I took it upon myself to suppress most of them, for really I had grown scarcely to believe a word she said with regard to her husband, and, as I am sanguine, thought poor Harry would overcome the disease, as our father had before him, and live to a good old age.  One morning, however, a telegram came:  he was dead!” Colonel Pinckney could scarcely speak.  Recovering himself a little, he continued in husky tones:  “He died alone with his nurse:  Virginia, taking care of herself as usual, was in another room asleep.”

“I wonder what they are talking about?” thought Mrs. Pinckney, twisting her pretty neck in all directions so she could see them from her bed.  Their two heads were close together:  he was speaking earnestly, and Miss Featherstone’s eyes were on the ground.

Mrs. Pinckney dressed and went down to dinner, although she had not quite recovered the use of her voice.  “Dick,” she whispered, “it was a fine move, your sending the children away this afternoon, so that you could have Miss Featherstone all to yourself.  Did you come to the point?”

“No, but I will one of these days:  I am preparing her mind,” he added mischievously.

As time went on a vague uneasiness seized the young governess.  She imagined Mrs. Pinckney was growing cool in her manner toward her:  certainly, Doctor Harris, who was constantly at the house, was becoming importunate in his attentions.  Once she looked up suddenly at as prosaic a place as the dinner-table.  Colonel Pinckney was gazing both ardently and admiringly upon her.  “Certainly I must be losing my senses to imagine these men in love with me:  it’s preposterous.”

Mr. Brown put the matter at rest, as far as he was concerned, for one day, as she returned from a walk, he accosted her on the veranda, and with a series of the most violent grimaces and gesticulations, his eyes flashing, his face working in every possible direction, he told her that he was desole:  his life depended upon her.  He was so odd and absurd in his avowal that she burst out laughing:  then, as she beheld an indignant, inquiring expression on his honest red countenance, she grew frightened, sank on a seat and wept hysterically.  This encouraged him:  he sat down beside her and exclaimed, “Dear mees”—­and he peered at her blandly—­“your life is empty:  so is mine.  Let it be for me—­oh, so beautiful!”—­and he spread out his little fat hands with rapture—­“to comfort and console one heavenly existence, ensemble." He placed a hand on each stout knee and gazed benignly down upon her.

She hung her head as sheepishly as if she returned the little foreigner’s affection—­afraid of wounding him, she was speechless—­when at this unlucky moment Colonel Pinckney, coming suddenly round the house, walked up the steps.  She saw him glance at her—­Mr. Brown’s back was toward him—­and a smile he evidently couldn’t restrain stole over his face.

“Oh, Mr. Brown, I’m so sorry!” she found courage at length to say.  “You are very kind—­you’ve always been kind to me from the moment I entered the house—­but indeed you must never speak on this subject again.”  She shook hands with him in her embarrassment, apparently as a proof of friendship, then ran into the house.