“Now wasn’t that kind and thoughtful of papa to let us all sleep late after the company!” said Mrs. Jocelyn to Mildred.  “He went away, too, without his breakfast,” and in her gentle solicitude she scarcely ate any herself.

But weakly hiding trouble for a day was not kindness.  The wife and daughter, who should have helped to take in sail in preparation for the threatened storm, were left unconscious of its approach.  They might have noticed that Mr. Jocelyn had been more than usually anxious throughout the spring, but they knew so little of business and its risks, that they did not realize their danger.  “Men always worry about their affairs,” said Mrs. Jocelyn.  “It’s a way they have.”

Mr. Arnold’s visits and manner were much more congenial topics, and as a result of the entire confidence existing between mother and daughter, they dwelt at length on these subjects.

“Mamma,” said Mildred, “you must not breathe of it to a soul—­not even to papa yet.  It would hurt me cruelly to have it known that I think so much of one who has not spoken plainly—­that is, in words.  I should be blind indeed if I did not understand the language of his eyes, his tones, and manner.  And yet, and yet—­mamma, it isn’t wrong for me to love—­to think so much of him before he speaks, is it?  Dearly as I—­well, not for the world would I seem or even be more forward than a girl should.  I fear his people are too proud and rich to recognize us; and—­and—­he says so little about them.  I can never talk to him or any one without making many references to you and papa.  I have thought that he even avoided speaking of his family.”

“We have not yet been made acquainted with Mr. and Mrs. Arnold,” said Mrs. Jocelyn meditatively.  “It is true we attend the same church, and it was there that Vinton saw you, and was led to seek an introduction.  I’m sure we have not angled for him in any indelicate way.  You met him in the mission school and in other ways, as did the other young ladies of the church.  He seemed to single you out, and asked permission to call.  He has been very gentlemanly, but you equally have been the self-respecting lady.  I do not think you have once overstepped the line of a proper reserve.  It isn’t your nature to do such a thing, if I do say it.  She is a silly girl who ever does, for men don’t like it, and I don’t blame them.  Your father was a great hunter in the South, Millie, and he has often said since that I was the shyest game he ever followed.  But,” she added, with a low, sweet laugh, “how I did want to be caught!  I can see now,” she continued, with a dreamy look back into the past,” that it was just the way to be caught, for if I had turned in pursuit of him he would have run away in good earnest.  There are some girls who have set their caps for your handsome Mr. Arnold who don’t know this.  I am glad to say, however, that you take the course you do, not because you know better, but because you are better—­because you have not lost in city life the shy, pure nature of the wild flowers that were your early playmates.  Vinton Arnold is the man to discover and appreciate this truth, and you have lost nothing by compelling him to seek you in your own home, or by being so reserved when abroad.”