“No, no,” she begged, smilingly, “let the Japanese contraption wait; please go to the little summer-house now. See, how it fairly twinkles in the last gleams of the setting sun! What is the flower that rambles all over it? Oh, do let’s go there now! Come, please!” With no reason for her foolish insistence save a whim, Genevieve was amazed to see the look of fury that came over her host’s face. “Appleby put you up to that!” he cried, in a voice of intense anger. “He told you to ask me to go to that place!” “Why, Mr. Wheeler,” cried the girl, almost frightened, “Mr. Appleby did nothing of the sort! Why should he! I’m not asking anything wrong, am I? Why is it so dreadful to want to see an arbor instead of a tea-house? You must be crazy!” When Miss Lane was excited, she was quite apt to lose her head, and speak in thoughtless fashion. But Mr. Wheeler didn’t seem to notice her informality of speech. He only stared at her as if he couldn’t quite make her out, and then he suddenly seemed to lose interest in her or her wishes, and with a deep sigh, he turned away, and fell into the same brooding posture as when she had first approached him. “Come to dinner, people,” called Maida’s pretty voice, as, with outstretched hands she came toward them. “Why, dads, what are you looking miserable about? What have you done to him, Miss Lane?” “Maida, child, don’t speak like that! Miss Lane has been most kindly talking to me, of—of the beauties of Sycamore Ridge.” “All right, then, and forgive me, Miss Lane. But you see, the sun rises and sets for me in one Daniel Wheeler, Esquire, and any shadow on his face makes me apprehensive of its cause.” Only for an instant did Genevieve Lane’s sense of justice rise in revolt, then her common sense showed her the better way, and she smiled pleasantly and returned: “I don’t blame you, Miss Wheeler. If I had a father, I should feel just the same way, I know. But don’t do any gory-lock-shaking my way. I assure you I didn’t really scold him. I only kicked because he wouldn’t humor my whim for visiting the summer-house with the blossoms trailing over it! Was that naughty of me?” But though Genevieve listened for the answer, none came. “Come on in to dinner, daddy, dear,” Maida repeated. “Come, Miss Lane, they’re waiting for us.” Dinner was a delightful occasion. Daniel Wheeler, at the head of his own table, was a charming host, and his melancholy entirely disappeared as the talk ran along on subjects grave or gay, but of no personal import. Appleby, too, was entertaining, and the two men, with Mrs. Wheeler, carried on most of the conversation, the younger members of the party being by what seemed common consent left out of it.