As he spoke, Mr Fred Fraser, elaborately dressed, walked into the room, a pull at the bell sounding through the house as he made his salutations, and, in a light and airy way, began to converse as if they had been the greatest intimates all along. "Mr Thomas Fraser," said John, in a loud voice. And, in a hasty, excited manner, Mrs Max Shingle's elder son entered the room, to look angrily at his brother, as he saw him seated there. "You here?" he cried sharply. "Ya-as, I'm here, Tom," was the cool reply. "Aunt--Jessie!" exclaimed Tom, advancing. "I by chance heard that my step-father had come here; and, taking this as an augury that we were to be friends once more, I followed him; but I did not expect to find my brother here, and that I should be--" "_De trop_," said Fred, with an irritating smile; "but you are." Tom turned upon him sharply, but, mastering his passion, he crossed to where Jessie was seated, and held out his hand. "Jessie," he said, in a low, earnest voice, "you will shake hands with me? I forgive all the past now, and wish you every happiness." At his first words a glad light had leaped into the poor girl's eyes, and she half raised her hand to take his; but, as he finished his sentence, a stony rigidity stole over her, and she shrank back, letting her hand fall upon her lap. It was too hard to bear, and she would have given worlds to have been able to rush from the room--anywhere, so as to be alone--and sob and wail aloud, to relieve her bursting heart. But it was impossible. She could not stir--only look up at Tom, as with knitted brows he stood there, resenting her coldness. Never once had her thoughts strayed from him; and yet he had misjudged her so cruelly, believing that she trifled with him, that she played with his heart, while she coquetted--behaved lightly--with his brother. And now, after these long, weary months--after what would soon be two years of misery--now that he had come, her heart had whispered, to tell her that he had been wrong, and misjudged her, while he asked her pardon for the past--a pardon that she would joy in according--she had to hear, first that he was engaged to another, and then read in his face that his doubts and misgivings were stronger than ever. Jessie's heart, that had been expanding fast, like the petals of a flower, to drink in the sunshine of hope and love and joy, seemed to contract and shrivel up, blighted and seared, as, cold and trembling, she sat there, while, with a look of contempt, Tom turned away. "As you will, my fair cousin," he said, in a low, bitter voice. "I suppose I am to call you sister some day. How the world changes? Better poverty and truth than this." When a word would have set all right.