“Quite, dear Eve,” said David, sadly—­but somehow it was like a rock speaking.

“Then there is my hand,” said Eve, with an instant transition to amiable cheerfulness that dazzled a body like a dark lantern flying open.  Used as David was to her, it stupefied him; he stared at her, and was all abroad.  “Well, what is the wonder now?” inquired Eve; “there are but two of us.  We must be together somehow or another must we not?  You won’t be wise with me; well, then, I’ll be a fool with you.  I’ll help you with this girl.”

“Oh, my dear Eve!”

“You won’t gain much.  Without me you hadn’t the shadow of a chance, and with me you haven’t a chance, that is all the odds.”

“I have!  I have! you have taken away my breath with joy;” and David was quite overcome with the turn Eve had taken in his favor.

“Oh, you need not thank me,” said Eve, tossing her head with a hypocrisy all her own.  “It is not out of affection for you I do it, you may be very sure of that; but it looks so ridiculous to see my brother slipping out of my way behind a tree as soon as he sees me coming—­oh! oh! oh! oh!” And a violent burst of sobs and tears revealed how that incident had rankled in this stoical little heart.

David, with the tear in his own eye, clasped her in his arms, and kissed her and coaxed her and begged her again and again to forgive him.  This she did internally at the first word; but externally no; pouted and sobbed till she had exacted her full tribute, then cleared up with sudden alacrity and inquired his plans.

“I am going to call at Font Abbey, and find out whether I have offended her.”

Eve demurred, “That would never do.  You would betray yourself and there would be an end of you.  How good I am not to let you go.  No, I’ll call there.  I shall quietly find out whether it is her doing that we have not been invited so long, or whose it is.  You stay where you are.  I won’t be a minute.”

When the minute was thirty-five, David came under her window and called her.  She popped her head out:  “Well?”

“What are you doing?”

“Putting on my bonnet.”

“Why, you have been an hour.”

“You wouldn’t have me go there a fright, would you?”

At last she came down and started for Font Abbey, and David was left to count the minutes till her return.  He paced the gravel sailor-wise, taking six steps and then turning, instead of going in each direction as far as he could.  He longed and feared his sister’s return.  One hour—­two hours elapsed; still he walked a supposed deck on the little lawn—­six steps and then turn.  At last he saw her coming in the distance; he ran to meet her; but when he came up with her he did not speak, but looked wistfully in her face, and tried hard to read it and his fate.

“Now, David, don’t make a fool of yourself, or I won’t tell you.”

“No, no.  I’ll be calm, I will—­be—­calm.”