Mr. Hamilton's reply came in five days. He would come at once. De Courval's friends, Bingham and Wynne, had heard his story, and thought he did well to resign, while Wynne advised him to come to Merion for a week or two. His other adviser would not have even the appearance of flight.

"Above all," said Margaret, "go about as usual. Thou must not avoid people, and after Mr. Hamilton comes and is gone, think of Merion if it so please thee, or I can let thee go. Aunt Gainor was here in one of her fine tempers yesterday. I am jealous of her, Monsieur de Courval. And she has her suspicions."

He took her advice, and saw too easily that he was the observed of many; for in the city he had long been a familiar personality, with his clean-shaven, handsome face and the erect figure, which showed the soldier's training. He was, moreover, a favorite, especially with the older men and women, so that not all the looks he met were either from hostile, cockaded Jacobins or from the merely curious.

Mr. Thomas Cadwalader stopped him, and said that at need he was at his service, if he desired to call out the minister or the Secretary. Mrs. Byrd, both curious and kind, would have him to come and tell her all about it, which he was little inclined to do.

He took Margaret's wholesome advice, and swam and rode, and was in a calmer state of mind, and even happy at the greetings of those in the fencing school, where were some whom, out of his slender means, he had helped. They told him gleefully how de Malerive had given up the ice-cream business for a morning to quiet for a few weeks an Irish Democrat who had said of the vicomte unpleasant things; and would he not fence! "Yes, now," he said smiling, and would use the pistol no more.

Mr. Hamilton came as he had promised. "I must return to New York," he said, "to-morrow. I have heard from Schmidt. He may not come very soon; but I wrote him fully, on hearing from you. He will be sure to come soon or late, but meanwhile I have asked General Washington to see you with me. It may, indeed, be of small present use, but I want him to hear you—your own account of this affair. So far he has had only what Mr. Randolph has been pleased to tell him. I made it a personal favor. Let us go. The cabinet meeting will be over."

RenÉ thanked him and not altogether assured that any good would result from this visit, walked away with Hamilton, the two men attracting some attention. The President at this time lived on High Street, in the former house of Robert Morris, near to Sixth Street. They were shown into the office room on the right, which De Courval knew well, and where GenÊt, the Jacobin minister, had been insulted by the medallions of the hapless king and queen.

In a few minutes the President entered. He bowed formally, and said, "Pray be seated, Vicomte. I have been asked, sir, by Mr. Hamilton to hear you. As you are not now in the service, I am pleased to allow myself the pleasure to do so, although I have thought it well to advise Mr. Randolph of my intention. Your case has been before the cabinet, but as yours was a position solely in the gift of the Secretary of State, I—or we, have felt that his appointments should lie wholly within his control."

"And of disappointments, also, I suppose," said Hamilton, smiling, a privileged person.

Little open to appreciation of humor, no smile came upon the worn face of the President. He turned to Hamilton as he spoke, and then went on addressing De Courval, and speaking, as was his way, with deliberate slowness. "I have given this matter some personal consideration because, although Mr. Secretary Randolph has acted as to him seemed best, you have friends who, to be frank with you, feel desirous that I should be informed by you in person of what took place. I am willing to oblige them. You are, it seems, unfortunate. There are two serious charges, an assault and—pardon me—the seizure of a despatch. May I be allowed to ask you certain questions?"

"I shall be highly honored, sir."

"This, I am given to understand, was a personal quarrel."

"Yes, your Excellency."

"What the law may say of the matter, I do not know. What concerns us most is the despatch. In what I say I desire, sir, to be considered open to correction. When, as I am told, you followed Mr. Carteaux, intending a very irregular duel, did you know that he carried a despatch?"

"I did not until Mr. Schmidt found it. Then the man was cared for, and I delivered his papers to their destination."

"I regret, sir, to hear that of this you have no proof. Here your word suffices. Outside of these walls it has been questioned."

"I have no proof,—none of any value,—nor can I ever hope to prove that I did what my own honor and my duty to the administration required."

