“Come, come, little mischief-maker, no jealousy,” cried Captain Trevelyan, hastily drawing an arm of each within his own, and then they joined her ladyship in the shrubbery.

Fanny Trevelyan was truly in jest.  She had found that no real attachment was to be formed between her brother and friend.  There had arisen instead a tender familiarity, a friendship that is rare to be seen.  Maude Bereford had grown to treat Guy Trevelyan with brotherly kindness.  It pleased him to witness this feeling arising from disinterested friendship and motives of genuine purity.  Were it otherwise he would feel an embarrassment that might affect his honest nature.  When left to himself he could not dismiss from his thoughts the remark made by his sister.  He knew she was ignorant of his affairs in New Brunswick, yet he felt sorely puzzled.

Not long after the following conversation took place, Maude Bereford was preparing to hasten homeward.  Lady Rosamond sent cheerful accounts of her husband’s rapid improvement.  They were still visiting amid the ruins in hopes of speedily returning to England.

Every fortnight brought to Trevelyan Hall a lengthy epistle from Mary Douglas—­lengthy from the fact of its being addressed to each member of the family—­bearing remembrance to Lady Trevelyan, many choice bits of gossip to Guy, and charming effusions to Fanny, full of love and tenderness.  Her last contained a glowing allusion to Lady Rosamond—­an eager desire to meet her loving friend; also fervent gratitude for the hopeful restoration of Gerald’s health.

“I am almost inclined to feel a pang of jealousy,” exclaimed Fanny, as she read and re-read the contents of the precious missive.  “Mary loves Lady Rosamond better than any other friends on earth.”

“Why not, my child?” questioned Lady Trevelyan; “they are old friends—­friends in childhood, girlhood, and womanhood.  Lady Rosamond is worthy of the truest and purest love.  She is beautiful, good, and lovable.  Who could see her ladyship but to admire and love?”

“Dear Mamma,” returned Fanny, “you share my sentiments towards Lady Rosamond.  Guy seemed surprised when I ventured to wonder why he could remain so long in the daily society of two such gifted and lovely beings as her ladyship and Mary Douglas, without forming stronger ties than those of friendship.”

“Both are lovely,” exclaimed Lady Trevelyan.  “It would indeed be a difficult matter for a lover to decide between two so much alike in beauty, grace, and loveliness.”

“Strange that I did not think of this before, mamma,” said the childlike Fanny with an air of much wisdom.  “The poet must certainly have experienced the same predicament when he wrote: 

    “How happy could I be with either,
     Were t’other dear charmer away.”

A week had elapsed after Maude had arrived at the castle when a hastily written note was received by Fanny Trevelyan from the former, containing sad news from Rome.  Gerald Bereford had apparently recovered, and was on the eve of returning home when he was suddenly seized with hemorrhage of the lungs, which rapidly reduced him and brought on prostration.  Medical assistance had been obtained, but he now lay in a critical state, every means being used to prevent another attack, in which case there could be no hope.