"You and your sermons!" exclaimed Nan. "Nettie, dear, talk _with_ me, not _at_ me. Oh, Nettie"--Nan threw herself on my shoulders--"I never had a chance to tell him I'm not mad with him. And I'm afraid he'll do something desperate. And if they get to fighting down here, as everybody says, he will be killed! He's that kind, Nettie--he will be killed!" "And isn't my Ned likely to be killed at all?" I said, beginning to get frightened too; and then, seeing her so tearful: "But it will be all right, dear--don't you worry." "But, Nettie, why shouldn't a woman let a man know--or give him a hint? 'What!' says mamma to me, 'would you run after him?' But why should I be afraid to let him know that I do care for him?" "I don't know why not, Nan. It depends on the man, perhaps." "Did you ever let Ned know you cared for him before he asked--did you, Nettie?" She was so wistful I almost forgot Larry behind the lattice, but I caught myself in time. "I hope, Nan Wedner, you don't think I proposed to him?"--that was with such dignity as I could quickly assume. "But, Nettie"--she switched her head on my shoulder--"do you suppose Ned knew, Nettie?" "I'm afraid," I sighed--I thought of Larry listening, but I had to tell her the truth--"he would have been dull not to guess it." "And Ned isn't dull, is he?" said Nan. "Ned dull! I guess not!" I said. And while I stood with Nan tearful and discouraged against my shoulder, I could hear the patter of the fountain tinkling up from the patio, and the voices of men and girls, and the music of some kind of a native instrument; and the song was of home and love by a man to a girl. And do you know?--no matter what we think of their politics and so on--those men down that country do seem to be able to put something terribly sad into their voices when they sing, and somebody somewhere has said that no man who loves but is more often sad than gay. And it made no difference--it may have been some low-built kitchen girl he was singing to, and he one of the hotel porters loafing on his job--not a mite of difference. The melody of it rose up and clutched me. And Nan clinging to me--I could feel it clutching her, too. And I knew that for Larry behind the lattice--it was hard work staying where he was; and as for myself--I hadn't seen my Ned in almost a year, and, thinking of Ned and his ways, I felt all at once terribly lonesome and like crying with Nan. And then a vision of the arrogant beauty down-stairs came suddenly to my mind. But now without my being so afraid. It would be safe enough now, I thought, to have Larry and Nan meet in her presence. "Let us go down-stairs now, Nan," I said. "We can look at the dancing. That Miss Whiffle, they say, is a wonderful dancer." "Yes, but let me look at the children again, Nettie," said Nan. "I love to see them asleep. Isn't it wonderful to you, Nettie, to think of your having children of your own--nobody else's but your own?" "And Ned's," I said.