Cecil, however, was determined to resist the damping influence as long as she could.  She rattled off lively French airs at the piano, and challenged her father to chess; but he only drily remarked “that after having passed the day in wet clothes, she had better take some ordinary precautions and go to bed.”  Indeed, her slightly feverish manner perhaps warranted the advice.

“Good night, then, Bertie, and mind you are here early to-morrow for Lola’s picnic.”

It was the child’s birthday, and she had written roundhand invitations to all of them, to spend the day on Long Island and lunch there.

“Tell Lola,” said Bertie, smiling, “I would not miss it for the world.  She will think me very shabby, but I can’t get her a present at Rice Lake.”

He went away himself a few minutes after, half hoping to obtain from Cecil a second and more affectionate farewell, but could see nothing of her.  Just as he stepped out, though, a casement shot open, and her bright face appeared for an instant as she threw down a rose, round the stalk of which was a slip of paper with the word “Courage?” scratched upon it.  She put a finger on her lips warningly, then kissed her hand, and vanished.

Bertie picked up the rose.  It was one she had plucked as they entered the garden, and worn in her dress that evening.

As he got into one of the various canoes at the landing, another one passed, paddled by a good-looking youth, who half stopped, and gazed intently at Du Meresq, then catching sight of the flower in his button-hole, an expression of baffled rage came over his boyish face, and he shot away.

It was Alec Gough prowling around with his flageolet, intent upon addressing some minstrelsy to Bluebell, and much disconcerted by the sight of Du Meresq coming from that house with a trophy in the shape of a faded rose.

About two hours after, Cecil, too feverish from the exciting events of the day to sleep, became sensible of some strains of music, apparently from the lake.  She sat up to listen.  Could it possibly be Bertie?  No; he was too good a musician for that barrel-organ style; some wandering person from the hotel it must be.  The air was familiar to her, though she could not immediately recall the name.  At last she recollected it was one of Moore’s melodies, and a verse of it, really intended by Alec for an indignant expostulation to Bluebell, came into her head.—­

  “Fare thee well, thou lovely one,
     Lovely still, but dear no more;
   Once the soul of truth is gone,
     Love’s sweet life is o’er.”

One is more prone to fancies and superstitions in the night-time, and something in the sentiment saddened her.  The unknown musician did not weaken the effect by playing another air; and Cecil towards morning fell into an unrefreshing slumber, in which her dreams seemed to parody the day’s adventures.