He stood staring at the beautiful fury, asking himself in wonder if this could be the same woman who such a little while ago had lain in his arms, clasping his neck, and giving him kiss for kiss. It scarcely seemed possible; such a fury she looked now with her blazing eyes and distorted features quivering with jealous rage. Yet he had seen her before in fits of jealous anger that usually culminated in hysterics. Dreading this effect, he endeavored to soothe her; but all in vain, and only his remonstrance that she would be overheard by the servants had any effect in moderating her loud, shrewish tones. But she reiterated, though in a lower voice, her resolve that the child should be sent immediately away. Her furious tones had already awakened little Sweetheart. She sat up on the sofa without a word, staring drowsily from one to the other with her sleepy blue eyes under her tangle of golden curls. Mrs. de Vere, in her fury of wrath, shook her jeweled fist threateningly in the child’s face, and the baby shrunk back with a startled cry. “Camille!” cried her husband, sternly. He caught back her menacing hand. “Would you be cruel enough to strike that innocent baby?” She laughed insanely. “Yes, unless you take her away, and at once!” she answered, struggling to free herself. But he held her firmly. “You are mad!” he cried, hotly. “You exhaust my patience by your words and manners, which are alike disgraceful. I will no longer bear your exactions. The child shall remain here until her friends can be found. You force me to remind you that this house at least is mine--all that was left me when the war deprived me of my father, the brave soldier, who died for the South, and all our wealth. Here, at least, I am master, and here my poor little protégée shall find shelter!” She was so dazed with his defiance that for a moment she could not speak, only writhe impotently under the firm but gentle grasp in which he held her wrist, while a low, hissing sound issued from her lips. Little Sweetheart, who had been watching them in doubt and terror, now slipped down from the sofa, and running to her friend, clasped his leg tightly with her little arms, crying out through frightened tears: “Oh, p’ease, p’ease, don’t hurt the yady! don’t make her ky!” “Little angel!” he cried, and released the wrist he was holding. Instantly Mrs. de Vere flung herself full length upon the floor, screaming and kicking in hysteria. Norman de Vere picked up Sweetheart in his arms and strode to the door. He expected to find several frightened servants listening, and he was not mistaken. “Your mistress is ill. Go in and attend to her at once,” he said to the French maid, whom he detected among them. “_Oui, monsieur_,” answered Finette, with a courtesy of her capped head. Then she ran in to her mistress, and Norman de Vere went up the broad, shallow stairs toward the sleeping apartments, still carrying the child.