“Why will you always drag _that_ into the conversation? You have owned of your own accord that that woman’s daughter was sly and disagreeable--a real tiger-cat!” he exclaimed. “Ah, I see that poetic license is not to be carried into real life,” she replied, falling from seriousness into levity. Then, gayly: “And are you sure, quite sure, that you should not fall in love with golden hair and golden eyes, and _l’air noble_?” “Quite sure,” he replied, with disdain. She laughed, and there was something hidden in the laugh that vexed him; but she said, politely enough, the next moment: “Now you will read to me, will you not?” “Pardon me; I would rather talk to you. When are you going to the White?” But he had taken the book from her hands, and was turning the leaves while he spoke. Molly answered, reluctantly: “I--don’t know. Aunt Thalia said something about--about waiting until you got ready.” “How kind! I shall be delighted. I can go in about three days, I should say. But you don’t look very glad at the thought of my company.” “I would as soon excuse you,” she replied, with her usual frankness. He frowned, but would not answer, and in a minute began to read aloud, as it seemed, at random: “‘She was not as pretty as women I know, And yet all your best made of sunshine and snow Drop to shade, melt to naught in the long-trodden ways, While she’s still remembered on warm and cold days, My Kate.’ “There,” he said, looking down at her with a half smile, “those words seem to have been written of you, you provoking child! Do you know that when I’m away from you my thoughts always return to you, and that the hard things you say to me hurt me worse than when first uttered? I resolve firmly not to go near you again, but ‘a spirit in my feet’ brings me back to Ferndale the next day. What have you done to me, Miss Willy Whisk, as old Betsy calls you, to make me your abject slave? I certainly,” laughing, “do not approve of you, so I can not have lost my heart to you.” “Heaven forbid!” Molly Trueheart exclaimed, starting to her feet in such dismay that he said, hastily: “Pray do not be alarmed. You could not suppose I really meant it!” “Of course not. It would be the worst possible taste,” she returned sarcastically, and Cecil Laurens, angered out of his usual good breeding, cried out, sharply: “I agree with you, Miss Barry!” That was enough. Molly’s eyes blazed upon him in such wrath that they almost withered him. She snatched her book rudely from his hand, and stalked away with the pace of a tragedy queen. Left alone thus suddenly under the big tree, Mr. Laurens watched Molly’s white garments flutter into the big porch, then he muttered something under his breath not very complimentary to his tormentor, remounted his horse, which was waiting under a tree, and rode home.