"_C'est à moi!_" cried Marguerite, springing up suddenly, and spilling all the fragments of the feast, to the evident satisfaction of the lately neglected guests. "Yours?" said Mrs. Purcell with coolness, still retaining it. "Why do you think in French?" "Because I choose!" said Marguerite, angrily. "I mean--How do you know that I do?" "Your exclamation, when highly excited or contemptuously indifferent, is always in that tongue." "Which am I now?" "Really, you should know best. Here is your bawble"; and Mrs. Purcell tossed it lightly into her hands, and went out. It was a sheath of old morocco. The motion loosened the clasp, and the contents, an ivory oval and a cushion of faded silk, fell to the floor. Mr. Raleigh bent and regathered them; there was nothing for Marguerite but to allow that he should do so. The oval had reversed in falling, so that he did not see it; but, glancing at her before returning it, he found her face and neck dyed deeper than the rose. Still reversed, he was about to relinquish it, when Mrs. McLean passed, and, hearing the scampering of little feet as they fled with booty, she also entered. "Seeing you reminds me, Roger," said she. "What do you suppose has become of that little miniature I told you of? I was showing it to Marguerite the other night, and have not seen it since. I must have mislaid it, and it was particularly valuable, for it was some nameless thing that Mrs. Heath found among her mother's trinkets, and I begged it of her, it was such a perfect likeness of you. Can you have seen it?" "Yes, I have it," he replied. "And haven't I as good a right to it as any?" He extended his arm for the case which Marguerite held, and so touching her hand, the touch was more lingering than it needed to be; but he avoided looking at her, or he would have seen that the late color had fled till the face was whiter than marble. "Your old propensities," said Mrs. McLean. "You always will be a boy. By the way, what do you think of Mary Purcell's engagement? I thought she would always be a girl." "Ah! McLean was speaking of it to me. Why were they not engaged before?" "Because she was not an heiress." Mr. Raleigh raised his eyebrows significantly. "He could not afford to marry any but an heiress," explained Mrs. McLean. Mr. Raleigh fastened the case and restored it silently. "You think that absurd? You would not marry an heiress?" Mr. Raleigh did not at once reply. "You would not, then, propose to an heiress?" "No." As this monosyllable fell from his lips, Marguerite's motion placed her beyond hearing. She took a few swift steps, but paused and leaned against the wall of the gable for support, and, placing her hand upon the sun-beat bricks, she felt a warmth in them which there seemed to be neither in herself nor in the wide summer-air. Mrs. Purcell came along, opening her parasol. "I am going to the orchard," said she; "cherries are ripe. Hear the robins and the bells! Do you want to come?"