It was when Hector Gordon had been staying nearly a month at Fortinbras that the sharp-spoken and worldly dowager suddenly awakened Lady Cecil from that mental languour which had stolen upon her since his coming. He seemed to have brought so much sunshine with him, and she had abandoned herself so entirely to the delight of its warmth and radiance, lulled by the belief that it was the change from Dorset Square to Fortinbras that had filled her heart and mind with such unwonted gladness. Mrs. MacClaverhouse had a very acute perception of all matters in which her own interests were in any way implicated, and she had woven a little scheme in relation to her nephew and niece. The dishonest steward, who made friends of the mammon of unrighteousness, has many disciples in our modern day; and the dowager had certain views with regard to Captain Gordon's settlement in life--views which involved her enjoyment of a permanent home with the nephew she loved. It was for the furtherance of this little scheme that she sat at home so often while Hector and Cecil walked side by side upon the shore, or loitered in the garden; and this object was in her mind when she let them sing duets to her in the dusky drawing-room, and sank so often into gentle slumbers while they sang, or paused to talk in voices that were hushed in harmony with the still twilight. "I suppose you will scarcely turn up your nose _now_, Lady Cecil, if I venture to tell you that my nephew will be a first-rate match," exclaimed the dowager one morning, when she found herself alone with her niece. Cecil blushed crimson. "I--I--don't understand you, auntie," she stammered. "Oh, of course not, Cecil. I hate a sly girl; and I begin to think you are sly. Do you mean to tell me you don't understand the drift of Hector's attentions to you?" "But, dear auntie, he is not attentive; at least, not more attentive than a man must be to any woman he meets. Pray do not take any absurd idea into your head. We are almost relations, you know; and we get on very well together--much better than I ever thought we should; but as for any thing more than a cousinly kind of friendship----" "A cousinly kind of fiddlestick!" cried the energetic dowager. "Do you think I can believe that all that strolling on the beach, and all that dawdling on the lawn, and all that mumbling by the piano which I hear in my sleep, means nothing but cousinly friendship?" "On my honour, auntie, Captain Gordon has never said a word to me which the most indifferent acquaintance might not have said." "Then what in Heaven's name does the man mumble about?" demanded Mrs. MacClaverhouse sharply.