"Wants me to what?" Grace asked, fancying she had not heard aright, and as Edith repeated the message, there stole into her heart a warm, happy feeling, such as she had not experienced since the orange wreath crowned her maiden brow. Edith had not told her exactly what he said, she knew, but it was sufficient that he cared to see her, and she resolved to gratify him, but with something of her olden coquetry she would wait awhile and make him think she was not coming. So she said no more to Edith upon the subject, but told her that she was expecting her cousin Arthur St. Claire, a student from Geneva College, that he would be there in a day or two, and while he remained at Brier Hill she wished Edith to try and behave herself. "This Mr. St. Claire," said she, "belongs to one of the most aristocratic Southern families. He is not accustomed to anything low, either in speech or manner." "Can't I even say JOLLY?" asked Edith, with such a seriously comical manner that Grace had great difficulty to keep from smiling. "Jolly" was Edith's pet word, the one she used indiscriminately and on all occasions, sometimes as an interjection, but oftener as an adjective. If a thing suited her it was sure to be jolly--she always insisting that 'twas a good proper word, for MARIE used it and SHE knew. Who Marie was she could not tell, save that 'twas somebody who once took care of her and called her jolly. It was in vain that Grace expostulated, telling her it was a slang phrase, used only by the vulgar. Edith was inexorable, and would not even promise to abstain from it during the visit of Arthur St. Claire. CHAPTER V. VISITORS AT COLLINGWOOD AND VISITORS AT BRIER HILL. The morning came at last on which Arthur was expected, but as he did not appear, Grace gave him up until the morrow, and toward the middle of the afternoon ordered out her carriage, and drove slowly in the direction of Collingwood. Alighting before the broad piazza, and ascending the marble steps, she was asked by Richard's confidential servant into the parlor, where she sat waiting anxiously while he went, in quest of his master. "A lady, sir, wishes to see you in the parlor," and Victor Dupres bowed low before Richard, awaiting his commands. "A lady, Victor? Did she give her name?" "Yes, sir; Atherton--Mrs. Grace Atherton, an old friend, she said," Victor replied, marveling at the expression of his master's face, which indicated anything but pleasure. He had expected her--had rather anticipated her coming; but now that she was there, he shrank from the interview. It could only result in sorrow, for Grace was not to him now what she once had been. He could value her, perhaps, as a friend, but Edith's tale had told him that he to her was more than a friend. Possibly this knowledge was not as distasteful to him as he fancied it to be; at all events, when he remembered it, he said to Victor: