“Are you quite well again?” anxiously. “Oh, yes, I am quite cured.” There was a faint emphasis on the last word, and Thea sighed so faintly that he did not perceive it. “I feared I had offended you by my unsought advice about your lovers,” he said, questioningly. “Oh, no, no; everything you said was kind. I thank you for what you said to me,” with a frank glance quickly withdrawn. Thea knew that she must not let her eyes linger on the noble face and form. It would make her rebel heart beat too quickly. But Norman came closer. He was not afraid yet to look his fill on the lovely face set off so sweetly by the pale-blue dress with white lace trimmings. He did not quite realize as yet the danger he was risking. He thought: “How that little pearl locket becomes the half-bare white neck, and how perfectly molded are her dimpled arms! She has all the signs of good blood and ancestry. I wonder if we shall ever find out her parents, or will she always belong to me?” Then a most unwelcome thought came: “In a few years at best some triumphant lover will bear her off to a new home, and Verelands will know her charming presence no more.” There was positive pain in the thought, but he tried to put it away from him, as he said, gently: “You did not tell me, Sweetheart, whether you would give over being afraid of your elderly guardian, and be like a sister to him.” “I shall be only too grateful,” Thea answered, softly; but she looked down at her slim, white hands instead of into the dark eyes regarding her so eagerly. In a minute she added, shyly: “I’ve never felt afraid of you--only anxious not to disturb you at your work.” “You can never disturb me, child. I shall be pleased to have you about me. I suppose you sometimes want books from the library. You must come and get them when you wish. It will not annoy me in the least.” “Oh, thank you; but I don’t read very much, I’m afraid. I love to walk and ride and row,” Thea said, hastily. She did not dare to be alone in the library again with Norman de Vere. He felt her reluctance. His face flushed deeply. “It was that most unlucky kiss. Indeed, I had no right,” he thought, but he could not regret it. The memory was too thrilling. He immediately began to lay plans to join her in the outdoor life of which she pretended to be so fond. “Can you row?” he asked. “Like a sailor,” she replied, gayly. “And ride horseback?” “I have never had an opportunity to learn.” “Should you like to, Sweetheart?” He had never adopted the new name by which others called her. Like Tom Hinton, he found it pleasant to say Sweetheart, and his tone in pronouncing it was very tender. She was obliged to own the truth. She was most anxious to ride horseback. “Then I shall teach you,” said her guardian. “We will begin to-morrow. You shall accompany me in my morning canter.” CHAPTER XXXVII.