“What do you think Harry says about the doctor?”

“What?”

“He says Bella will find a difference between him and her guardian.  Mr. Bellairs used to let her spend her money just as she liked, and give away a great deal, but Doctor Morton looks too sharply after the dollars and cents for that.  He never lets himself be cheated out of a farthing, and never gives anything away.”

“I don’t like people who are quite so careful, to be sure; but Bella used to be rather extravagant sometimes.”

“Indeed she was.  I can’t think how she will do, so good-natured as she is, if her husband is so dreadfully hard.”

“Perhaps Harry is mistaken, though.  Come, we must go down.”

“You will have to dance Maurice’s quadrille with Mr. Percy to-night, Lucia; are not you sorry?”

Lucia blushed.  “Poor Maurice!” she said, and they went downstairs.  Magdalen was right.  Lucia danced with Percy, and thought no more of Maurice.  The evening passed too quickly; it seemed as if so much happiness ought to last, but twelve o’clock came, and the elder people began to disappear.  Mrs. Bellairs had left the room where the dancers were for a few minutes, and Lucia found her, looking tired and worried, in a small one which was quite deserted.

“I think I ought to go home,” she said.  “It is getting late.  But, dear Mrs. Bellairs, how dreadfully tired you look!”

“I am tired; but weddings don’t happen very often.  Have you been enjoying yourself?”

“Oh! yes, so much.  I don’t think there ever was such a delightful party.  It is only a pity Bella could not be here, and Maurice.”

“I am afraid Maurice would not have enjoyed himself so much as you have done.  Lucia, I am a little vexed with you, though I do not know whether I ought to say so.”

Lucia hung her head for a moment, and then raised it saucily, confident that, as she stood half in shadow, her glowing cheeks could not be seen.

“Why are you vexed with me?” she asked.

But it was not so easy to answer the question straightforwardly, and Mrs. Bellairs paused, half repenting that she had spoken.

“Do you know,” she said, “what people are beginning to call you?  They say that you are a flirt; and that is not a desirable character for a girl to acquire.”

Lucia’s cheeks burned in good earnest now, but it was with anger, not shame.

“But it is not true.  I am not a flirt.  It is quite absurd to say so.  You know I am not, Mrs. Bellairs.”

She was right.  This was not at all the accusation which her friend had in her heart to make, though people did say it, and Mrs. Bellairs had heard them.

Lucia turned around.  “I will get ready to go,” she said.  But some one was standing close beside her.

“Mr. Percy!” she exclaimed angry and annoyed, while Mrs. Bellairs hastily congratulated herself that he had neither been mentioned nor alluded to.