Hamilton listened intently while the aging, tired face of the President for a moment seemed lost in reflection. Then the large, blue eyes were lifted as he said, "At present this matter seems hopeless, sir, but time answers many questions." Upon this he turned to Hamilton. "There are two persons involved. Who, sir, is this Mr. Schmidt? I am told that he has left the country; in fact, has fled."

For a moment Hamilton was embarrassed. "I can vouch for him as my friend. He was called to Germany on a matter of moment. At present I am not at liberty to reply to you more fully. He is sure to return, and then I may,—indeed, I am sure, will be more free to answer you frankly.

"But if so, what value will his evidence have? None, I conceive, as affecting the loss of the despatch. If that charge were disproved, the political aspect of the matter would become unimportant. The affair, so far as the duel is concerned, would become less serious."

"It seems so to me," said Hamilton. "The Democrats are making the most of it, and the English Federalists are doing harm by praising my young friend for what he did not do and never would have done. They were mad enough in New York to propose a dinner to the vicomte."

The President rose. "I do not think it advisable, Mr. Hamilton, to pursue this matter further at present; nor, sir, do I apprehend that any good can result for this gentleman from my willingness to gratify your wish that I should see him."

"We shall detain your Excellency no longer."

The President was never fully at ease when speaking, and owing to a certain deliberateness in speech, was thought to be dull when in company and, perhaps through consciousness of a difficulty in expression, was given to silence, a disposition fostered, no doubt, by the statesman's long disciplined need for reticence.

After Hamilton had accepted the President's rising as a signal of their audience being over, RenÉ, seeing that the general did not at once move toward the door, waited for Hamilton. The ex-Secretary, however, knew well the ways of his friend and stood still, aware that the President was slowly considering what further he desired to say.

The pause was strange to De Courval as he stood intently watching the tall figure in black velvet, and the large features on which years of war and uneasy peace had left their mark.

Then with more than his usual animation, the President came nearer to De Courval: "I have myself, sir, often had to bide on time for full justification of my actions. While you are in pursuit of means to deal with the suspicions arising, permit me to say, from your own imprudence you will have to bear in silence what men say of you. I regret, to conclude, that I cannot interfere in this matter. I discover it to be more agreeable to say to you that personally I entirely believe you. But this you must consider as spoken 'under the rose'"—a favorite expression. De Courval flushed with joy, and could say no more than: "I thank you. You have helped me to wait."

The general bowed, and at the door, as they were passing out, said: "I shall hope to see you again in the service, and you must not think of retiring permanently from the work which you have done so well. I remind myself that I have not yet thanked you for your report. It has greatly relieved my mind." On this he put out his hand, over which RenÉ bowed in silent gratitude, and with a last look at the weary face of the man whose life had been one long sacrifice to duty, he went away, feeling the strengthening influence of a great example.

As they reached the street, RenÉ said, "How just he is, and how clear!"

"Yes. A slowly acting mind, but sure—and in battle, in danger, swift, decisive, and reckless of peril. Are you satisfied?"

"Yes, I am. I shall be, even though this matter is never cleared up."

"It will be. He said so, and I have long since learned to trust his foresight. In all my long experience of the man, I have scarcely ever heard him speak at such length. You may live to see many men in high places; you will never see a greater than George Washington. I know him as few know him."

He was silent for a moment, and then added, "When I was young and hasty, and thought more of Alexander Hamilton than I do to-day, he forgave me an outburst of youthful impertinence which would have made a vainer man desire to see no more of me." De Courval, a less quick-tempered character, wondered that any one should have taken a liberty with the man they had just left.

"But now I must leave you," said Hamilton. "If Schmidt returns, he will land in New York, and I shall come hither with him. Have you seen the new paper, the 'Aurora'? Mr. Bache has taken up the task Freneau dropped—of abusing the President."

"No, I have not seen it. I suppose now it is the English treaty. It will interest me no longer."

