"Valeria, I have called you!" Ethan was hot and cold with excitement. "Run away and play," said his grandmother, her gleaming eyes falling on a sudden upon the child. She turned sharply and went in-doors, leaving Ethan to wonder which she was going to kill--Tom Rockingham or Aunt Valeria. He stood quite still, waiting for developments. At last, unable to bear the combined suspense and solitude any longer, he pulled the Duchess out from the cool shade under the veranda, and sat down with her on the step. Presently Aunt Valeria came out of the parlor and went up-stairs. He didn't see her face. With a vague, frightened feeling, he got up with the Duchess in his arms and walked away. Mr. Rockingham never came again, and the only reference ever made to him was weeks afterwards, when the summer was waning, and he passed by the house one evening without a word, without a pause, taking off his hat to the ladies who sat in the dusk on the front porch. "Who is that?" Mrs. Gano asked her daughter. "Mr. Rockingham." "Humph!" remarked Mrs. Gano. Aunt Valeria said nothing. Ethan laid his cheek against her slim, white hand. But she didn't seem to him to know or to care for a little boy's sympathy. It was natural, he thought, that he should care so much more for these relations than they did for him. The holidays were ended--so Grandfather Tallmadge had written--and a French boy, a kind of cousin, had come to live at Ashburton Place and go to school with Ethan. "So now he would have a playmate," Aunt Hannah had added, as a postscript. Ethan didn't want a playmate, and he was horribly shy of a boy who knew French by a superior instinct. But to-morrow he was to go back to Boston. No help for it.