they were; for Du Meresq knew Cecil's disposition, and was far from
wishing to break with her, though "why should he spare this little girl
with the chestnut hair, and the love in her deep-blue eyes?" And Bluebell
no longer shrank from being underhand. It did not strike her in that
light now. She thought of nothing but Bertie, who was so different before
the others, that she learnt to look forward to their brief chances of
being alone as much as he did. And Du Meresq, with ingenious sophistry,
expatiated on the charm of keeping their delicious secret to themselves,
uncommented on by the cold and unsympathetic.

Thus Bluebell, from being a lively, ingenuous, outspoken child, altered
into a dreamy maiden, living a hidden life of repressed excitement, whose
whole interest was the fugitive, uncertain interviews with Bertie, and an
interchanged glance, touch of the hand, or few fond words, ventured on
when the others were not attending.

"Bluebell," laughed Cecil, as a cutter drove to the door, "here is your
Lubin again." The girls had just returned from the Rink, and were
disrobing upstairs.

"Oh, he is so tiresome," said the other. "I declare I won't come down."

"That you must; we should never get rid of him; he would sit on waiting
for you. You have made such a goose of him, Bluebell, and he used to be
such fun."

"I shouldn't mind him if he was fun now; but he just sits glowering at
one, and stays so long. Why can't a person see when he is not wanted?"

"But you do want him sometimes," said Cecil. "You are always 'off' and