"She is not deficient in intellect," said Mr. Ferrand—"nay, I will go farther, and say she has an unusually good mind; but she is not trustworthy. She deceived me here, and the person who has called to see me on business two or three times lately tells me that she made great trouble in the family of her adopted parents." "I don't believe it," said Isa, boldly, "and I wonder, pa, that you should let yourself be influenced by such a common man as that, especially when you said yourself that he tried to take the advantage of you." "There is something in that view of the case, certainly," said Mr. Ferrand, "and I must say the young person expressed herself very becomingly in regard to her conduct here. But, Isabella, remember that I do not wish you to associate with her. You need not mortify her by refusing to speak when you meet,—we should be courteous to persons in every position in life; but you must not walk in the street, or stop to converse, with her. You had better go and dress for dinner, my daughter. Your aunt Harriet is here." "Oh, is she? How glad I am! When did she come?" "By the five o'clock train," said Mr. Ferrand, thinking, with a little something like a pain at his heart, that his daughter had never greeted his coming with any such show of warmth. But he was altogether too well satisfied with himself—too well balanced, he would have said—to permit himself to be jealous. An affectionate and faithful father should, of course, have the first place in his child's affections. He was affectionate and faithful, therefore it must follow that Isabella loved him better than any one. He did not care very much for demonstrations of feeling, and it would certainly have annoyed him very much if Isabella had rushed into his room, thrown her arms around his neck, and hugged and kissed him as she did her aunt Harriet. Aunt Harriet, however, did not seem to be in the least disturbed, even though Isa's embrace distressingly crushed her illusion ruffles and tumbled the rich soft black silk which was her favourite wear. She was a delicate little woman, well on in the thirties at the least, yet not old enough to account for the fact that her soft wavy hair was quite gray. She had clear gray eyes,—the colour of a shaded pond,—eyes not at all subdued in their expression by a life of school-teaching, but which could dance with glee or soften with affection or pity, or on occasion flash alarmingly with indignation. She was always elegantly and rather richly dressed, and was, on the whole, one of those persons of whom you naturally say, on seeing them, "Who is that?" "There! Sit down and let me look at you," said she when Isa's raptures were a little calmed down. "Why, child, how thin you are! And how tired you look! I should not allow you to look like that if you were one of my girls." "Don't you let your girls look tired, Aunt Harriet?"