I wonder what made her link her nature with mine in that word ‘we?’ And yet I feel that I am strong—as she is. The tombstone on which we were sitting professes to cover the remains of two lovers who died within a few hours of each other. I told her the story, as it has been related to me by one of our officers, who has taken the trouble to decipher the old Dutch letters upon the stone, and asked her if she believed it possible that grief could have such an effect as to kill within so short a space of time. ‘It seems unlikely,’ she replied indifferently; ‘but natures are so various. If true, she must have loved him very devotedly.’ ‘And you are the last person to believe in such affection,’ I remarked. I thought it would be a good occasion to find out if she had ever had an unfortunate attachment. ‘What makes you think so?’ she answered quickly. ‘Because you have never tried it—have you? You have never been in love yourself, Margaret?’ I spoke laughingly; but I wish I had not mentioned it. A scarlet flush mounted to her very forehead as I said the words; and when I pulled her by the hand and repeated my assertion, she burst into tears, and ran from me to the house. What a fool I was to touch on such a subject! I don’t believe, all the same, that it is true, that she has ever been in love; but I may have wounded her sensitive pride by mentioning it, and cause her to be reserved with me in future. Indeed, I am sure that she behaved more distantly towards me even during the remainder of the evening; and a little circumstance which happened just before we went to bed confirms me in this opinion. Janie was quite brisk and lively compared to what she has been lately, and sung us several songs; but Lionne excused herself from singing, and remained in a corner with her face buried in a book. ‘Make her come, Robert dear,’ said Janie playfully. ‘Go and pull her out.’ ‘Captain Norton knows better than to attempt such a rudeness,’ was the measured reply, which fell rather as a wet blanket on the other little woman’s mirth. ‘Why do you call him Captain Norton?’ she said, pouting. ‘You called him Robert this afternoon when you were in the verandah, Lionne, because I heard you. Why can’t you do so always?’ Miss Anstruther had disappeared still lower behind her book; but to my wife’s demand she made no reply. ‘Why won’t you call him Robert?’ said Janie, as she rose from the piano and took possession of her cousin’s book; ‘he always calls you Margaret.’ The face which she thus disclosed was crimson, and the dark eyes swam in a blurred mist which was half tears. So painful indeed was the expression of the whole countenance, that I turned away, and could not contemplate it. ‘Because I can’t, I really can’t,’ was the reply at last extracted. ‘And why not?’ persisted Janie. ‘It is not pleasant to me; I do not wish it,’ said Miss Anstruther, until I felt myself constrained to interfere, and desire Janie not to tease her cousin.