“Not a word against her--not a word. I should hate anyone that miscalled her. She speaks well of you, Eve; why need you speak ill of her? She and I parted friends, and friends let us be. There is no hate can lie alongside love in a true heart. No, let nobody speak of her at all to me. I shan't; my thoughts, they are my own. 'Go to your sister,' said she, and here I am; and I beg your pardon, Eve, for neglecting you as I have of late.” “Oh, never mind _that,_ David; _our_ affection will outlast this folly many a long year.” “Please God! Your hand in mine, Eve, my lamb, and let us talk of ourselves and mother: the time is short.” They sat hand in hand, and never mentioned Lucy's name again; and, strange to say, it was David who consoled Eve; for, now the battle was lost, her spirit seemed to have all deserted her, and she kept bursting out crying every now and then irrelevantly. It was three in the afternoon. David was sitting by the window, and Eve packing his chest in the same room, not to be out of his sight a minute, when suddenly he started up and cried, “There she is,” and an instinctive unreasonable joy illumined his face; the next moment his countenance fell. The carriage passed down the street. “I remember now,” muttered David, “I heard she was to go sailing, and Mr. Talboys was to be skipper of the boat. Ah! well.” “Well, let them sail, David. It is not your business.” “That it is not, Eve--nobody's less than mine. “Eve, there is plenty of wind blowing up from the nor'east.” “Is there? I am afraid that will bring your ship down quick.” “Yes; but it is not that. I am afraid that lubber won't think of looking to windward.” “Nonsense about the wind; it is a beautiful day. Come, David, it is no use lighting against nature. Put on your hat, then, and run down to the beach, and see the last of her; only, for my sake, don't let the others see you, to jeer you.” “No, no.” “And mind and be back to dinner at four. I have got a nice roast fowl for you.” “Ay ay.” A little before four o'clock a sailor brought a note from David, written hastily in pencil. It was sent up to Eve. She read it, and clasped her hands vehemently. “Oh, David, she was born to be your destruction.” CHAPTER XVII. MR. FOUNTAIN, Miss Fountain, and Mr. Talboys started to go on the boating expedition. As they were getting into the boat, Mr. Fountain felt a little ill, and begged to be excused. Mr. Talboys offered to return with him. He declined: “Have your little sail. I will wait at the inn for you.” This pantomime had, I blush to say, been arranged beforehand. Miss Fountain, we may be sure, saw through it, but she gave no sign. A lofty impassibility marked her demeanor, and she let them do just what they liked with her. The boat was launched, the foresail set, and Fountain remained on shore in anything but a calm and happy state.