"Oh, has she not?" said Mrs. Lorrington, laughing. "It is well I have come, Crystal. You are too innocent to live." She tapped her cheek as she spoke, and then turned her face to the moonlight. "And whom do you like best?" she said. "Mr. Dexter?" "Yes," said Anne; "I like him sincerely. And you will find his name very often there," she added, looking at the note-book by Helen's side. "Yes, but the others too, I hope. What _I_ want to know, of course, is the wicked career of the Knight-errant." "But is not Mr. Dexter the Knight-errant?" "By no means. Mr. Dexter is the Bishop; have you not discovered that? The Knight-errant is very decidedly some one else. And, by-the-way, how do you like Some One Else--that is, Mr. Heathcote?" "Mr. Heathcote!" "It is not polite to repeat one's words, Crystal. But--I suppose you do _not_ like him; and half the time, I confess, he is detestable. However, now that I have come, he shall behave better, and I shall make you like each other, for my sake. There is just one question I wish to ask here: has he been much with Rachel?" "No--yes--yes, I suppose he has," murmured Anne, sitting still as a statue in the shadow. The brassy moon had gone slowly and coldly behind a cloud, and the room was dim. "You suppose? Do you not know?" "Yes, I know he has." She stopped abruptly. She had never before thought whether Heathcote was or was not with Rachel more than with others; but now she began to recall. "Yes, he _has_ been with her," she said again, struck by a sudden pang. "Very well; I shall see to it, now that I am here," said Helen, with a sharp tone in her voice. "He will perhaps be sorry that I have arrived just at the end of the season--the time for grand climaxes, you know; but he will have to yield. My half-hour is over; I must go. How is the Grand Llama? Endurable?" "She is helping the children; I am grateful to her," replied Anne's voice, mechanically. "Which means that she is worse than ever. What a dead-alive voice you said it in! Now that I am here, I will do battle for you, Crystal, never fear. I must go. You shall see my triumphal entrance to-morrow at breakfast. Our rooms are not far from yours. Good-night." She was gone. The door was closed. Anne was alone. CHAPTER XVI. "You who keep account Of crisis and transition in this life, Set down the first time Nature says plain 'no' To some 'yes' in you, and walks over you In gorgeous sweeps of scorn. We all begin By singing with the birds, and running fast With June days hand in hand; but, once for all, The birds must sing against us, and the sun Strike down upon us like a friend's sword, caught By an enemy to slay us, while we read The dear name on the blade which bites at us." --ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.