It was very hot already at Altes. Though every one was prophesying a week or two of rain before the warm weather should finally set in. This afternoon when Ralph came in, he found both Mrs. Archer and her friend on the terrace, under the shade of the large, over-hanging sun-screen, attached to the windows outside. Soon, however, Cissy got tired, and ensconced herself on her favourite sofa in the coolest corner of the drawing-room. Marion, however, stayed outside. She was busy about some piece of work she seemed to be greatly interested in, and Ralph established himself on the ground near her with a book in his hand, which he professed to be reading; now and then favouring his companions with choice bits which struck his fancy. But, in reality, most of his attention wag given to Marion. He watched her from behind his book, and thought how pretty her hands looked, glancing in and out of the bright mazes of the many-coloured wools she was working. It was a deliciously lazy afternoon! Hot enough to excuse one’s not feeling much inclined for exertion; and yet with all the freshness and novelty of spring about it too. They were all very happy. Marion, in her own way, enjoying the present, and Ralph, all his pricks forgotten for the time, in a state of perfect content. He had actually got the length of talking nonsense; he, the learned Sir Ralph Severn, the polyglot, the antiquary, the “everything-fusty-and-musty-in-one,” as Cissy was impertinent enough to describe him that day—long ago it seemed now—when his name was heard by Marion Vere for the first. Suddenly there came a little pause, which was broken by Cissy, whose ideas seldom ran in one direction for five minutes together. “Marion,” she exclaimed from her sofa, “isn’t it to-day that Frank Berwick is expected back? I hope it is, for I am most anxious to see how he has executed our commissions.” “Your commissions, you mean, Cissy?” said Marion. Something in the tone struck Ralph as unlike the girl’s usual voice. Something slightly sharp, ungentle—he hardly knew what. But he did not look at her just then. “Nonsense, child,” persisted Cissy, who, in spite of all her quickness, was sometimes marvellously dull; and who, too, like many otherwise most amiable people, would sometimes, to prove her in the right, talk far from cautiously or advisedly; “nonsense, child. It is ridiculous of you to speak that way. Whether they are actually your commissions or mine you know very well it was to oblige you, Frank Berwick offered to execute them. Indeed,” she went on recklessly, “if it was any other girl than you, I should call it very affected of you, trying to make out that—” “Cissy!” said, Marion.