It was the chaperon who applied the firing spark to the electrical possibilities. “Didn't I hear you talking to some one out on the platform, Virginia?” she asked. “Yes, it was Mr. Winton. He came to make his excuses.” Mr. Somerville Darrah awoke out of his tobacco reverie with a start. “Hah!” he said fiercely. Then, in his most courteous phrase: “Did I undehstand you to say that Misteh Winton would not faveh us to-night, my deah Virginia?” “He could not. He has come upon--upon some other difficulty, I believe,” she stammered, steering a perilous course among the rocks of equivocation. “Mmph!” said the Rajah, rising. “Ah--where is Jastrow?” The obsequious one appeared, imp-like, at the mention of his name, and received a curt order. “Go and find Engineer McGrath and his fireman. Tell him I want the engine instantly. Move, seh!” Virginia retreated to her state-room. In a few minutes she heard her uncle go out; and shortly afterward the Rosemary's engine shook itself free of the car and rumbled away westward. At that, Virginia went back to the others and found a book. But if waiting inactive were difficult, reading was blankly impossible. “Goodness!” she exclaimed impatiently at last. “How hot you people keep it in here! Cousin Billy, won't you take a turn with me on the station platform? I can't breathe!” Calvert acquiesced eagerly, scenting an opportunity. But when they were out under the frosty stars he had the good sense to walk her up and down in the healing silence and darkness for five full minutes before he ventured to say what was in his mind. When he spoke it was earnestly and to the purpose, not without eloquence. He loved her; had always loved her, he thought. Could she not, with time and the will to try, learn to love him?--not as a cousin? She turned quickly and put both hands on his shoulders. “Oh, Cousin Billy--_don't_!” she faltered brokenly; and he, seeing at once that he had played the housebreaker where he would fain have been the welcome guest, took his punishment manfully, drawing her arm in his and walking her yet other turns up and down the long platform until his patience and the silence had wrought their perfect work. “Does it hurt much?” she asked softly, after a long time. “You would have to change places with me to know just how much it hurts,” he answered. “And yet you haven't left me quite desolate, Virginia. I still have something left--all I've ever had, I fancy.” “And that is--” “My love for you, you know. It isn't at all contingent upon your yes or no; or upon possession--it never has been, I think. It has never asked much except the right to be.” She was silent for a moment. Then she said: “Cousin Billy, I do believe that you are the best man that ever lived. And I am ashamed--ashamed!” “What for?” “If I have spoiled you, ever so little, for some truer, worthier woman.”