‘If that is a specimen of your friends,’ Sybert answered dryly, ‘my advice is that you shake their acquaintance.’ ‘I don’t mind a little impertinence,’ she said lightly. ‘It’s at least better than whining.’ ‘I told you yesterday, Miss Marcia, that I didn’t think you ought to be running about the country alone—I think it even less to-day. It isn’t safe up here in the mountain towns, where the people aren’t used to foreigners.’ ‘Why don’t you suggest to Uncle Howard that he engage a nurse for me?’ ‘I begin to think you need one!’ Marcia laid a light hand on his arm. ‘Mr. Sybert, please don’t speak to me so harshly.’ ‘I’ll speak to your uncle—that’s what I’ll do,’ he retorted. They had by this time reached the castle, and having crossed the drawbridge and the stone courtyard, they came out on the other side, with the noisy little town left suddenly behind. The mountains rose above them, the valley lay beneath, and before them a straight, grassy road stretched into the hills, bordered by the tall arches of an old aqueduct. They strolled along, talking idly, Marcia well in command of the situation. There was a touch of audacity, even of provocation, underneath her glance, and Sybert was amusedly aware of the fact that he was being flirted with. Quite to Marcia’s astonishment, he met her on her own ground; he accepted the half-challenge in her manner and was never the first to lower his eyes. They had come to a bank starred pink with cyclamen and backed by one of the tall arches of the aqueduct. ‘Suppose we sit down and look at the view,’ he suggested. Marcia seated herself on a projecting block of masonry, while Sybert lounged on the grass at her side. ‘Mr. Melville told me the other day,’ he remarked presently, ‘that he remembers having seen your mother when she was a little girl.’ Marcia nodded and laughed. ‘He told me about it—he says she was the worst tom-boy he ever saw.’ ‘It was a very pretty picture he drew—I wonder if you ever rode the colts bareback?’ ‘My mother was brought up on a Southern plantation; I, in a New York house and a Paris convent—there weren’t any colts to ride.’ ‘And your mother died when you were a little girl?’ ‘When I was twelve.’ ‘Ah, that was hard,’ he said, with quick sympathy. She glanced up in half surprise. It was the first time she had ever heard him say anything so kindly. ‘And the convent in Paris?’ he asked. ‘How did that happen?’ ‘Some one suggested it to my father, and I suppose it struck him as an excellent way to dispose of me. Not that he isn’t an appreciative parent,’ she added quickly, in response to an expression on his face; ‘but the education of a daughter is a problem to a business man.’ ‘I should think it might be,’ he agreed. ‘And how did the convent go?’ ‘Not very well. I didn’t learn anything but prayers and French, and I was dreadfully homesick.’ ‘And then?’