Norman saw it all--his mother’s care that he should not be bothered by Thea, and the girl’s entire acquiescence. Before she came he would have been pleased to know that it would be this way. It piqued him now. “I do not want her to fear me now--she confided in me so sweetly when she was a child,” was the excuse he made to himself for his pique. But Thea firmly determined on being “good,” as she phrased it--gave him not the least trouble. She subdued her joyous spirits when he was by; she did her daily practicing on the piano when he was out for his walk; when the neighbors began to call, and the young people found her out, she was demurely social; she held firmly in check the gayety that in Virginia had earned her the title of coquette. “He said he believed in me, and he shall have no cause to change his mind,” the girl said to herself, when the temptation to be recklessly gay assailed her. She had grown morbidly anxious to appear at her best in those dark eyes, whose grave glances haunted her dreams by night and her thoughts by day. The same strange attraction that had drawn the two together so long ago was at work now--had been magnetizing both ever since that night when they had met again; but both were struggling against it, both called it by a colder name. To her it was gratitude, to him it was anxiety lest she should be repelled by one she had once trusted in so tenderly. Across the gulf of reserve and apparent indifference each heart clamored eagerly for the other. Thea knew that he was always in her thoughts--that he was the handsomest man she had ever seen, the most famous, the most cultured. She lay awake at nights to think of him, and sometimes the snowy pillow was wet with tears. “Oh, what is the matter with me? Surely, I am not pining for any one of those who treated me so harshly!” she would sigh, in plaintive wonder. Then, pityingly: “I wonder if Emmie has caught Charley back. I hope so. It must be sad to love in vain. I am sorry now for Frank and Tom. Perhaps I did not refuse them kindly enough. It seemed so ridiculous, because I was so young then” (she was about four months older now). And one day Norman saw in the mail that was about to be sent out two letters addressed respectively to Frank and Tom Hinton. He called Thea into the library. “Are you renewing your flirtation with your jilted lovers?” he asked, severely. She blushed as she saw the letters in his hand. “Oh, no, indeed! How can you think it? Please let me explain,” she cried, eagerly, and he waited curiously. The big, lustrous blue eyes lifted to his face, and somehow the glance they met in return held them fixed, though Thea trembled with strange pleasure at her own boldness; so she said: “I will look you straight in the eyes, Mr. de Vere, then you will see I am telling you the truth. I have been thinking lately that I was cruel to those poor boys--” “And that you love them, after all?” he interrupted, harshly.