Rollo leaned back against one side of the rockaway, and answered, while the old horse walked leisurely on—­,

‘I have looked at the subject from a new point of view, Prim.’

‘Have you?—­From what point of view, Duke?’ said Primrose, much interested.

‘I have made up my mind,’ said Rollo slowly, ’I shall waltz no more,—­except with the lady who will be my wife.  And when I waltz with her,—­she will waltz with nobody else!’

Prim sat back in her corner, and spoke not a word more.

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE LOSS OF ALL THINGS.

‘And how do you like your new neighbour, Prim?’ said the young Dr. Maryland the first night of his return home.  He had talked all tea-time to the collective family without once mentioning Miss Kennedy’s name, and now put the question to his sister as they sat alone together in the twilight.

‘O Arthur, very much.’

‘You see a good deal of her?’ was the next question, asked after a pause.

‘Y—­es,’ said Primrose, doubtfully, ’At least, when I am with her I think I do; when I am away from her it seems little.’

‘I must ride over there and call, to-morrow,’ said Dr. Arthur.  ‘Will you go too?’

And so it fell out that Dingee was summoned to the door next day to usher in the party.

‘Yes’m, Miss Ma’land—­Miss Hazel, she in, sure!—­singin’ to herself in de red room,’—­ and Dingee led the way.

It was a new room to most of the guests.  A room that seemed two sides woodland and one side sunshine.  Walls with deep crimson hangings, and carpets of the same hue; and quaint old carved oak chairs and tables, and a bookcase or two, and oaken shelves and brackets against the crimson of the walls.  The morning had been cool enough, there at Chickaree, for a wood fire, though only the embers remained now; and in front of where the fire had been, sat the young mistress of the house half hid in a great arm-chair.  Soft white folds fell all around her, and two small blue velvet slippers took their ease upon a footstool; with white laces giving their cobweb finish here, there and everywhere.  A book was in her hand, and on her shoulder the grey kitten purred secure, in spite of the silky curls which now and then made puss into a pillow.  Now and then.  For while Miss Kennedy sometimes made believe to read, an sometimes really sang—­pouring out scraps of song like a wild bird—­yet in truth her attention was oftenest given to the great picture which hung in one recess.  And then her head went down upon the grey kitten.  Just now, when the visitors came in, she was searching for the notes of that last song at Mrs. Powder’s; trying apparently, to catch it and bring it back; her girl’s voice endeavouring to represent that which her girl’s heart had never known.