"Oh, do not think of that, it is such a mere trifle! I supposed mamma had drawn it all out until I looked over her papers. Then I had a notice of the settlement, but I should have come home in any event. I had grown tired of Europe, very tired. I dare say you think me _ennuied_, whimsical." "Indeed, I do not," warmly. "Home is to a woman what the setting is to a diamond. And though the advice of such a rambler may not be worth much, still, whatever I can do----" He pauses and his eye rests upon her, takes in her exceeding beauty, grace, and repose; the admirable fitness for every little exigency that society training gives. She seems a part of the morning picture, and akin to the fresh, odorous air, the soft yet glowing sun, the rippling river, the changeful melody of flitting birds. He is fresh now, not vexed and nervous with the cares of the day; he has been reading an old poet, too, which has softened him. An oriole perches on the tree near him and begins an enchanting song. Both turn, and she leans over the railing, still in range of his eyes. He remembers like a sudden flash that they were here years ago, planning, dreaming, hoping, she his promised wife. Does it stir his soul? Was that merely a young man's fancy for a pretty girl, engendered by friendly companionship? She glances up so quickly that he flushes and is half ashamed of speculating upon her. "It is delightful! Ah, I do not wonder you love this morning hour, when beauty reigns supreme, before the toil and moil of the world has begun. It stirs one's heart to worship. And yet we, senseless creatures, dance through starry midnights in hot rooms, and waste such heavenly hours in stupid slumber. Do you wonder that I am tired of it all?" "Papa, papa!" Cecil comes dancing like a sprite of the morning, and clasping his hand, springs upon his knee, burying her face in his beard, her soft lips sweet with kisses. Then as if remembering, turns, says, "Good morning, madame," with a grave inclination of the head, and nestles down on his lap. Madame could strangle her, but she smiles sweetly, and speaks with subtle tenderness in which there is a touch of longing. Floyd wonders again how it is that Cecil is blind to all this attraction. Then the conversation drops to commonplaces, and the breakfast-bell rings. There is so much to do. To-morrow is the wedding morning, and the guests will begin to come to-day. Floyd will give up one of his rooms and take Cecil. Eugene is in his glory, and is really much more master of ceremonies than Floyd can be. There is nothing but flurry and excitement, but madame keeps cool as an angel. Mrs. Vandervoort and Mrs. Latimer, the bridegroom's sisters, both elegant society women, do not in the least shine her down, and are completely captivated by her.