“You have broken Mae’s heart!” she repeated, angrily. “She loved you dearly. She thought you loved her in return, and would marry her when your fortune mended, and I--as blind as she was--I encouraged her to think so. And now this terrible blow!” It was a strange welcome for the young bride. She stared with dazed eyes at the prostrate girl, while her ears drank in every word of Rolfe’s mother. As for him, he grew pale with indignation as he pressed Viola’s hand against his arm, replying: “Mother, before Heaven I never dreamed of such fancies on your part, or Mae’s, whom I loved as a dear little sister only, and I am sorry I have unwittingly given her pain. But you have done wrong to betray my cousin’s tender secret to me and to my wife.” The invalid turned her sorrowful dark eyes quickly on Viola, exclaiming: “I beg your pardon for my indiscreet speech, dear, and for forgetting to welcome you in my fright over Mae. I am sure I shall love Rolfe’s wife dearly.” And she held out her hand; but the one that Viola placed in it was cold as ice, as she answered, proudly: “I am sorry I have disappointed your wishes for your son, madame.” Meanwhile, Rolfe stooped over Mae, and lifting her gently in his arms, said: “Mother, I had better carry her to her room, so that you can attend to her, I think.” “Yes,” she answered, following him weakly, then sending him out, saying, bitterly: “Go back to your haughty bride. I can manage Mae best alone.” He returned to Viola, most bitterly pained and chagrined by this awkward _contretemps_. She had thrown herself into an easy-chair, her burning eyes fixed on the floor, and her face a marble mask in its deep pallor. If she had loved him he would have clasped her to his heart, telling her of his deep devotion and begging her to forget what had happened just now. But he fancied she would not have tolerated that, so he drew a chair to her side, and venturing to touch one of her cold hands caressingly, said, tenderly: “Viola, I hope you will forget the scene of just now. It was most embarrassing for us both, but my mother, who has been an invalid several months, was overcome by surprise and excitement. She and Mae have been very silly in their fancies, for I never thought of the dear child only as a cousin or sister. I have been in love with you long before you ever saw me or heard my name, though you would never have known it but for the happenings of tonight.” Viola started, glanced keenly at him, then dropped her eyes again without a word, and he did not dream how he had eased her heart with those simple words: “I have been in love with you long before you ever saw me or heard my name.” “How strange! I wonder where he first saw me,” she mused, for but a moment ago her heart had been racked by the fear that he shared little Mae’s pain of hopeless love--that she had come between them by almost asking him to marry her outright to save her from tomorrow’s keen humiliation.