"Do come and sit down," she said. "You are the very person I was thinking about, and particularly wish to see." As she concluded she held up a letter, and said: "This is _all_ about you." "Then it is bound to be stupid," he rejoined, heaving a dog out of a chair, and taking its place. "I've come over to have a talk with you—great wits, you see, jump together; but, bar all jokes, I shall be glad if your wit will clear up a puzzle for me." Mrs. Gordon looked at him inquiringly, and faintly coloured as she said: "You have had a visit from Mr. Eliot, good, brave man." "Good, yes; but there was no particular question of courage," said Major Gascoigne, rather sharply. "Did you fear I would knock him down, or shoot him?" and his tone was sarcastic. "I'm thinking of moral courage," she answered quickly. "It required a certain amount to go and beard you—and tell you—that you had been tried by the tribunal of the station and sentenced to—marry——" "Angel," he supplemented, half under his breath. "Yes, it appears that Mrs. Flant has been assiduously spreading reports," continued his companion, "and nothing will appease Mrs. Grundy—short of—your marriage." "And is it not shameful?" he broke out, with a ring of passion in his voice, "that I should have to marry that poor child, in order to shut Mrs. Flant's mouth?" "To shut everyone's mouth," corrected Mrs. Gordon; "even Donald says it is desirable. Mrs. Flant has the pen of a ready writer, as well as hosts of correspondents—she has a hideous mind, and, you see, you were promoted over her brother's head." "Simply because he was incompetent. An unmitigated duffer—his work was notorious. I'm still patching and repairing and destroying." "I always thought it was a hazardous experiment, your taking charge of Angel," observed Mrs. Gordon, as she meditatively surveyed her visitor. What a handsome fellow he was! with his sun-bronzed, clear-cut face—at present clouded with gloom. What an excellent husband he would make; it was a pity he was unmarried, and only (she secretly felt assured) some extraordinarily tidal wave of circumstance such as the present, would ever sweep him into the net matrimonial. He would be so much happier with a wife. And Angel? With a woman's instinctive knowledge of another, Mrs. Gordon knew that Angel—beautiful, bewitching, fascinating Angel—loved no one as she did this good-looking, dark-eyed cousin, who lay back in his chair with his hands locked behind his head, his gaze riveted on his well-cut riding boots, and an expression of tragic protestation on his countenance. Angel was not in love yet. She loved him (there is a difference)—she loved him as the champion of her childhood, the bond between her and her mother, her ideal, champion, and friend. This love was well hidden away from all unsympathetic eyes, for Angel had made no foolish boast, when she had declared that she would conceal her feelings, but the love, a rare, strong, pure love, was there.