which the girl carries on in your own house.  Can you not see how adroitly she natters St. Elmo by pouring over his stupid MSS., and professing devotion to his pet authors?  Your own penetration will show you how unnatural it is that any pretty young girl like Edna should sympathize so intensely with my cousin’s outre studies and tastes.  Before I had been in this house twenty-four hours, I saw the game she plays so skillfully, and only wonder that you, my dear aunt, should be victimized by the cunning of one on whom you have lavished so much kindness.  Look at the facts.  She certainly has refused to marry Mr. Leigh, and situated as she is, how can you explain the mystery by any other solution than that which I have given, and which I assure you is patent to every one save yourself?”

Painful surprise kept Mrs. Murray silent for some moments, and at last shaking her head, she exclaimed: 

“I do not believe a word of it!  I know her much better than you possibly can, and so far from wishing to marry my son, she fears and dislikes him exceedingly.  Her evident aversion to him has even caused me regret, and at times they scarcely treat each other with ordinary courtesy.  She systematically avoids him, and occasionally, when I request her to take a message to him, I have been amused at the expression of her face, and her manoeuvres to find a substitute.  No! no! she is too conscientious to wear a mask.  You must tax your ingenuity for some better solution.”

“She is shrewd enough to see that St. Elmo is satiated with flattery and homage; she suspects that pique alone can force an entrance into the citadel of his heart, and her demonstrations of aversion are only a ruse de guerre.  My poor aunt!  I pity the disappointment and mortification to which you are destined, when you discover how complete is the imposture she practices.”

“I tell you, Estelle, I am neither blind nor exactly in my dotage, and that girl has no more intention of—­”

The door opened, and Mr. Murray came in.  Glancing round the room, and observing the sudden silence—­his mother’s flushed cheeks and angry eyes, his cousin’s lurking smile, he threw himself on the sofa, saying: 

“Tantoene animis coelestibus iroe?  Pray what dire calamity has raised a feud between you two?  Has the French Count grown importunate, and does my mother refuse her consent to your tardy decision to follow the dictates of your long outraged conscience, and bestow speedily upon him that pretty hand of yours, which has so often been surrendered to his tender clasp?  If my intercession in behalf of said Victor is considered worthy of acceptance, pray command me, Estelle, for I swear I never keep Runic faith with an ally.”

“My son, did it ever occur to you that your eloquence might be more successfully and agreeably exercised in your own behalf?”

Mrs. Murray looked keenly at her niece as she spoke: