CHAPTER IV.

SATURDAY AT HOME.

Unhasp the lock—­like elves set free,
Flit out old memories;
A strange glow gathers round my heart. 
Strange moisture dims mine eyes. 
—­Lawrance.

Cecil woke the next morning with the feeling that something pleasant had happened; and then she remembered that Bertie Du Meresq was actually in the house, and the old folly as likely as ever to begin again; but, not possessing the self-examining powers of Anthony Trolloppe’s heroines, she made no attempt to argue herself out of her unreasonable happiness, and, indeed, dwelt far more than necessary on the warm, sudden hand-clasp so inopportunely witnessed by full private Bowers.  She came down radiant, and looking positively handsome; but when did a too sunny dawn escape a cloud ere noon?  Bertie seemed different somehow,—­was not certain he could get more leave,—­was even doubtful about asking for it; and Cecil’s mental Mercury, which had been “set fair,” went down to “change.”  In reality, Du Meresq not being so etherealized by love, felt out of sorts, and not up to the mark that morning, and, therefore, probably opined with Moore—­

  “Thus should woman’s heart and looks,
  At noon be cold as winter brooks,
  Nor kindle till the night returning
  Brings their genial hour for burning.”

At any rate, he actually went to the barracks with the Colonel, “as if he couldn’t get enough of that,” thought Cecil, “when he is not on leave.”

But after severe reflections on herself for caring a straw about it, Cecil had forgiven him, and a deceitful sunbeam peeped through in the prospect of meeting at luncheon, only to be again overcast, as the Colonel returned without the recreant Bertie.

This second reverse overthrew her afternoon arrangements, for she had reckoned on Du Meresq’s escort to the Rink.  This being Saturday, Bluebell always went home till the following day, and Mrs. Rolleston would not be available even for a drive, for she hated sleighing, and was looking forward to writing her English letters in the cozy drawing-room, and sociably imbibing afternoon tea with any visitors hardy enough to face the bitter northwester, happily so rare a visitant in that sufficiently inclement climate.

But Cecil preferred facing any weather to her own thoughts, and, encountering three Astrakhan-jacketed and fur-capped sisters under convoy of Miss Prosody, was carried off by them to enliven their dismal constitutional.

In the meantime, Captain Du Meresq, having lunched at the barracks, drove with Mr. Vavasour to the Rink, expecting to find both girls there:  but speculating rather the most on the chance of having a more unrestrained conversation with Bluebell than he cared for under the eyes of her responsible guardians.  His projects also were to prove futile, for that young person was speeding over the frozen tract on the common at the