“Ah, that is almost exactly what Godfrey said of her. He seemed to think her heartless for taking things so quietly. She is a curious woman—self-contained, and silent. I sometimes fancy she was more angry than grieved at Mercy’s fate. Mother says she turns to ice at the slightest mention of the girl’s name. Don’t you think love would show itself differently?” “One can never be sure about other people’s sentiments. Love has many languages.” Their talk drifted to more commonplace subjects. And then Theodore rose to take leave. “You must dine at the Priory before your holiday is over, Theo,” said his cousin, as they shook hands. “Let me see—to-morrow will be Christmas Day—will you come the day after, and bring the sisters? It is too long a drive for a winter night, so you must stay; there is plenty of room.” “Are you sure we shall not bore you?” “I am sure you will cheer me. My sister-in-law is very good—but Lady Jane is the only person in this house of whom I do not get desperately tired, including myself,” she added, with a sigh. “Please say you will come, and I will order your rooms.” “We will come then. Good night, Juanita.” The shadows were falling as he drove away, after refusing tea in the drawing-room and a further acquaintance with the wonderful children. He looked forward to that evening at the Priory with an eager expectancy that he knew to be supreme foolishness, and when the evening came, it brought some measure of disappointment with it. Juanita was not so well as she had been upon Christmas Eve. She was not able to dine downstairs, and the family dinner, at which the Etonian Tom, Johnnie, and Lucy were allowed to take their places in virtue of Christmas time, was a dull business for Theodore. His only pleasure was in the fact that he sat on Lady Jane’s right hand, and was able to talk with her of Juanita. Even that pleasure was alloyed with keenest pain; for Lady Jane’s talk was of that dead love which cast its shadow over Juanita’s youth, or of that dim and dawning hope which might brighten the coming days—and neither in the love of the past nor in the love of the future had Theodore any part. Juanita was on her sofa by the drawing-room fire when he and Mr. Grenville left the dining-room, after a single glass of claret, and a brief review of the political situation. Theodore’s sisters were established on each side of her. There was no chance for him while they were absorbing her attention, and he retired disconsolately to the group in the middle of the room, where Mrs. Grenville and Lady Jane were seated on a capacious ottoman with the children about them.