“But perhaps he means to stand by my mother on account of the money. He must--it would be murder wasted, if he did not. And not even he would waste murder.” Her face was more somber than she knew, as her thoughts, in spite of her, flew to Cylmer and his business in London. And Wray saw it; he was used to rudeness in her, but not to gloom, and, in spite of the cheering Burgundy, he was suspicious. At bedtime, as he lit Mrs. Trelane’s candle for her in the hall, he spoke to her angrily, and quietly, having ignored her for Cristiane throughout the evening. “What’s the matter with Ismay? Have you been fool enough to tell her things? She looks simply stuffed with righteous wrath.” Ismay, on the first step of the stairs, pricked up her ears at his tone. But Cristiane, her arm through hers, was dragging her on--her young blood as light from Marcus Wray’s respectfully adoring eyes as his had been from her father’s Burgundy! Miss Trelane, for the second time that day, longed to box her ears. “I hate fools,” she thought grimly, “and this one will ruin herself and me, too, if I can’t teach her some sense. And the worst of it is, I can’t help trying to take care of the silly little donkey. I wish I could speak out to her, but she’d only think me crazy.” Cristiane gave an ecstatic squeeze to the inert arm in hers. “Isn’t he a dear?” she whispered, as they turned the corner of the great stairs. Ismay stopped the second they were out of sight from below, and was listening with all her ears, but not to Cristiane. Wray was just underneath her, and his voice floated up to her in a far-reaching whisper. “Mind you find out what ails the girl before you go to bed, and come and tell me in the library. She makes me angry with her tragedy airs.” “Nothing so fatal as a whisper! I’ll mark that for future reference,” reflected the eavesdropper, with lightning speed. “What did you say, Cristiane, dear?” “If he’s a bad man, they’re charming things. And he’s going to stay a week; I asked him. Won’t it be nice? Come now, tell the truth! Don’t you honestly think he’s charming?” “Charming? Yes! But you’ll turn his head if you let him know it.” Charming was exactly the word; people used it about a snake fascinating a bird before it killed it. “Of course, I sha’n’t let him know it,” returned Cristiane. “Good night; mind you’re nice to him to-morrow, because he’s going to stay,” with a laughing nod of power, since it was her house and her guest that were in question. “She won’t let him know it! When she’s been gazing at him all the evening,” said Miss Trelane derisively, when she was safe in her own bedroom. “For pure downright idiocy, commend me to a well-brought-up girl, who thinks the world is a playground where little geese can wear gold collars and show them off to the nice, kind foxes!” but she did not smile at her own parable, as she locked her door and got into bed with incredible speed.