“Oh, no, no--never! I am sorry I laughed at them, that is all. I think now I ought to have refused them more sweetly--more kindly--so I am writing just to ask them to forgive me for laughing at them.” Her eyes withdrew themselves reluctantly from his, and the long-fringed lashes swept her cheeks. She looked adorable. “I never heard of such nonsense!” he exclaimed, but not sternly. “If you will take my advice, Sweetheart, you will put the letters into the fire. Your cruelty helps them to forget you. Send them, and you will only have Tom and Frank at your feet again.” “Do you really think so?” she cried, snatching the letters and tearing them to fragments in a hurry. Her cheeks were glowing and her heart beat fast. How strange, yet sweet, it seemed to be here alone in the library with him--sitting in that chair before him like a little culprit, yet a happy one withal, for only to be near him was an exquisite delight to the girl! Her heart throbbed faster and the blood ran quicker through her veins with painful pleasure, at his mere presence. Norman in his arm-chair, with his pen waiting for him on the desk, was in no hurry to begin writing. He was wishing he could think of something that would detain her yet longer. How the fair face and golden head seemed to light up the somber library! She, on her part, was thinking that she must go now--that he had nothing more to say to her. But she--she had something else to say to him, if only she could muster up courage. She glanced bashfully at him under the long lashes. Yes, he was regarding her attentively. The color flew warmly to her cheek in the dread lest he was remembering again with amusement that she had adored him when she was a very, very little girl. But she kept her seat despite a sudden impulse to fly. She must tell him now. “Oh, I am very sorry, Mr. de Vere, that--that--about Frank--you know. I couldn’t--couldn’t--” she stopped helplessly, her face like a rose. “I am sure I do not understand what you are trying to tell me. Why are you so afraid of me? I’m not an ogre, child. Go on. I shall not scold you, what ever you confess.” The sudden, kind, reassuring smile was a wonderful help. She could look at him again--she could say without blundering: “I’m sorry you were disappointed in me--about Frank, you know. I’ve heard all about it--how you educated him for a profession, thinking--thinking to provide a nice husband for me. It was so kind in you. Were you very angry with me? I hope you can forgive me,” anxiously. He bit his lip with vexation. So his mother had betrayed him.