“He will get on much better by himself, my dear,” and Lord Rotherwood threw himself back in his chair and laughed heartily and merrily, to the amazement and mystification of the two girls.  “You will have a beauty on your hands, my lady.”

“Well, as long as it is not that horrid White girl-—” said her ladyship, breaking off there.

“A very sorry Rebecca,” said her lord, laughing the more.

But the Marchioness rose up, and the two cousins had to accept the signal.

The train, after the leisurely fashion of continental railways, kept Ivinghoe fuming at the station, and rattled along so as to give travellers a full view of the coast, more delightful to them than to the youth, who had rushed off with intentions, he scarce knew what, of setting right the consequences of Maura’s—-was it deception, or only a thought, of which the wish was father?

He reached the station that led to the works at Rocca Marina.  The sun was high, the heat of the day coming on, and as he strode along, the workmen were leaving off to take their siesta at noontide.  On he went, across the private walks in the terraced garden, not up the broad stone steps that led to the house, but to a little group of olive trees which cut off the chaplain’s house from the castle gardens, and where stood a great cork tree, to whose branches a hammock had been fastened, and seats placed under it.  As he opened the gate a little dog’s bark was heard, and he was aware of a broad hat under the tree.  Simultaneously a small Maltese dog sprang forward, and Francie’s head rose from leaning over the little table with a start, her cheeks deeper rose than usual, having evidently gone to sleep over the thin book and big dictionary that lay before her.

“Oh!” she said, “it is you.  Was I dreaming?”

“I am afraid I startled you.”

“No-—only"-—she still seemed only half awake—-"it seemed to come out of my dream.”

“Then you were dreaming of me?”

“Oh no.  At, least I don’t know,” she said, the colour flushing into her face, as she sat upright, now quite awake and alive to the question, between truthfulness and maidenly modesty.

“You were-—you were; you don’t deny it!” And as she hung her head and grew more distressfully redder and redder, “You know what that means.”

“Indeed-—indeed-—I couldn’t help-—I never meant!  Oh-—”

It was an exclamation indeed, for Uncle Clement’s head appeared above the hammock, where he too had been dozing over his book, with the words—-

“Halloo, young people, I’m here!”

Franceska would have fled, but Ivinghoe held her hand so tight that she could not wrench it away.  He held it, while Clement struggled to the ground, and then said—-

“Sir, there is no reason you or all the world should not know how I love this dearest, loveliest one.  I came here this morning hoping that she may grant me leave to try to win her to be my own.”