Mrs. Willoughby smiled.

“Well, Minnie dearest,” said she, “I really think that we had better decide to go to Rome, and I don’t see any difficulty in the way.”

“The only difficulty that I can see,” said Minnie, “is that I shouldn’t like to hurt their feelings, you know.”

“Their feelings!” repeated her sister, in a doleful voice.

“Yes; but then, you see, some one’s feelings must be hurt eventually, so that lessens one’s responsibility, you know; doesn’t it, Kitty darling?”

While saying this Minnie had risen and gone to the window, with the intention of taking her seat by it.  No sooner had she reached the place, however, than she started back, with a low exclamation, and, standing on one side, looked cautiously forth.

“Come here,” she said, in a whisper.

Mrs. Willoughby went over, and Minnie directed her attention to some one outside.  It was a gentleman on horseback, who was passing at a slow pace.  His head was bent on his breast.  Suddenly, as he passed, he raised his head and threw over the house a quick, searching glance.  They could see without being seen.  They marked the profound sadness that was over his face, and saw the deep disappointment with which his head fell.

“Scone Dacres!” said Minnie, as he passed on.  “How awfully sad he is!”

Mrs. Willoughby said nothing.

“But, after all, I don’t believe it’s me.”

“Why not?”

“Because he didn’t look at me a bit when he passed to-day.  He looked at you, though.”

“Nonsense!”

“Yes, and his face had an awfully hungry look.  I know what makes him sad.”

“What?”

“He’s in love with you.”

Mrs. Willoughby stared at Minnie for a moment.  Then a short laugh burst from her.

“Child!” she exclaimed, “you have no idea of any thing in the world but falling in love.  You will find out some day that there are other feelings than that.”

“But, Kitty dear,” said Minnie, “didn’t you notice something very peculiar about him?”

“What?”

“I noticed it.  I had a good look at him.  I saw that he fixed his eyes on you with—­oh! such a queer look.  And he was awfully sad too.  He looked as if he would like to seize you and lift you on his horse and carry you off, just like young Lochinvar.”

“Me!” said Mrs. Willoughby, with a strange intonation.

“Yes, you—­oh yes; really now.”

“Oh, you little goose, you always think of people rushing after one and carrying one off.”

“Well, I’m sure I’ve had reason to.  So many people have always been running after me, and snatching me up as if I were a parcel, and carrying me every where in all sorts of places.  And I think it’s too bad, and I really wish they’d stop it.  But, Kitty dear—­

“What?”

“About this Scone Dacres.  Don’t you really think there’s something very peculiarly sad, and very delightfully interesting and pathetic, and all that sort of thing, in his poor dear old face?”