"Oh, for a time, for a time. Between us, the President has sent it to the Senate. It will leak out. He will sign it with a reservation as concerns the English claim to seize provisions meant for French ports. Do not speak of it. Randolph is striving to strengthen the President's scruples with regard to a not altogether satisfactory treaty, but, on the whole, the best we can get. It will be signed and will be of great service. Keep this to yourself, and good-by. Randolph is too French for me. I may have said to you once that if we had a navy, it is not peace that the President would desire."

De Courval hastened home to pour into the ear of Margaret so much of his interview as he felt free to speak of.

"My mother," she said, "would speak to thee of me, RenÉ." But he asked that she would wait, and his sense of satisfaction soon gave place, as was natural, to a return of depression, which for a time left him only when in the company of Margaret. Her mother, usually so calm, did most uneasily wait while the days went by, but made no effort to interfere with the lovers.

On the 9th of August, at evening, Margaret and RenÉ were seated in the garden when of a sudden RenÉ leaped up with a cry of joyous welcome, as he saw Schmidt, large, bronzed and laughing, on the porch.

"Du Guter Himmel!" he cried, "but I am content to be here. I have good news for you. Ach, let me sit down. Now listen. But first, is it all right, children!"

"May I tell him in my way, RenÉ?"

"Yes, of course; but what is your way?"

"This is my way," said Margaret, and bending over, as the German sat on the grass at her feet, she kissed him, saying, "as yet no one knows."

"I am answered, Pearl, and now listen. This morning I met Mr. Randolph and Mr. Hamilton with the President. That was best before seeing you. Mr. Randolph was silent while I told the general plainly the story of your duel. Ach, but he has the trick of silence! A good one, too. When I had ended, he said, 'I am to be pardoned, sir, if I ask who in turn will vouch for you as a witness?'"

"Then I said, 'With my apologies to these gentlemen, may I be allowed a brief interview alone with your Excellency, or, rather, may I ask also for Mr. Hamilton to be present?' 'With your permission, Mr. Randolph,' the President said, and showed us into a small side room. There I told him."

"Told him what?" asked Margaret.

"Your husband may tell you, my dear, when you are married. I may as well permit it, whether I like it or not. You would get it out of him."

"I should," she said; "but—it is dreadful to have to wait."

"On our return, his Excellency said, 'Mr. Randolph, I am satisfied as regards the correctness of the Vicomte de Courval's account of Mr. Carteaux's treachery and of the vicomte's ignorance of his errand. Mr. Gouverneur sends me by Mr. Schmidt a letter concerning the despatch.'

"Then Randolph asked quietly: 'Did he see it, sir?'

"'He knows that the vicomte delivered a packet of papers to the Jean Bart.'

"'And without receipt for them or other evidence?'

"'Yes. It so seems.'

"'Then I regret to say that all we have heard appears to me, sir, to leave the matter where it was.'

"'Not quite. Mr. Fauchet is out of office and about to go home. Carteaux, as Mr. Hamilton can tell you, refused to be questioned, and has sailed for France. Adet, the new minister, will not urge the matter. You must pardon me, but, as it appears to me, an injustice has been done.'

"Randolph said testily: 'It is by no means clear to me, and until we hear of that despatch, it never will be.'

"This smileless old man said, 'I am not free to speak of what Mr. Schmidt has confided to me, but it satisfies me fully.' Then he waited to hear what Randolph would say."

"And he?" said RenÉ, impatient.

"Oh, naturally enough he was puzzled and I thought annoyed, but said, 'I presume, Mr. President, it is meant that I ought to offer this young man the position he forfeited?'

"'That, sir,' said the President, 'is for you to decide.'

"Then Mr. Hamilton, who can be as foxy as Jefferson, said in a careless way, 'I think I should wait a little.'

"The moment he said that, I knew what would happen. Randolph said, 'Pardon me, Mr. Hamilton, I prefer to conduct the affairs of my department without aid.' They love not one another, these two. 'I am of the President's opinion. I shall write to the Vicomte de Courval.'

