“No more! I’ll hear no more! Begone and leave me!” “Not hear me? By my sufferings but you shall!” OTWAY. Gloria remained in her own room until the dinner-bell rang. Then she arose, hastily arranged her dress, glanced into the mirror to be sure that all traces of the morning’s stormy emotion had passed away from her face at least, however it might still trouble her spirit or influence her conduct, and finally she went down stairs and into the dining-room. There she found Colonel de Crespigney, looking ever paler than usual. He fixed his large, dark, dreamy eyes upon her, not offensively now, but with a mournfully appealing gaze, that went to her heart, as he gently took her hand and murmured: “I am very unhappy, Gloria. I frightened you this morning, dear. I do not know how I did it. I did not mean to do it; and I beg your pardon, my child.” “Oh, uncle, dear, do not say that. It was I, myself, who was so rude and absurd. I do not know why I was so. I never meant to be. I hope you will forgive me,” she answered, speaking from the pity of her heart. Then with an instantaneous reaction of fear that fell like a blow upon her consciousness, she regretted her tenderness, and wished that she had not spoken so warmly. He—ah! he only heard her gracious words, only saw her sweet smile; he could not perceive the changing, shrinking spirit. He beamed on her with a look that made her shiver, as he drew her hand within his arm and led her to the table with old-time princely courtesy, and then took his own seat. Laban had just placed the soup on the table, and now stood behind his master’s chair to wait. While the servant remained present there was no more conversation between the guardian and the ward than the etiquette of the dinner hour required. But when the man had removed the cloth and placed the fruits, cake and coffee on the table and had left the room, and the uncle and niece were alone together, though the feelings of each towards the other were of the kindliest nature, yet there fell a certain painful constraint on their intercourse, such as had never existed in all their past lives, but such as could never quite pass away in all their future days. How was this? For weeks Marcel de Crespigney had rendered his youthful ward very uneasy by his manner toward her. On that morning he had frightened her from her self-possession, and she had rushed from him in terror. Later and cooler reflection had convinced her that she had really no actual cause for offence or fear. And when he had made his humble apology, her heart had been so touched that she had more than forgiven him, she had spoken tenderly to him, and she had taken all the blame upon herself. Then, with strange misgivings of wrong and woe, she had regretted her graciousness, and when he beamed on her with a look of love and joy, she had shrunk up into reserve and cautiousness. She became possessed of that