She laughed and blushed. "I've been running after you, _shockingly_, haven't I? I ran away from home and found you in the queer little street in the queer little home with those _angel_ Irish people! How are they all, Cousin Antony, and the freckled children?" "Bella," her cousin asked, "haven't they nearly finished with you in school? You are grown up." She shook her head vehemently. "Nonsense, I'm a dreadful hoyden still. Think of it! I've never been on the roll of honour yet at St. Mary's." "No?" he smiled. "They were wrong not to put you there. How is Aunt Caroline?" The girl's face clouded, and she said half under her breath-- "_Why, don't you know?_" Ah, there was another grave, then? What did Bella mean? She exclaimed, stopped swinging her gloves, folded her hands gravely-- "Why, Cousin Antony, didn't you read in the papers?" He saw a rush of colour fill her cheeks. It wasn't death, then? He hadn't seen any papers for some time, and he never should have expected to find his aunt's name in the papers. "I don't believe I can tell you, Cousin Antony." He drew up a chair and sat down by her. "Yes, you can, little cousin." Her face was troubled, but she smiled. "Yes, that was what you used to call me, didn't you? You see, I'm hardly supposed to know. It's not a thing a girl _should_ know, Cousin Antony. Can't you guess?" "Hardly, Bella." Fairfax wiped his hands on a bunch of cloths, and the dry morsels of clay fell to the floor. "Tell me what it is about Aunt Caroline." "She is not my mother any more, Cousin Antony, nor father's wife either." He waited. Bella's tone was low and embarrassed. "I don't know how to tell it. She had a lovely voice, Cousin Antony." "She had indeed, Bella." "Well," slowly commented the young girl, "she took music lessons from a teacher who sang in the opera, and I used to hear them at it until I nearly lost my mind sometimes. I _hate music_--I mean that kind, Cousin Antony." "Well," he interrupted, impatient to hear the _denouement_. "What then, honey?" "One night at dinner-time mother didn't come home; but she is often late, and we waited, and then went on without her.... She never came home, and no one ever told me anything, not even old Ann. Father said I was not to speak my mother's name again. And I never have, until now, to you." Fairfax took in his Bella's hands that turned the little rolled kid gloves; they were cold. He bent his eyes on her. Young as she was, she saw there and recognized compassion and human understanding, qualities which, although she hardly knew their names, were sympathetic to her. He bent his eyes on her. "Honey," Fairfax said, "you have spoken your mother's name in the right place. Don't judge her, Bella!" "Oh!" exclaimed the young girl, crimsoning. She tossed her proud, dark head. "I do judge her, Cousin Antony, I do." "Hush!" he exclaimed sternly, "as you say, you are too young to understand what she has done, but not too young to be merciful."