"Mr. Hamilton did seem to me to amuse himself. He smiled a little and said: 'A pity to be in such a hurry. Time will make it all clearer.' Randolph made no reply. You will hear from him to-morrow."

"I shall not accept," said RenÉ.

"Yes, you must. It is a full answer to all criticism, and after what the President has said, you cannot refuse."

"Mr. Schmidt is right, RenÉ," said Margaret. "Thou must take the place."

"Good, wise little counselor!" said the German. "He will write you a courteous note, RenÉ. He has had, as Hamilton says, enough differences with the chief to make him willing to oblige him in a minor matter. You must take it."

At last, it being so agreed, Schmidt went in to see Mrs. Swanwick and to relieve her as concerned a part, at least, of her troubles. The rest he would talk about later.

Even the vicomtesse was so good as to be pleased, and the evening meal was more gay than usual.

The next morning RenÉ received the following note:

Schmidt laughed as he read it. "He does not like it. The dose is bitter. He thinks you will say no. But you will write simply, and accept with pleasure."

"Yes, I see. I shall do as you say." He sent a simple note of acceptance. A visit to the office of state settled the matter, and on the day but one after receipt of the letter, RenÉ was well pleased to be once more at his desk and busy.

Meanwhile Schmidt had been occupied with long letters to Germany and his affairs in the city, but in the evening of the 12th of August, they found time for one of their old talks.

"This matter of yours, and in fact of mine, RenÉ, does not fully satisfy me. I still hear much about it, and always of that infernal despatch."

"It does not satisfy me, sir."

"Well, it seems to me that it will have to. Long ago that despatch must be in Paris; but Mr. Monroe, our minister, could learn nothing about it. And so you two young folks have arranged your affairs. I can tell you that Miss Gainor will be sorry to have had no hand in this business, and Uncle Josiah, too."

"That is droll enough. I am glad to have pleased somebody. We have thought it better not as yet to speak of it."

"Have you told your mother, RenÉ? You may be sure that she will know, or guess at the truth, and resent being left in the dark."

"That is true; but you may very well imagine that I dread what she will say of Margaret. We have never had a serious difference, and now it is to come. I shall talk to her to-morrow."

"No, now. Get it over, sir. Get it over. I must go home again soon, and I want to see you married. Go now at once and get it over."

"I suppose that will be as well."

He went slowly up the winding staircase which was so remarkable a feature of the finer Georgian houses. Suddenly he was aware in the darkness of Margaret on the landing above him.

"Don't stop me," she said.

"What is wrong!" he asked.

"Everything. I told thee thy mother would know. She sent for me. I went. She was cruel—cruel—hard."

"What, dear, did she say?"

"I shall not tell thee. She insulted me and my mother. Ah, but she said—no, I shall not tell thee, nor mother. She sent for me, and I went. I had to tell her. Oh, I said that—that—I told her—I do not know what I told her." She was on the edge of her first almost uncontrollable loss of self-government. It alarmed her pride, and at once becoming calm, she added, "I told her that it was useless to talk to me, to say that it must end, that thou wouldst obey her. I—I just laughed; yes, I did. And I told her she did not yet know her own son—and—that some day she would regret what she had said to me, and, RenÉ, of my mother. I do not care—"

"But I care, Margaret. I was this moment on my way to tell her."

"Let me pass. I hope thou art worth what I have endured for thy sake. Let me pass." He went by her, troubled and aware that he too needed to keep himself in hand. When he entered his mother's room he found her seated by the feeble candle-light, a rose of the never-finished embroidery growing under her thin, skilful fingers.

For her a disagreeable matter had been decisively dealt with and put aside; no trace of emotion betrayed her self-satisfaction at having finally settled an unpleasant but necessary business.

In the sweet, low voice which seemed so out of relation to her severity of aspect, she said: "Sit down. I have been left to learn from the young woman of this entanglement. I should have heard it from you, or never have had to hear it at all."

