“Surly fear and cold disgust, Wonderful and most unjust,” which she could neither comprehend nor conquer; for which she often blamed herself, but which now held her tongue-tied and downcast in the presence of her guardian. He, on his own part, quick to perceive her state, felt that he had again lost her confidence and filled her with fear; and he also grew reticent in looks and speech, and consequently depressed and mournful. She gave him a cup of coffee, without a word. He took it with a silent bow. Both were relieved when, at the end of the ceremony, they were free to leave the dining-room. She was the first to rise from the table. He followed her, opened the door, and held it until she had passed out. In the hall Gloria paused with indecision as to her next step. She had always been accustomed, since her return home, to go into the drawing-room, sit down at the grand piano and play some of Marcel de Crespigney’s favorite music, and, later in the evening, just before retiring, to sing some of his best-loved songs. Now she stood for a moment in doubt. Her vague uneasiness made her wish for the privacy and safety of her own chamber. Her benevolence made her unwilling to wound her guardian’s feelings by any such avoidance of his company. Only for a moment she hesitated, and then she led the way to the drawing-room, followed by Colonel de Crespigney. She played and sang for him all the evening, as usual, and on bidding him good-night, gave him her hand to kiss, as before. He merely touched it with his lips, and dropped it without a word. Gloria went to her room and retired to bed; but it was long before she could compose herself to sleep, and when she did so her slumbers were troubled with evil dreams that kept her tossing and starting all night. Only towards morning she slept soundly—so soundly that she was first awakened by the ringing of the breakfast-bell. She arose in haste and dressed herself, and went down to the breakfast-room, where she found her guardian pacing to and fro, waiting for her. “Good-morning, uncle, dear,” she said, holding out her hand. “‘Uncle,’ and always ‘uncle,’” he sighed, in a tone of reproach, as he held her hand and sought to meet her eyes. “I am not your uncle. I do not like the name. I have told you so, my dear. And yet it is ‘uncle,’ and always ‘uncle.’” “Yes, it is, and must be ‘uncle,’ and always ‘uncle,’ and nothing but ‘uncle,’ from me to you, uncle, dear,” she answered, persistently, though in a trembling tone, keeping her eyes fixed upon the floor lest they should encounter his gaze—for the gaze of those large, dark, dreamy, mournful orbs was beginning to have a terror and fascination of the serpent or the devil for her. “You have not forgiven me yet, Gloria,” he answered. “Indeed I have,” she replied, moving quickly to her place at the head of the table and touching the call-bell to bring in Laban with the coffee pot.