Rachael smiled confidently and sat down.  She wore one of the thin white linens, which, like the other women of the Islands, she put aside for heavier stuffs on state occasions only, and her hair had tumbled from its high comb and fallen upon her shoulders.  Mary Fawcett sighed as she looked at her.  She was too young to marry, and had it not been for the haunting terror of leaving her alone in the world, the Dane, well circumstanced as he was, would have been repulsed with contumely.

“Rachael,” said her mother, gently, “put down your tapestry.  I have something to say to you, something of great import.”

Rachael dropped her work and met her mother’s eyes.  They were hard with will and definite purpose.  In an instant she divined what was coming, and stood up.  Her face could not turn any whiter, but her eyes were black at once, and her nostrils spread.

“It cannot be possible that you wish me to marry that man—­Levine,” she stammered.  “I do not know how I can think of such a thing—­but I do—­it seems to me I see it in your eyes.”

“Yes,” said her mother, with some uneasiness.  “I do; and my reasons are good—­”

“I won’t listen to them!” shrieked Rachael.  “I won’t marry him!  His whiteness makes me sick!  I know he is not a good man!  I feel it!  I never could be happy with him!  I never could love him!”

Mary Fawcett looked at her aghast, and, for a moment, without answering; she saw her own will asserting itself, heard it on those piercing notes, and she knew that it sprang from stronger and more tragic foundations than had ever existed in her own nature; but believing herself to be right, she determined to prevail.

“What do you know about men, my darling?” she said soothingly.  “You have been dreaming romantic dreams, and young Levine does not resemble the hero.  That is all.  Women readjust themselves marvellously quick.  When you are married to him, and he is your tender and devoted husband, you will forget your prince—­who, no doubt, is dark and quite splendid.  But we never meet our princes, my dear, and romantic love is only one of the things we live for—­and for that we live but a little while.  Levine is all that I could wish for you.  He is wealthy, aristocratic, and chivalrously devoted.”

Her long speech had given her daughter time to cool, but Rachael remained standing, and stared defiantly into the eyes which had relaxed somewhat with anxious surprise.

“I feel that he is not a good man,” she repeated sullenly, “and I hate him.  I should die if he touched me.  I have not danced with him.  His hands are so white and soft, and his eyes never change, and his mouth reminds me of a shark’s.”

“Levine is a remarkably handsome man,” exclaimed Mistress Fawcett, indignantly.  “You have trained your imagination to some purpose, it seems.  Forget your poets when he comes to-morrow, and look at him impartially.  And cannot he give you all that you so much desire, my ambitious little daughter?  Do you no longer want to go to Europe? to court? to be grande dame and converse with princes?”