"Mother, I have been in very great trouble of late. That my disaster did trouble you so little has been painful to me. But this is far worse. I waited to feel at ease about the other affair before I spoke to you of my intention to marry Miss Swanwick. I was on my way just now when I met her on the stair. I desire to say, mother—"

She broke in: "It is useless to discuss this absurd business. It is over. I have said so to the young woman. That ends it. Now kiss me. I wish to go to bed."

"No," he said; "this does not end it."

"Indeed, we shall see—a quite ordinary Quaker girl and a designing mother. It is all clear enough. Neither of you with any means, not a louis of dot—a nice wife to take home. Oh, I have expressed myself fully, and it was needed. She presumed to contradict me. Ciel! I had to be plain."

"So it seems; but as I count for something, I beg leave to say, maman, that I mean to marry Margaret Swanwick."

"You, the Vicomte de Courval!"

He laughed bitterly. "What are titles here, or in France, to-day? There are a dozen starving nobles in this city, exiles and homeless. As to money, I have charge of Mr. Schmidt's affairs, and shall have. I am not without business capacity."

"Business!" she exclaimed.

"Well, no matter, mother. I pray you to be reasonable, and to remember what these people have done for us: in health no end of kindness; in sickness—mother, I owe to them my life."

"They were paid, I presume."

"Mon Dieu, mother! how can you say such things? It is incredible."

"RenÉ, do you really mean to disobey me?"

"I hope not to have to do so."

"If you persist, you will have to. I shall never consent, never."

"Then, mother,—and you force me to say it,—whether you agree to it or not, I marry Margaret. You were hard to her and cruel."

"No; I was only just and wise."

"I do not see it; but rest assured that neither man nor woman shall part us. Oh, I have too much of you in me to be controlled in a matter where both love and honor are concerned."

"Then you mean to make this mÉsalliance against my will."

"I mean, and that soon, to marry the woman I think worthy of any man's love and respect."

"She is as bad as you—two obstinate fools! I am sorry for your children."

"Mother!"

"Well, and what now?"

"It is useless to resist. It will do no good. It only hurts me. Did your people want you to marry Jean de Courval, my father?"

"No."

"You did. Was it a mÉsalliance?"

"They said so."

"You set me a good example. I shall do as you did, if, after this, her pride does not come in the way."

"Her pride, indeed! Will it be to-morrow, the marriage?"

"Ah, dear mother, why will you hurt me so?"

"I know you as if it were myself. I take the lesser of two evils." And to his amazement, she said, "Send the girl up to me."

"If she will come."

"Come? Of course she will come." He shook his head and left her, but before he was out of the room, her busy hands were again on the embroidery-frame.

"No, I will not go," said Margaret when he delivered his message.

"For my sake, dear," said RenÉ, and at last, reluctant and still angry, Margaret went up-stairs.

"Come in," said madame; "you have kept me waiting." The girl stood still at the open door.

"Do not stand there, child. Come here and sit down."

"No," said Margaret, "I shall stand."

"As you please, Mademoiselle. My son has made up his mind to an act of folly. I yield because I must. He is obstinate, as you will some day discover to your cost. I cannot say I am satisfied, but as you are to be my daughter, I shall say no more. You may kiss me. I shall feel better about it in a few years, perhaps."

Never, I suppose, was Margaret's power of self-command more sorely tried. She bent over, lifted the hand of the vicomtesse from the embroidery, and kissed it, saying, "Thou art RenÉ's mother, Madame," and, turning, left the room.

RenÉ was impatiently walking in the hall when Margaret came down the stair from this brief interview. She was flushed and still had in her eyes the light of battle. "I have done as you desired. I cannot talk any more. I have had all I can stand. No, I shall not kiss thee. My kisses are spoilt for to-night." Then she laughed as she went up the broad stairway, and, leaning over the rail, cried: "There will be two for to-morrow. They will keep. Good night."

