Mrs. Vere was a woman who, in point of fact, was by no means incapable of deep duplicity, but in the present instance she had been guilty only of stating as facts what Mrs. Welford had told her more in the form of conjectures. She had happened to meet Somers at this friend’s house one evening, and had introduced the topic of Miss Trevennon, adroitly plying the young man with questions, and had satisfied herself that he was certainly in love with and probably engaged to her. On this basis she and Mrs. Welford had constructed the story which she told with such confidence to Gaston. As for Louis, he made but little headway with his estimates and prospecting that morning. His first impulse had been to disbelieve this story, and the remembrance of Margaret’s looks and tones as he had talked with her last night made it seem almost incredible. But then, as he looked back into the past, he recalled the incident of the pressed flower, and the emotion Margaret had shown on hearing Mr. Somers sing that Christmas night, and the long interview that followed next morning, and, more than all, the traces of tears he had afterward detected; and, as he thought of all these things, his heart grew very heavy. He soon resolved that he would go at once to Margaret, and learn the truth from her own lips. When he reached the house, he found Thomas engaged in polishing the brasses of the front door, which stood partly open. Being informed by him that Miss Trevennon was in the drawing-room alone, he stepped softly over the carpeted hall and entered the library. From there he could see Margaret, seated on a low ottoman before the fire, her hands clasped around her knees, and her eyes fixed meditatively upon the glowing coals. How his young blood leaped at the sight of her! How lovely and gentle she looked! Was she not the very joy of his heart, and delight of his eyes? Where was another like her?