She snatched her hands away, and sprang up, her eyes rebellious. "Why should I not judge her?" Her voice was indignant. "It's a disgrace to my honourable father, to our name. How can you, Cousin Antony?" Fairfax did not remove his eyes from her intense little face. "She was never a mother to us," the young girl judged, with the cruelty of youth. "Think how I ran wild! Do you remember my awful clothes? My things that never met, the buttons off my shoes? Think of darling little Gardiner, Cousin Antony...!" Her cousin again bade her be silent. She stamped her foot passionately. "But I will speak! Why should you take her part?" With an expression which Bella felt to be grave, Fairfax repeated-- "You must not speak her name, as your father told you. It's a mighty hard thing for one woman to judge another, little cousin. Wait until you are a woman yourself." Fairfax understood. He thought how the way had opened to his weak, sentimental aunt; he fancied that he saw again the doe at the gate of the imposing park of the unreal forest; the gate had swung open, and, her eyes as mild as ever, the doe had entered the mystic world. To him this image of his aunt was perfect. Oh! mysterious, dreadful, wonderful heart of woman! Bella stood by his side, looking up at him. "Cousin Antony," she breathed, "why do you take her part?" "I want her daughter to take it, Bella, or say nothing." Her dark eyes were on him intently, curiously. His throat was bare, his blond hair cut close around his neck; the marks of his recent grief and struggle had thinned and saddened his face. He had altered very much in five years. "I remember," Bella said sharply, "you used to seem fond of her;" and added, "I loved my father best." Fairfax made no reply, and Bella walked slowly across the studio, and started to sit down under the green lamp. "No," cried Fairfax, "not there, Bella!" Her hand on the back of the chair, the young girl paused in surprise. "Why, why not, Cousin Antony?" Why not, indeed! He had not prevented Rainsford from sitting there. "Is the chair weak in its legs?" she laughed. "I'm light--I'll risk it," and, half defiantly, she seated herself by the table, leaning both elbows on it. She looked back at him. "Now, make a little drawing of me as you used to do. I'll show it to the girls in school to prove what a genius we have in the family; and I must go back, too, or I'll have more bad marks than ever." Fairfax did not obey her. Instead, he looked at her as though he saw through her to eternity. Bella sprang up impulsively, and came toward him. "Cousin Antony," she murmured, "I'm perfectly dreadful. I'm selfish and inconsiderate. It's only because I'm a little wild. I don't mean it. You've told me nothing." She lifted his cravat from the chair. "You wear a black cravat and your clothes are black. Is it for Aunt Arabella still?"