than by the bearer.

Edgar raged against her in his heart, and decided that she was not worth a second thought, while the ladies said in an undertone from each to each, “How rude!” Maria adding, “How like Leam!” the chain of condemnation receiving no break till it came to Josephine, whose patient soul refrained from wrath, and gave as her link, “Poor Leam! perhaps she is shy or has really a headache.”

In spite of his decision that she was not worth a second thought, the impression which Leam had made on Edgar deepened with his disappointment, and he became restless and unpleasant in his temper, casting about for means whereby he might see her again.  He cast about in vain.  This fit of shyness, pride, reluctance—­who knows what?—­continued with Leam for many days after this.  If she went out at all, she went where she knew she should not be met; and if Edgar called at Ford House, she was not to be found.  She mainly devoted herself to Fina and some books lent her by Alick, and kept the house with strange persistency.  Perhaps this was because the weather was bad, for Leam, who could bear wind and frost and noonday sun, could not bear wet.  When it rained she shut herself up in her own room, and pitied herself for the ungenial skies as she had pitied herself for some other things before now.

Sitting thus reading one miserably dark, cold, misty day, the child Fina came in to her with her lessons, which she repeated well.  They were very small and insignificant little lessons, for Leam had a fellow-feeling for the troubles of ignorance, and laid but a light hand on the frothy mind inside that curly head.  When they were finished the little one said coaxingly, “Now play with me, Leam!  You never play with me.”