The vicomtesse she left was no better pleased, and knew that she had had the worst of the skirmish.

"I hate it. I hate it," she said, "but that was well done of the maid. Where did she get her fine ways?" She was aware, as RenÉ had said in some wrath, that she could not insult these kind people and continue to eat their bread. The dark lady with the wan, ascetic face, as of a saint of many fasts, could abide poverty and accept bad diet, but nevertheless did like very well the things which make life pleasant, and had been more than comfortable amid the good fare and faultless cleanliness of the Quaker house.

She quite well understood that the matter could not remain in the position in which she had left it. She had given up too easily; but now she must take the consequences. Therefore it was that the next day after breakfast she said to Margaret, "I desire to talk to you a little."

"Certainly, Madame. Will the withdrawing-room answer?"

"Yes, here or there." Margaret closed the door as she followed the vicomtesse, and after the manner of her day stood while the elder woman sat very upright in the high-backed chair prophetically designed for her figure and the occasion.

"Pray be seated," she said. "I have had a white night, Mademoiselle, if you know what that is. I have been sleepless." If this filled Margaret with pity, I much doubt. "I have had to elect whether I quarrel with my son or with myself. I choose the latter, and shall say no more than this—I am too straightforward to avoid meeting face to face the hardships of life."

"Bless me, am I the hardship?" thought Margaret, her attitude of defiant pride somewhat modified by assistant sense of the comic.

"I shall say only this: I have always liked you. Whether I shall ever love you or not, I do not know. I have never had room in my heart for more than one love. God has so made me," which the young woman thought did comfortably and oddly shift responsibility, and thus further aided to restore her good humor.

"We shall be friends, Margaret." She rose as she spoke, and setting her hands on Margaret's shoulders as she too stood, said: "You are beautiful, child, and you have very good manners. There are things to be desired, the want of which I much regret; otherwise—" She felt as if she had gone far enough. "Were these otherwise, I should have been satisfied." Then she kissed her coldly on the forehead.

Margaret said, "I shall try, Madame, to be a good daughter," and, falling back, courtesied, and left the tall woman to her meditations.

Madame de Courval and Mary Swanwick knew that soon or late what their children had settled they too must discuss. Neither woman desired it, the vicomtesse aware that she might say more than she meant to say, the Quaker matron in equal dread lest things might be said which would make the future difficult. Mary Swanwick usually went with high courage to meet the calamities of life, and just at present it is to be feared that she thus classified the stern puritan dame. But now she would wait no longer, and having so decided on Saturday, she chose Sunday morning, when—and she smiled—the vicomtesse having been to Gloria Dei and she herself to Friends' meeting, both should be in a frame of mind for what she felt might prove a trial of good temper.

Accordingly, having heard the gentle Friend Howell discourse, and bent in silent prayer for patience and charity, she came home and waited until from the window of Schmidt's room she saw the tall, black figure approach.

She went out to the hall and let in Madame de Courval, saying: "I have waited for thee. Wilt thou come into the withdrawing-room? I have that to say which may no longer be delayed."

"I myself had meant to talk with you of this unfortunate matter. It is as well to have it over." So saying she followed her hostess. Both women sat upright in the high-backed chairs, the neat, gray-clad Quaker lady, tranquil and rosy; the black figure of the Huguenot dame, sallow, with grave, unmoved features, a strange contrast.

"I shall be pleased to hear you, Madame Swanwick."

"It is simple. I have long seen that there was a growth of attachment between our children. I did not—I do not approve it."

"Indeed," said Madame de Courval, haughtily. What was this woman to sit in judgment on the Vicomte de Courval?

"I have done my best to keep them apart. I spoke to Margaret, and sent her away again and again as thou knowest. It has been in vain, and now having learned that thou hast accepted a condition of things we do neither of us like, I have thought it well to have speech of thee."

"I do not like it, and I never shall. I have, however, yielded a reluctant consent. I cannot quarrel with my only child; but I shall never like it—never."

"Never is a long day."

