“I have a mind to run over to Rocca Marina and see what more they have heard there,” said Lord Rotherwood. “I suppose your letter is from one of the girls there?” “Oh no, it is from Dolores.” “Dolores! She is at Cambridge. Then this news must have been round by Clipstone! They must have known it for days past at Rocca!” exclaimed Lord Rotherwood. “No,” said Mysie, “this came direct to Dolores from Gerald Underwood himself.--Oh, didn’t you know? I forgot, nobody was to know till Uncle Maurice gave his consent.” “Consent to what?” exclaimed Ivinghoe. “To Dolores and Gerald! Oh dear, mamma said so much to me about not telling, but I did think Cousin Rotherwood knew everything. Please--” Whatever she was going to ask was cut short by Ivinghoe’s suddenly striking on the table so as to make all the cups and saucers ring as he exclaimed-- “If ever there lived a treacherous Greek minx!” Then, “I beg your pardon, mother.” He was off: they saw him dash out of the house. There was a train due nearly at this time, as all recollected. “Papa, had not you better go with him?” said Lady Rotherwood. “He will get on much better by himself, my dear,” and Lord Rotherwood threw himself back in his chair and laughed heartily and merrily, to the amazement and mystification of the two girls. “You will have a beauty on your hands, my lady.” “Well, as long as it is not that horrid White girl--” said her ladyship, breaking off there. “A very sorry Rebecca,” said her lord, laughing the more. But the Marchioness rose up, and the two cousins had to accept the signal. The train, after the leisurely fashion of continental railways, kept Ivinghoe fuming at the station, and rattled along so as to give travellers a full view of the coast, more delightful to them than to the youth, who had rushed off with intentions, he scarce knew what, of setting right the consequences of Maura’s--was it deception, or only a thought, of which the wish was father? He reached the station that led to the works at Rocca Marina. The sun was high, the heat of the day coming on, and as he strode along, the workmen were leaving off to take their siesta at noontide. On he went, across the private walks in the terraced garden, not up the broad stone steps that led to the house, but to a little group of olive trees which cut off the chaplain’s house from the castle gardens, and where stood a great cork tree, to whose branches a hammock had been fastened, and seats placed under it. As he opened the gate a little dog’s bark was heard, and he was aware of a broad hat under the tree. Simultaneously a small Maltese dog sprang forward, and Francie’s head rose from leaning over the little table with a start, her cheeks deeper rose than usual, having evidently gone to sleep over the thin book and big dictionary that lay before her. “Oh!” she said, “it is you. Was I dreaming?” “I am afraid I startled you.” “No--only”--she still seemed only half awake--“it seemed to come out of my dream.”