As Miss Plumer finished the song Abel saw his sister coming toward him through the little crowd, although his eyes seemed to be constantly fixed upon the singer.

“How beautiful!” said he, ardently, in a low voice, looking Grace Plumer directly in the eyes.

“Yes, it is a pretty song.”

“Oh! you mean the song?” said Abel.

The singer blushed, and took up a bunch of roses that she had laid upon the piano and began to play with them.

“How very warm it is!” said she.

“Yes,” said Abel.  “Let us take a turn in the conservatory—­it is both darker and cooler; and I think your eyes will give light and warmth enough to our conversation.”

“Dear me! if you depend upon me it will be the Arctic zone in the conservatory,” said Miss Grace Plumer, as she rose from the piano. (Mrs. Newt had written Abel she was fourteen!  She was seventeen in May.)

“No, no,” said Abel, “we shall find the tropics in that conservatory.”

“Then look out for storms!” replied Miss Plumer, laughing.

Abel offered his arm, and the young couple moved through the humming room.  The arch eyes were cast down.  The voice of the youth was very low.

He felt a touch, and turned.  He knew very well who it was.  It was his sister.

“Abel, I want to present you to Miss Whetwood Tully.”

“My dear Fanny, I can not turn from roses to violets.  Miss Tully, I am sure, is charming.  I would go with you with all my heart if I could,” said he, smiling and looking at Miss Plumer; “but, you see, all my heart is going here.”

Grace Plumer blushed again.  He was certainly a charming young man.

Fanny Newt, with lips parted, looked at him a moment and shook her head gently.  Abel was sure she would happen to find herself in the conservatory presently, whither he and his companion slowly passed.  It was prettily illuminated with a few candles, but was left purposely dim.

“How lovely it is here!  Oh! how fond I am of flowers!” said Miss Plumer, with the prettiest little rapture, and such a little spring that Abel was obliged to hold her arm more closely.

“Are you fond of flowers, Mr. Newt?”

“Yes; but I prefer them living.”

“Living flowers—­what a poetic idea!  But what do you mean?” asked Grace Plumer, hanging her head.

Abel saw somebody on the cane sofa under the great orange-tree, almost hidden in the shade.  Dear Fanny! thought he.

“My dear Grace,” began Abel, in his lowest, sweetest voice; but the conservatory was so still that the words could have been easily heard by any one sitting upon the sofa.

Some one was sitting there—­some one did hear.  Abel smiled in his heart, and bent more closely to his companion.  His manner was full of tender devotion.  He and Grace came nearer.  Some one not only heard, but started.  Abel raised his eyes smilingly to meet Fanny’s.  Somebody else started then; for under the great orange-tree, on the cane sofa, sat Lawrence Newt and Hope Wayne.