"I'm not!" and Evilena flourished her napkin to emphasize her delight, "its Loringwood! Oh, oh, Madame Caron, you've bought Loringwood!" Margeret was entering the room with a small tray containing something for Mr. Loring, whose meals she prepared personally. Delaven, who was facing her, saw her grow ashen, and her eyes closed as though struck a physical blow; a glass from the tray shivered on the floor, as he sprang up and saved her from falling. "What ails you, Margeret?" asked Gertrude, with the ring of the silver sounding through her tones. "There--she is all right again, Dr. Delaven. Don't come into the dining room in future unless you feel quite well. Uncle can't endure crashes, or nervous people, about him." "I know; I beg pardon, Miss Gertrude, Mistress McVeigh," and Margeret's manner was above reproach in its respectful humility, though Delaven observed that the firm lips were white; "the kitchen was very warm. I--I was faint for a minute." "Never mind about the glass, Caroline will pick it up," said Mrs. McVeigh, kindly; "you go lay down awhile, it is very warm in the kitchen. Dilsey always will have a tremendous fire, even to fry an egg on; go along now--go rest where it's cool." Margeret bent her head in mute acknowledgment of the kindness, and passed out of the room. Mr. Loring had pushed his plate away with an impatient frown, signifying that breakfast was over for him, any way. Delaven, noticing his silence and the grim expression on his face, wondered if he, too, was doubtful of that excuse uttered by the woman. The kitchen, no doubt, was warm, but he had seen her face as she heard Evilena's delighted exclamation; it was the certainty that Loringwood was actually sold--Loringwood, and that grave under the pines? Possibly she had fostered hope that it might not be yet--not for a long time, and the suddenness of it had been like a physical shock to the frail, devoted woman. He had reasoned it out like that, and his warm, Irish heart ached for her as she left the room, and, glancing about the table, he concluded that only Matthew Loring and himself suspected the truth, or knew the real reason of her emotion, though the eyes of the Marquise did show a certain frank questioning as they met his own. "Margeret's fit just frightened the plantation away for a minute," resumed Evilena, "but do own up, Madame Caron, is it Loringwood?" "Yes," assented Judithe, "the letter from my lawyer, this morning, informs me it is really Loringwood." "I am very much pleased to hear it, Madame," and Matthew Loring's tone was unusually hearty. "Since we part with it at all, I am pleased that no scrub stock gets possession. The place is perfectly adapted to the use you have planned, and instead of falling into neglect, the old home will become a monument to progress."