“But I did not receive your letters”--he said, quickly. “You see, I have been yachting for a year and more--the guest of my friend, Cameron, from Baltimore. He came abroad with some friends, and I came back with them. I thought that my roving life explained the non-reception of letters from home, but you should have received mine; I cannot understand why you did not.” There was a momentarily stern expression on his face and he thought: “I gave Cameron my letters to forward. What did he do with them? Has there been treachery any where?” He said to himself that this was the reason of Nina’s cold reserve and dignity. She resented with a woman’s pride his long absence and his strange silence. She would forgive him now that she knew the reason. But when he looked at her he saw no change in the cold proud face with its flower-like lips and great slumbrous dark eyes whose thick drooping fringe hid the fire and passion within her. He decided that there was something else yet. Nina was not glad to have him home again. She did not love him now as the girl Nina had loved her boyish playfellow long ago. “There are many changes in five years. What if she, too, has learned to love another?” he thought, feeling suddenly hot and cold, and distinctly angry all together. He walked hastily over to the window, drew back the heavy curtains of velvet and lace, and looked out. A full moon was lighting the bare March landscape into dreary splendor. The glass roof of the long conservatory was silvered by its beams. The terraced walks beneath the window shone whitely and coldly. Farther on, the great white-capped waves of the mysterious sea rolled on with a hollow murmur to the ocean. He looked back at Nina with a sudden impulse. “Are you afraid of the chilly night, or will you put a wrap on, and walk on the terrace with me?” he asked. She raised her dark eyes to his face with an air of surprise, and shivered perceptibly. “It is too cold. Pray excuse me,” she replied, while Miss Drusilla hopped up with an audible sniff, and said with dignity: “If I am _de trop_, pray excuse me, I’ll retire.” CHAPTER VIII. “I HAVE SWORN AN OATH AND I SHALL HAVE TO KEEP IT.” Talbot Strangemore could not repress a smile at the absurd action of his exceedingly high-tempered aunt. He said, hastily: “Do not leave us, Aunt Drusilla. We are very glad of your company.” But Miss Strangemore’s stiff black silk had already rustled across the threshold. He looked at Nina, half pityingly. “I am afraid that my aunt has not been a very charming companion for you all these years,” he said. “She has been all kindness,” Nina answered hastily. “Then, too, I had my governess. She was a very gentle, lovable lady.” “She has left you?” he asked. “A year ago,” she answered, simply. “You should have retained her when your education was finished, as a companion,” said Talbot Strangemore.