“But alas for your theory, you were the object,” continued Alice. “_Me?_” “Yes, you—and one other—and that other was—can’t you guess?” “No, Ally dear, you talk in enigmas.” “Which perhaps this may solve,” and kissing her blushing cheek, Alice placed the note in her hand. Julia screamed with surprise and pleasure, as she recognized the beloved handwriting. When she looked up her friend had left the room. There was a light tap at the door of Alice’s chamber, and Julia entering threw herself upon her neck, covered with tears and blushes. “Oh, my dear Alice, he has come! Frank is here—in this city! How happy I am—and—and, oh dear, what shall I do? He wishes to come and see me! Ma’ma will be so angry—I dare not—what shall I do? Dear Alice, do tell me.” Alice advised her to accede unhesitatingly to the wishes of her lover, urging her no longer to have any concealment from her mother. Perhaps, after all, her fears were groundless, and she might sanction her choice. In any event, this clandestine intercourse must not continue, and Alice, “severe in youthful beauty,” endeavored to point out the great fault she would be committing against her parent by allowing it to proceed further. Julia was overcome by the serious manner in which Alice spoke. She had never before allowed herself to reflect upon her error in its true light—her mother’s anger had been her only fear—but she now resolved to break the subject at once to her mother, and ask forgiveness for her fault. CHAPTER VI. COUSIN FRANK AGAIN. Breakfast was over—Mr. Hazleton gone to his office—Alice to pen a letter to her mother—and Julia was left alone with Mrs. Hazleton. It was no light errand upon which she was bent, and gladly would she have followed her cousin from the room—but an encouraging smile from Alice re-assured her. Yet how to open the dreaded subject? Several times she essayed to speak, but the words died upon her lips. Meanwhile Mrs. Hazleton, in a most voluble strain, was planning characters and dresses for a fancy ball. So far as Julia herself was concerned, the Scottish Chiefs were chosen for the field of display—deciding she should go as Helen Mar, and she was now trying to fix upon some character calculated to set forth her own charms to the best advantage. “What do you think of Die Vernon?” said she turning to Julia—“or would Flora McIvor suit my style better—perhaps Mary, Queen of Scots, or—but what is the matter with you? How stupid you are! Why don’t you speak? I declare I believe you will get to be as dull as Alice Churchill. What ails you?” “Nothing, ma’ma—I—I only—” “Only what? do speak!” cried Mrs. Hazleton, impatiently. “I only wanted to tell you that—that Frank Reeve is in town,” stammered poor Julia. “And pray who is Frank Reeve, to call such a blush to your cheek?” “Why, dear me, ma’ma, you know Cousin Frank Reeve!”