The Beresfords tolerated Maybelle without admiring her, and they were not pleased with the rumor that St. George was the young girl’s suitor. They had higher views for the noble, handsome son of the house. So perhaps it was with a spice of malice toward Maybelle that Alva said, gayly, in a pause between the acts: “Do you see how sober mamma looks? She had a great fright this morning.” “Alva!” cried that lady, with a reproving nod; but her daughter, who was at times very volatile, laughed at her, and continued: “She received her first letter from my brother, written on shipboard, and mailed at Queenstown. He perpetrated a terrible joke on mamma, declaring that he is in love at last.” She saw the hot color flame into Maybelle’s cheeks, and continued, maliciously: “St. George is contemplating a shocking _mésalliance_. He is in love, he says, with a pretty little nobody, poor as poverty, and wild as a deer. He intended to postpone his confession until his return a month hence, and beg our consent to his marriage, but his heart is so full he can not wait. He begs mamma to write and give him some hope that she will approve his choice.” “Who is she?” Mrs. Vere de Vere inquired, trying to keep the blank look out of her face, her feelings stirred for Maybelle’s sake. “He did not tell us her name or home, much to mamma’s regret, as if she only knew where to find her she would go and buy off her claims on St. George before he returns.” “Alva! Alva!” cried her mother, remonstratingly; but the daughter, who really regarded the whole affair as a huge joke of her brother, who seemed still but a boy to her maturer age, simply bubbled over with laughter, and continued: “As it is, mamma is seriously contemplating an immediate trip across ‘the pond’ to persuade her boy out of his fancy, or to detain him abroad until his lovely charmer wearies of waiting his return and bestows her affections elsewhere.” At her light, merry tone every one laughed, and Mrs. Van Dorn said, consolingly: “I dare say it is only some pretty little actress, that he will forget in a week.” “I only hope so,” sighed Mrs. Beresford; and then Mrs. Van Dorn, pitying her embarrassment, turned the conversation into other channels. They talked of books and art, and now Mrs. Beresford could turn the tables on mischievous Alva. “I shall punish Alva finely for telling my secret woes!” she exclaimed. Every one turned to her eagerly, and she continued: