“My mother looks handsome when she is in a passion, does she not, Rose?” said Danville, quietly putting up his snuff-box as the old lady sailed out of the room. “Why, you seem quite frightened, love,” he added, taking her hand with his easy, graceful air; “frightened, let me assure you, without the least cause. My mother has but that one prejudice, and that one weak point, Rose. You will find her a very dove for gentleness, as long as you do not wound her pride of caste. Come, come, on this night, of all others, you must not send me away with such a face as that.” He bent down and whispered to her a bridegroom’s compliment, which brought the blood back to her cheek in an instant. “Ah, how she loves him--how dearly she loves him!” thought her brother, watching her from his solitary corner of the room, and seeing the smile that brightened her blushing face when Danville kissed her hand at parting. Lomaque, who had remained imperturbably cool during the outbreak of the old lady’s anger--Lomaque, whose observant eyes had watched sarcastically the effect of the scene between mother and son on Trudaine and his sister, was the last to take leave. After he had bowed to Rose with a certain gentleness in his manner, which contrasted strangely with his wrinkled, haggard face, he held out his hand to her brother “I did not take your hand when we sat together on the bench,” he said; “may I take it now?” Trudaine met his advance courteously, but in silence. “You may alter your opinion of me one of these days.” Adding those words in a whisper, Monsieur Lomaque bowed once more to the bride and went out. For a few minutes after the door had closed the brother and sister kept silence. “Our last night together at home!” That was the thought which now filled the heart of each. Rose was the first to speak. Hesitating a little as she approached her brother, she said to him, anxiously: “I am sorry for what happened with Madame Danville, Louis. Does it make you think the worse of Charles?” “I can make allowance for Madame Danville’s anger,” returned Trudaine, evasively, “because she spoke from honest conviction.” “Honest?” echoed Rose, sadly, “honest?--ah, Louis! I know you are thinking disparagingly of Charles’s convictions, when you speak so of his mother’s.” Trudaine smiled and shook his head; but she took no notice of the gesture of denial--only stood looking earnestly and wistfully into his face. Her eyes began to fill; she suddenly threw her arms round his neck, and whispered to him: “Oh, Louis, Louis! how I wish I could teach you to see Charles with my eyes!” He felt her tears on his cheek as she spoke, and tried to reassure her. “You shall teach me, Rose--you shall, indeed. Come, come, we must keep up our spirits, or how are you to look your best to-morrow?”