Mrs. Robbins sat silent, gravely cogitating. She was a large, fleshy woman, good-natured, and slow to anger. It did not occur to her to fly into a passion and resent Mrs. Ives’ harsh opinion of Pansy. On the contrary, to her calm, equable nature, it seemed best to weigh the pros and cons in the case. Besides, Pansy was her husband’s niece, not hers, and she had no special fondness for the girl, whom she had never seen till this summer. Mrs. Ives watched her closely, and, seeing how quietly she had taken everything, took heart to continue pouring out her venom. “I’m afraid that girl is going to make you lots of trouble,” she ventured. “She will want to hang on to Mr. Wylde, of course.” Mrs. Robbins turned her large, ruminating eyes on the lady’s face, and remarked: “Perhaps he means fair. Rich men have married poor geerls before now. And Pansy Laurens is a good-looking geerl--as pritty as your Jule, I think, ma’am.” Mrs. Ives grew quite red in the face with anger, but she restrained herself, hoping to mold the simple-minded woman to her will. Shaking her head vehemently, she replied: “Ah, you don’t know the Wyldes! They are the proudest people in Richmond, rich and fashionable, and belong to one of the oldest families in Virginia. All of them have been professional men, and they consider working people as no better than their servants. If Norman Wylde was fool enough to want to marry a mechanic’s daughter and a working girl, which you may be sure he isn’t, his folks would disinherit him, and never speak to him again.” Mrs. Robbins shook her head and sighed. “I hate to think of my husband’s niece a-being in sech a scrape. Ef she’s been bold and forrard, ma’am, I never noticed it.” “Of course not. She was too sly,” sneered Mrs. Ives. “But I see you’re bound to take her part, Mrs. Robbins, and I’ll say no more, only this: If disgrace comes on your family through that audacious piece, remember I warned you.” “I’ll talk to Mr. Robbins,” was the only answer from the woman of few words. CHAPTER IV. THE BIRD FLIES. Meanwhile poor Pansy, half crazed with shame and grief, was sobbing forlornly up in her little chamber under the eaves. She believed that Norman Wylde had been amusing himself with her, and the thought was agony to her fond, loving heart. “I loved him so! Oh, I loved him so! And it was cruel, cruel for him to deceive me,” she moaned bitterly, while the shame of it all weighed heavily on her sensitive spirit. Suddenly the hired girl, a bright mulatto, put her head into the room, and started at seeing Pansy lying on the floor in tears. “Lor’, Miss Pansy, what’s de matter? You sick?” she exclaimed. “No--yes. What do you want, Sue?” fretfully. “Mr. Wylde tole me to tole you to come downsta’rs. He wants to tell you sumfin.” Pansy’s blue eyes flashed through their tears. “Tell him I won’t come, that I don’t want to see him!” she replied spiritedly.