"It's a wonder she can hear through all that smoke," remarked Cynthia.

"She," said Mr. Ringgan, laughing,--"she's playing cook or housekeeper in
yonder, getting something ready for tea. She's a busy little spirit, if
ever there was one. Ah! there she is. Come here, Fleda--here's your cousin
Rossitur from West Point--and Mr. Carleton."

Fleda made her appearance flushed with the heat of the stove and the
excitement of turning the muffins, and the little iron spatula she used
for that purpose still in her hand; and a fresh and larger puff of the
unsavoury blue smoke accompanied her entrance. She came forward however
gravely and without the slightest embarrassment to receive her cousin's
somewhat unceremonious "How do, Fleda?"--and keeping the spatula still in
one hand shook hands with him with the other. But at the very different
manner in which Mr. Carleton _rose_ and greeted her, the flush on Fleda's
cheek deepened, and she cast down her eyes and stepped back to her
grandfather's side with the demureness of a young lady just undergoing the
ceremony of presentation.

"You come upon us out of a cloud, Fleda," said her cousin. "Is that the
way you have acquired a right to the name of Fairy?"

"I am sure, no," said Mr. Carleton.

Fleda did not lift up her eyes, but her mounting colour shewed that she
understood both speeches.

"Because if you are in general such a misty personage," Mr. Rossitur went
on half laughing, "I would humbly recommend a choice of incense."