"I've just had a telegram from Richard," she said. "He's coming home to-night by the eleven o'clock train. It's so odd altogether. I don't know why he's coming. But you may as well read his message yourself," she said with a forced manner, handing me the paper. It was as follows: Send carriage for me to eleven-thirty train to-night. Remember my injunctions, our last conversation, and your promises." "Well?" I said, looking up, bewildered and not violently interested, for I was secretly listening to the quick shutting of the library-door. "Why, you see," she returned, with a forced air of confidence that made me involuntarily shrink from her; I think she even laid her hand upon my sleeve, or made some gesture of familiarity which was unusual-- "You see, that last conversation was--about you. Richard is annoyed at--at your intimacy with Mr. Langenau. You know just as well as I do how he feels, for no doubt he's spoken to you himself." "He never has," I said, quite shortly. "No?" and she looked rather chagrined. "Well--but at all events you know how he feels. Girls ar'nt slow generally to find out about those things. And he is really very unhappy about it, very. I wish, Pauline, you'd give it up, child. It's gone quite far enough; now don't you think so yourself? Mr. Langenau isn't the sort of man to be serious about, you know. It's all very well, just for a summer's amusement. But, you know, you mustn't go too far. I'm sure, dear, you're not angry with me: now you understand just what I mean, don't you?" No: not angry, certainly not angry. She went on, still with the impertinent touch upon my arm: "Richard made me promise that I would look after you, and not permit things to go too far. And you see--well--I'll tell you in confidence what I think his coming to-night means, and his message and all. I think--that is, I am afraid--he's found out something against Mr. Langenau since he's been away. I know he never has felt confidence in him. But I've always thought, perhaps that was because he was--well--a little jealous and suspicious. You know men are so apt to be suspicious; and I was sure, when he went away that last Monday morning, that he would not leave a stone unturned in finding out everything about him. It is that that's kept him, I am sure. Don't let that make you feel hardly toward Richard," she went on, noticing perhaps my look; "you know it's only natural, and besides, it's right. How would he answer to your uncle?" "It is I who should answer to my uncle," I returned, under my breath. "Yes, but you are in our house, in our care. You know, my dear child, you are very young and very inexperienced; you don't know how very careful people have to be." "Why don't you talk that way to Charlotte and Henrietta and Mary Leighton? Have I done anything so very different from them?" I answered, with a blaze of spirit.