"I am not of those who change. There is no fitness in it, none. My son is of a class far above her. They are both poor." A sharp reply to the reference to social distinctions was on Mary Swanwick's tongue. She resisted the temptation, and said quietly:

"Margaret will not always be without means; my uncle will give her, on his death, all he has; and as to class, Madame, the good Master to whom we prayed this morning, must—"

"It is not a matter for discussion," broke in the elder woman.

"No; I agree with thee. It is not, but—were it not as well that two Christian gentlewomen should accept the inevitable without reserve and not make their children unhappy?"

"Gentlewomen!"

Mary Swanwick reddened. "I said so. We, too, are not without the pride of race you value. A poor business, but,"—and she looked straight at the vicomtesse, unable to resist the temptation to retort—"we are not given to making much of it in speech."

Madame de Courval had at times entertained Margaret with some of the grim annals of her father's people. Now, feeling the thrust, and not liking it, or that she had lost her temper, she shifted her ground, and being at heart what her hostess described as a gentlewoman, said stiffly: "I beg pardon; I spoke without thought." At this moment Margaret entered, and seeing the signals of discomposure on both faces, said: "Oh, you two dear people whom I love and want to love more and more, you are talking of me and of RenÉ. Shall I give him up, Madame, and send him about his business."

"Do, dear," laughed her mother, relieved.

There was no mirth to be had out of it for Yvonne de Courval.

"It is not a matter for jesting," she said. "He is quite too like me to be other than obstinate, and this, like what else of the trials God has seen fit to send, is to be endured. He is too like me to change."

"Then," said Margaret, gaily, "thou must be like him."

"I suppose so," said the vicomtesse, with a note of melancholy in her tones.

"Then if thou art like him, thou wilt have to love me," cried Margaret. The mother smiled at this pretty logic, but the Huguenot dame sat up on her chair, resentful of the affectionate familiarity of the girl's gaiety.

"Your mother and I have talked, and what use is it? I shall try to care for you, and love may come. But I could have wished—"

"Oh, no!" cried Margaret. "Please to say no more. Thou will only hurt me."

"I remain of the same opinion; I am not of a nature which allows me to change without reason."

"And as for me," said Mrs. Swanwick, smiling as she rose, "I yield when I must."

"I, too," said the dark lady; "but to yield outwardly is not to give up my opinions, nor is it easy or agreeable to do so. We will speak of it another time, Madame Swanwick." But they never did, and so this interview ended with no very good result, except to make both women feel that further talk would be of no use, and that the matter was settled.

As the two mothers rose, Miss Gainor entered, large, smiling, fresh from Christ Church. Quick to observe, she saw that something unusual had occurred, and hesitated between curiosity and the reserve which good manners exacted.

"Good morning," she said. "I heard that Mr. Schmidt had come back, and so I came at once from church to get all the news from Europe for the Penns, where I go to dine."

"Europe is unimportant," cried Margaret, disregarding a warning look from her mother. "I am engaged to be married to Monsieur de Courval—and—everybody—is pleased. Dear Aunt Gainor, I like it myself."

"I at least am to be excepted," said the vicomtesse, "as Mademoiselle knows. I beg at present to be saved further discussion. May I be excused—"

"It seems, Madame," returned Miss Wynne, smiling, "to have got past the need for discussion. I congratulate you with all my heart."

"Mon Dieu!" exclaimed the vicomtesse, forgetful of her Huguenot training, and swept by Miss Gainor's most formal courtesy and was gone.

"Dear child," cried Mistress Wynne, as she caught Margaret in her arms, "I am glad as never before. The vicomte has gone back to the service and—you are to marry—oh, the man of my choice. The poor vicomtesse, alas! Where is the vicomte?"

"He is out just now. We did mean to tell thee this evening."

"Ah! I am glad it came earlier, this good news. May I tell them at the governor's?"

"I may as well say yes," cried Margaret. "Thou wouldst be sure to tell."

"I should," said Gainor.