“Now look here, my young friend,” said Vizard, holding her lovely head by both ears, “you are exciting yourself about nothing, and that will end in one of your headaches. So, just take your candle, and go to bed, like a good little girl.” “Must I? Well, then, I will. Goodby, tyrant dear. Oh, how I love you! Come, Fanny.” She gave her hand shyly to Severne, and soon they were both in Zoe's room. Rosa was dismissed, and they had their chat; but it was nearly all on one side. Fanny had plenty to say, but did not say it. She had not the heart to cloud that beaming face again so soon; she temporized: Zoe pressed her with questions too; but she slurred things, Zoe asked her why Miss Maitland was so bitter against Mr. Severne. Fanny said, in an off-hand way, “Oh, it is only on your account she objects to him.” “And what are her objections?” “Oh, only grammatical ones, dear. She says his _antecedents_ are obscure, and his _relatives_ unknown, ha! ha! ha!” Fanny laughed, but Zoe did not see the fun. Then Fanny stroked her down. “Never mind that old woman. I shall interfere properly, if I see you in danger. It was monstrous her making an _esclandre_ at the very dinner-table, and spoiling your happy day.” “But she hasn't!” cried Zoe, eagerly. “'All's well that ends well.' I am happy--oh, so happy! You love me. Harrington loves me. _He_ loves me. What more can any woman ask for than to be _ambata bene?”_ This was the last word between Zoe and Fanny upon St. Brooch's day. As Fanny went to her own room, the vigilant Maitland opened her door that looked upon the corridor and beckoned her in. “Well,” said she, “did you speak to Zoe?” “Just a word before dinner. Aunt, she came in wet, to the skin, and in higher spirits than Rosa ever knew her.” Aunt groaned. “And what do you think? Her spoiled dress, she ordered it to be ironed and put by. _It is a case.”_ Next day they all met at a late breakfast, and good humor was the order of the day. This encouraged Zoe to throw out a feeler about the gambling-tables. Then Fanny said it must be nice to gamble, because it was so naughty. “In a long experience,” said Miss Dover, with a sigh, “I have found that whatever is nice is naughty, and whatever is naughty is nice.” “There's a short code of morals,” observed Vizard, “for the use of seminaries. Now let us hear Severne; he knows all the defenses of gambling lunacy has discovered.”