He threw her hands from him almost with violence, half turned away, then suddenly catching her in his arms, held her close to his heart, kissing passionately, forehead, cheek, and lips.  “Oh, Elsie, Elsie, light of my eyes, core of my heart, why did we ever meet to part like this?  I don’t blame you.  I have been a fool.  Good-bye, darling.”  And releasing her, he was gone ere she could recover breath to speak.  It had all been so sudden she had had no power, perhaps no will, to resist, so sore was the tender, loving heart for him.

He was barely in time to hail the boat as it passed, and at the instant he was about to step aboard, Mr. Dinsmore rode up, and springing from the saddle, throwing the reins to his servant, cried out in astonishment, “Harold! you are not leaving us?  Come, come, what has happened to hurry you away?  Must you go?”

“Yes, I must,” he answered with half-averted face.  “Don’t call me a scoundrel for making such a return for your hospitality.  I couldn’t help it.  Good-bye.  Try to forget that I’ve been here at all; for Rose’s sake, you know.”

He sprang into the boat; it pushed off, and was presently lost to sight among the trees shading the bayou on either hand.

Mr. Dinsmore stood for a moment as if spellbound; then turned and walked thoughtfully towards the house.  “What did it all mean?” he asked himself; “of what unkind return of his or Elsie’s hospitality could the lad have been guilty?  Elsie! ha! can it be possible?” and quickened his pace, glancing from side to side in search of her as he hurried on.

Entering the hall, the sound of a half-smothered sob guided him to a little parlor or reception-room seldom used.  Softly he opened the door.  She was there half-reclining upon a sofa, her face buried in the cushions.  In a moment he had her in his arms, the weary, aching head on his breast, while he tenderly wiped away the fast-falling tears.

“My poor darling, my poor little pet, don’t take it so to heart.  It is nothing; he will probably get over it before he is a month older.”

“Papa, is it my fault? did I give him undue encouragement? am I a coquette?” she sobbed.

“Far from it! did he dare to call you that?”

“No, no, oh, no; he said he did not blame me; it was all his own folly.”

“Ah!  I think the better of him for that; though ’twas no more than just.”

“I thought he knew of my engagement.”

“So did I. And the absurdity of the thing!  Such a mixture of relationships as it would have been!  I should never have entertained the thought for a moment.  And he ought to have spoken to me first, and spared you all this.  No, you needn’t fret; he deserves all he suffers, for what he has inflicted upon you, my precious one.”

“I hardly think that, papa; he was very generous to take all the blame to himself; but oh, you have eased my heart of half its load.  What should I ever do without you, my own dear, dear father!”