“I have made you no promise—­given you no pledge,” she said, looking at him, with her voice trembling a little.

“You have let me feel that I have an influence over you.  You have opened your mind to me.”

“I never opened my mind to you, Mr. Brand!” Gertrude cried, with some vehemence.

“Then you were not so frank as I thought—­as we all thought.”

“I don’t see what any one else had to do with it!” cried the girl.

“I mean your father and your sister.  You know it makes them happy to think you will listen to me.”

She gave a little laugh.  “It does n’t make them happy,” she said.  “Nothing makes them happy.  No one is happy here.”

“I think your cousin is very happy—­Mr. Young,” rejoined Mr. Brand, in a soft, almost timid tone.

“So much the better for him!” And Gertrude gave her little laugh again.

The young man looked at her a moment.  “You are very much changed,” he said.

“I am glad to hear it,” Gertrude declared.

“I am not.  I have known you a long time, and I have loved you as you were.”

“I am much obliged to you,” said Gertrude.  “I must be going home.”

He on his side, gave a little laugh.

“You certainly do avoid me—­you see!”

“Avoid me, then,” said the girl.

He looked at her again; and then, very gently, “No I will not avoid you,” he replied; “but I will leave you, for the present, to yourself.  I think you will remember—­after a while—­some of the things you have forgotten.  I think you will come back to me; I have great faith in that.”

This time his voice was very touching; there was a strong, reproachful force in what he said, and Gertrude could answer nothing.  He turned away and stood there, leaning his elbows on the gate and looking at the beautiful sunset.  Gertrude left him and took her way home again; but when she reached the middle of the next field she suddenly burst into tears.  Her tears seemed to her to have been a long time gathering, and for some moments it was a kind of glee to shed them.  But they presently passed away.  There was something a little hard about Gertrude; and she never wept again.

CHAPTER VI

Going of an afternoon to call upon his niece, Mr. Wentworth more than once found Robert Acton sitting in her little drawing-room.  This was in no degree, to Mr. Wentworth, a perturbing fact, for he had no sense of competing with his young kinsman for Eugenia’s good graces.  Madame Munster’s uncle had the highest opinion of Robert Acton, who, indeed, in the family at large, was the object of a great deal of undemonstrative appreciation.  They were all proud of him, in so far as the charge of being proud may be brought against people who were, habitually, distinctly guiltless of the misdemeanor known as “taking credit.”  They never boasted of Robert Acton, nor indulged in vainglorious reference to him; they