“O, that is too definite a term! He said enough to put me on my guard against him--that is all.” “You need not have been so scrupulous. He is ever courteous and considerate--attentions that woman in her vanity is always too ready to accept as single to herself.” “O, I took his for what they were worth! I was under no delusions as to their value.” She tossed her head. There was a spot of anger on her cheek; some venom in her tone. “I am sure I had no intention,” she said loftily, “to disabuse your mind about him.” “No one could do that but himself,” answered Isabella proudly. “Though all the world slandered him, I should not listen or believe.” She drooped her sad head, knotting and unknotting her fingers. “I hoped I had a friend,” she said; “but I think I am quite alone.” Fanchette sulked a little, though with a certain bewildered contempt in her mind. How was one to circumvent this loyal fool, so obdurate in her love’s faith? If all evidence was so to be discredited by her, what was the use of their conspiring to produce it? And as she thought--even with some grudging sympathy with a pertinacity which was, after all, characteristically feminine--two soft arms came about her neck, and two soft entreating eyes looked into hers. “Fanchette; in pity tell me, _what_ am I to do.” The girl sniffed, and caught her breath. If she had but little heart, the emotionalism in her was always a responsive quantity. She answered, almost hysterically: “O! what is the good of asking me? He is gone, I tell you--some say summoned by the archduke to answer for his conduct. Perhaps he is dead by now.” She saw the roses quit the cheek, and clutched at the slender form as it swayed backwards. She was full of passionate remorse and alarm in a moment. “Mistress--dearest, it was a lie. Look up--listen to me--I am a wicked heartless wretch! He is not dead--I know it--I was told by one who knows it. He has been to Vienna, and left again: it is thought he has gone to the wars.” She wept, and upbraided herself, and fondled the scarce animate form, calling upon it to speak, to forgive her, not to die and curse her to eternal despair. And presently her urgency prevailed, and a tinge of colour came back to the white face, and the ghost of a voice reassured her: “Without one word to me?” She took her in her arms, and rocked her, soothing and protesting in one: