“No, I’m not afraid, for I don’t believe in spirits.” Maybelle laughed tauntingly. “You are joking, Floy. You wouldn’t dare stay alone all night in Suicide House--now, would you?” The girls all applauded Maybelle, sneering at Floy’s pretense of bravery, until the impulsive girl saw that they were overtly challenging her to a proof of her courage. Flushing with anger, her blue eyes blazing with defiance, she cried, stormily: “I am not a coward, Maybelle Maury, and I am not afraid of anything, ghost or human; and I will prove it to you all by staying alone at Suicide House to-night!” “No, no; you must not!” cried a few voices, frightened at the thought of what she had been goaded to do. But Floy’s high spirit was up in arms, and she would not be dissuaded from her purpose. “I shall surely do it, and no one shall prevent me!” she cried; adding: “When we go home to-night, you may leave me at Suicide Place, and I will lock myself in, for I have the keys with me now, and you can go by and tell auntie I stayed all night with one of the girls. In the morning you may send a committee to escort me home in triumph. Why do you all look so pale and frightened? There is no danger, I tell you; I’ve been over the house a hundred times alone, and the only ghosts are rats. It will be rare fun staying there all night!” No one could dissuade her, so they gave up trying. Everybody was sorry for it, but Otho and his sister, who exchanged furtive looks of satisfaction. St. George Beresford had not spoken a word during the whole conversation, though his eager, admiring eyes had scarcely left Floy’s lovely flower-like face. He was silent, abstracted, bitterly piqued at Floy’s pronounced indifference to himself. She had not seemed to see him since the first glance in which she had acknowledged their introduction by Otho Maury, and of course he could not know that it was because Otho had said to her at the cottage gate last night: “My sister Maybelle will be at the picnic to-morrow with her handsome betrothed--the rich New Yorker she is to marry this fall. She is as jealous of him as a little Turk, and it makes her angry for any other girl to even look at him.” He had counted rightly on Floy’s high sense of honor. She was a mischievous little madcap, but she respected Maybelle’s rights, and feigned indifference to Beresford, although she could not avoid noticing the ardent glance he threw in her direction, and she thought, indignantly: “No wonder Maybelle is jealous, for I can see already that he’s a wretched flirt. I won’t even look at him, though he is awfully, awfully handsome!” So with a sigh, whose subtle meaning she could not understand, she turned her back on the wretched Beresford, and entered readily into an animated conversation with Otho, maddening her silent admirer with such keen jealousy that he could bear it no longer. “Let us go and dance,” he said to Maybelle, hoarsely.