well she looks to-night!"

Cecil was sitting apart, utterly absent as it seemed, but her eyes were
shining, and there was a soft brightness about her as she turned over the
pages of a book. It was "The Wanderer,"--one that Bertie had brought with
him.

Mrs. Rolleston agreed and interpreted it her own way. Bluebell drew a
long rocking-chair by her side, and they fell into a pleasant little
talk. Mrs. Rolleston always made a pet of this child; she was the best of
step-mothers, but stood a little in awe of Cecil.

Du Meresq came in shortly before the rest; the elder girl did not even
look up, but her face again lit. He stood _à l'Anglais_, with his back to
the fire, talking to his sister, and occasionally, though without any
particular _empressement_, addressing Bluebell, who thought his voice
sweeter than any man's she had ever heard. It made her unconsciously
modulate her own, which as yet had the untuned accents of early girlhood;
but the spell was on her, and she felt, for the first time, at a loss for
words. Yet when Mrs. Rolleston shortly after sent her to the piano, it
was more of disappointment than a relief. Some one was following to turn
the leaves--only Mr. Vavasour--odious, officious boy! Who wanted him?

"Pray, don't," cried she, pettishly. "You are sure to do it all wrong."

"Let me try," pleaded Jack. "If you just look at me I shall know when to
turn."

"Well, see if you can bring that book" (indicating a very heavy one at
the bottom of a pile) "without spilling the rest, or dropping it on your