"She is in love with Vane, a boy of Mr. Marlboro's: you may have seen him; he is here a good deal,--by stealth: and they want to be married. But Mr. Marlboro' is their terror, he may put an end to everything, and they are afraid, and--and--could you buy Vane, Mr. St. George?" "I could, Miss Changarnier." "And you will, then?" cried Eloise, springing up. "If Mr. Marlboro' will sell him." "Won't he?" "It is a pride of the Marlboro's that there never was a hand sold off the place." "Oh, I had forgotten. They would tell too shocking stories." "Not here. Not unless they were sold off the Cuban plantation, where the vicious ones are transported." "But perhaps he would give him to you." "Miss Eloise, he would give him to _you_." "Me? I have never seen him." "That is of no consequence. He has seen you." "I wonder where. Do you really suppose that Mr. Marlboro' would give Vane to me?" "Miss Eloise, I will see what I can do about it first." "How kind you are! Thank you!" And Eloise was about to go. "One moment, if you please," said the other. And Mr. St. George remained in meditation. When he spoke, it was not in too assured a tone. "I am quite aware," said he, "that you consider me in the light of an enemy. Perhaps it is a magnanimity that would be pleasant to you, should you in turn grant that enemy a favor." "I should like to be able to serve you, Sir." "Well, then,--I spoke very unwisely a few moments since,--promise me now, that, if Hazel and Vane do not marry till Doomsday, you will not ask Marlboro' for the gift. It places you, an unprotected girl, too much under the weather with such a man as Marlboro'. You promise me?" And he rose opposite her, smiling and gazing. "A whole promise is rash," said Eloise, laughing. "Half a one I give you." "It is for yourself," said Mr. St. George, grimly; and he turned abruptly away, because he knew he lied, and was afraid lest she would know it too. It was two or three weeks after this, that Mr. St. George, returning one chilly night from some journey, found Mrs. Arles asleep in her chair, a fire upon the hearth, and Eloise sitting on the floor before it with her box and brushes, essaying to catch the shifting play of color opposite her, and paint there one of the great cloven tongues of fire that went soaring up the chimney. "In pursuit of an _ignis-fatuus_?" asked he, stooping over her an instant, and suddenly snatching himself erect, as she looked up with a certain sweetness in her smile, and pushed back the drooping tress, that, streaming along the temple and lying in one large curve upon the cheek, sometimes fell too low for order, though never for grace. "And all in vain," she said, laughingly. "I've worked an hour, I can get the violet edges, I can get the changing bend,--but there 'a no lustre, no flicker,--I can't find out the secret of painting flame."