“Why need you have got into the cupboard with him?” said Bluebell.  “It is just what you might have expected, in fact, it was inviting it.”

“It wasn’t,” said Crickey, almost crying, for she had previously been inclined to take it as a tribute to her charms.  “Freddy and Estelle had hid there before, and Captain Du Meresq said it was the best place in the house.”

“For that, no doubt,” began the other.  But Coey came to her sister’s assistance with a Biblical allusion to the mote and the beam, and Bluebell saw that if personalities were to be avoided, they had better go downstairs at once.  So the party of ladies passed a quiet sleepy evening,—­Mrs. Rolleston mentally resolving not to encourage those girls about the house while Du Meresq was at the lake, and wishing she could expedite Cecil’s return.  How much more danger there was from Bluebell she never suspected, Bertie had been so very cautious.

As they went up to bed, Crickey, who had become rather sobered by the dull evening, entreated Bluebell not to mention the cupboard scene in hide-and-seek, which was impatiently promised.  To think that she should be asked to keep any girl’s secret about Bertie!  “And now,” thought the poor bewildered child, “it will be almost more difficult than ever to see him alone, and I must ask him if there is anything between him and Cecil.”  For that seed of bitterness sown by Lilla had borne “Dead Sea fruit”; and, much as she struggled against the hateful idea, it really seemed the only clue to Bertie’s inconsistencies.

The next day Mrs. Rolleston had some letters, and reading one attentively, she threw it over to Bluebell.  “You didn’t seem to care for this some weeks ago, but you see you can think twice of it.  I did write rather enthusiastically about your music, which, really, is too good to be wasted on my children, and the result is Mrs. Leighton is quite wild to have you.”

A singular expression flitted over the girl’s face as she mechanically took the letter—­it was only to gain time, she wasn’t reading it; and the large salary and kind promises of a happy home took no effect on her mind.

She was thinking of Du Meresq.  Suppose he was only trifling with her, and all those warm protestations of affection were really to end in nothing!  She might even have to see him married to Cecil!  The thought was unendurable, yet it was possible; and, if so, how could she remain with the Rollestons?  And it would be almost as bad as returning to the cottage, once “so rich with thoughts of him.”  Chance had thrown Du Meresq again in her path, and she was determined to find out the truth.  Chance also offered her this retreat, which would put the ocean between them if he failed her, and then no distance could be too great for her wishes.

“Can you give me till the mail after next to decide?” said she, as she arrived at this point of decision.

“Oh, of course,” said Mrs. Rolleston, smiling at the almost tragic tone of resolution in which it was uttered.  “You will have to consult your mother, and she might not wish you to go to England.  Why child, how pale you are!”