Bluebell was young and credulous, her heart had been flattered away by this man, who had had so many before and did not want it now, and yet, poor child, could she have looked beyond, she might have seen cause for thankfulness that the thing most hotly desired was withheld for this early love had not root enough for the wear and tear of life.  It was a hob day romance, born of the senses, the bewildering fascination of a graceful presence and winning voice, and well for her if her guardian angel stood with even a flaming sword in the way.

The two girls did not meet till the morning, when Cecil, preoccupied as she was, could not but notice the blanched weariness of Bluebell’s face which, owing a great deal of its beauty to colouring, appeared by contrast almost plain.

“You should have come up the Saguenay with us.  I am sure Rice Lake cannot agree with you,” said she, launching into a glowing and graphic description of their adventures.  In reality, Cecil had detested the whole expedition, having been in a continual fever to return; but, now that her mind was at ease, memory brought out the notable points in a surprising way, and she quite talked herself into believing that she had enjoyed it immensely, and had witnessed everything with the utmost relish and curiosity.

They were sitting in the garden over-looking the lake, and a tiny sail shot out from the hotel landing and stood towards them.  A light stole over the face of the brunette, but the features of the blonde became rigid as they marked its progress.  Neither alluded to the circumstance—­Cecil continued her narrative, and Bluebell made the requisite replies; but when the boat had made Lyndon’s Landing, and Du Meresq and Lascelles jumped out, Cecil found she was receiving them alone.

The latter was come on a farewell call.  The two friends meant to sail to a railway station five miles up the lake, where Lascelles would take the car, and Du Meresq bring the canoe back.  After a short visit, Mrs. Rolleston and Cecil strolled down to see them off.

“I have never tried the canoe with a sail up,” remarked the latter.  “With this wind it must be absolutely flying.”

“Not quite so dry,” said Lascelles, laughing.  “Du Meresq is such a duffer; he ships a lot of water.”

“Cecil,” said Bertie, giving a pre-conceived idea the air of an impromptu, “come up to Coonwood with us; it’s lovely scenery all the way, and I should have a companion back.”

“What do you say, mamma; may I go?” dropping her eyes and speaking in an indifferent voice, to disguise her delight in the anticipation.

“May I go?” mimicked Lascelles to himself.  “Bertie is always sacrificing me to some girl or other.  She will swamp the boat,—­it’s within an inch of the water already with my portmanteau,—­and very likely make me miss my train, or get wet through pulling her out.”  This in soliloquy, but he looked courteous and smiling.