Shortly before the end of Margaret’s allotted week in Baltimore, Mrs. Gaston forwarded to her an invitation to a large party to be given by some people who happened to be friends of Alan Decourcy also, and insisted that both of them should come over in time for the entertainment. Margaret’s week would be out, she said, and no extension of leave would be granted. So she was to come without fail, and to bring Mr. Decourcy with her. Alan readily acquiesced in the arrangement, and at the proper time they set forth together. Margaret was feeling particularly well-disposed toward her cousin that afternoon, as they steamed along in the express train together. She had the recollection of a host of kind acts toward herself stored away in her mind, and it seemed to come almost more naturally than usual to her to like this pleasant, considerate, affectionate cousin. When they had reached Washington, and were driving swiftly along the smooth asphalt pavements in Cousin Eugenia’s snug coupé, Margaret said, cordially: “You’ve done _everything_ to make my visit a happy one, Alan! I do thank you so much.” “It has been a happy time to me,” he said; “_so_ happy! How capitally we get on together, Daisy--don’t we?” “It always makes me think of dear papa to hear you call me Daisy,” answered the girl, instinctively avoiding a direct answer to his appeal. “I had forgotten that you called me so.” “I have adopted it intentionally,” he said. “Margaret seems cold, and I want to get rid of the sense of distance between us which our long separation has engendered, for who knows but by-and-by what you are pleased to call nonsense now may come to look differently, as use familiarizes it? Don’t turn upon me in that sudden way, dear. I wouldn’t startle you for the world. I only want you to promise to think of me often, until after a while I come to see you down in Bassett, and we can talk things over quietly and calmly.” “I shall always think of you as a kind and dear cousin,” answered Margaret. “But I cannot promise I shall always be content with that,” he said, bending toward her, with a motion of great gentleness, and softly laying his gloved hand over hers. “My sweet Margaret,” he murmured; “my strong hope is, that some day I can teach you to think of me as I would have you. And, meantime, I can wait.” Margaret made an effort to withdraw her hand, but he held it in a close, detaining clasp, and, looking up, she met his eyes fixed on her, with a gaze so sweet and tender, that it somehow seemed to soothe, while it agitated her. Once more she attempted to withdraw her hand, and this time he released it, but before doing so he raised it to his lips and kissed it.