“I don’t want such compliments!  And, oh!” and here her eyes widened with fright, “what shall I do?  He only said my feelings did me honour, and he would be patient and convince me.  Oh, Colonel Keith, what shall I do?” and she looked almost afraid that fate and perseverance would master her after all, and that she should be married against her will.

“You need do nothing but go on your own way, and persist in your refusal,” he said in the calm voice that always reassured her.

“Oh, but pray, pray never let him speak to me about it again!”

“Not if I can help it, and I will do my best.  You are quite right, Lady Temple.  I do not think it would be at all advisable for yourself or the children, and hardly for himself,” he added, smiling.  “I think the mischief must all have been done by that game at whist.”

“Then I’ll never play again in my life!  I only thought he was an old man that wanted amusing—.”  Then as one of the children peeped in at the window, and was called back—­“O dear! how shall I ever look at Conrade again, now any one has thought I could forget his father?”

“If Conrade knew it, which I trust he never will, he ought to esteem it a testimony to his mother.”

“Oh, no, for it must have been my fault!  I always was so childish, and when I’ve got my boys with me, I can’t help being happy,” and the tears swelled again in her eyes.  “I know I have not been as sad and serious as my aunt thought I ought to be, and now this comes of it.”

“You have been true, have acted nothing,” said Colonel Keith, “and that is best of all.  No one who really knew you could mistake your feelings.  No doubt that your conduct agrees better with what would please our dear Sir Stephen than if you drooped and depressed the children.”

“Oh, I am glad you say that,” she said, looking up, flushed with pleasure now, and her sweet eyes brimming over.  “I have tried to think what he would like in all I have done, and you know I can’t help being proud and glad of belonging to him still; and he always told me not to be shy and creeping into the nursery out of every one’s way.”

The tears were so happy now that he felt that the wound was healed, and that he might venture to leave her, only asking first, “And now what would you like me to do?  Shall I try to persuade my brother to come away from this place?”

“Oh, but then every one would find out why, and that would be dreadful!  Besides, you are only just come.  And Miss Williams—­”

“Do not let that stand in your way.”

“No, no.  You will be here to take care of me.  And his going now would make people guess; and that would be worse than anything.”

“It would.  The less disturbance the better; and if you upset his plans now, he might plead a sort of right to renew the attempt later.  Quiet indifference will be more dignified and discouraging.  Indeed, I little thought to what I was exposing you.  Now I hope you are going to rest, I am sure your head is aching terribly.”