"Very well. Let me inform you, Mrs. Charteris, that these things belong to you, not to Maud. They were given to my heiress, and Vane's bride, therefore they are your own." The beautiful color flows into her face, but she shakes her small head resolutely. "You must pardon me, uncle," she says, "but, indeed, I think your ideas of _meum et tuum_ are rather confused. All these pretty things belong to my cousin by every right in the world, and I am determined she shall have them." "I say she shall not," he cries, violently. "And I say she _shall_," Reine reiterates, laughing, but in earnest, the golden lights fairly dancing in her eyes. "Why, you audacious little spitfire," the old man begins to splutter, but Vane Charteris interrupts him gravely. "I think Reine's idea is the true one," he says. "The gifts really belong to Maud, and she ought to have them." The bride flashes him a dazzling look of gratitude from her brilliant eyes. "There, now, Uncle Langton," she cries, with pretty triumph. "You see my husband sides with me." "Sides with Maud, you mean," Mr. Langton mutters, between his teeth. "He will always be on the side of justice, I hope," Reine says, with a smile at her husband, that he does not see, consequently does not return. But Mr. Langton frowns at the pert little lady. "See here, Reine," he says. "I won't be set at naught by a child like you, if you were fifty times my niece. Have your way this time, but don't begin your rule too soon. Remember, I haven't made my will yet." "_That_ does not frighten me one bit," she laughs; then she rises on tiptoe to put her rosy lips to his ear. "You cannot take my husband from me," she whispers, archly. "I do not care for the rest." He looks at her half-pityingly, and turns away without a word. But something born of that pitying thought makes him say to Vane Charteris, as they pass from the room: "There is no reason you should regret Maud. Reine is quite as charming and beautiful, though in a different way from her cousin." And Vane answers, readily enough: "She is beautiful, certainly no one can deny that. She has the brilliant beauty of the rose. But one must beware the thorns. She is a perfect contrast to Maud, who always reminded me of a tall, white, stately lily." "The rose is the sweeter, to my thinking," Mr. Langton replies. "Besides, the rose is the true emblem of love." They pass through the hall, and out into the soft light of the early day. The cool, dewy breath of the morning, freighted with the scent of countless flowers, blows in their faces, the matin songs of myriad birds make music in their ears. Roses, honeysuckles, jessamines and lilies, open their perfumed chalices to greet the rising sun that begins to color the eastern sky with tints of purple and rose and gold.