Dinner was over at Pinewood, and all the family but Mr. Armour sat, stood, or walked about in the rose du Barry atmosphere of the drawing room.

“The outlook seems more gory than usual,” muttered Valentine, with a groan, placing his handsome figure in a partially-shaded corner, “probably because all the lamps are going. Confound those carnation shades, and confound the everlasting desire of women to have their own way! If Flora decided to hang the place with crÊpe we’d have to submit. I wish Pinewood had a different mistress,” and the young man glanced discontentedly at her, as she sat quietly engaged with some work in a flow of ruddy light from her favorite lamp.

The night was a cold one. The great furnace and the open fires in the house were burning with wild and headstrong draughts, and from the crossed sticks of wood on the drawing-room hearth, mad, scarlet flames went leaping toward the outer air.

Mrs. Colonibel was thinking about an approaching dance—thinking so busily, as she drew the silken threads in and out of her linen, that she had no time, as she usually had, to bestow glances of suppressed jealous anger on Vivienne and Judy. The two girls were wandering about the room arm in arm, having just come in from the conservatory, where Judy had plucked camellias and scarlet geraniums to make a corsage bouquet for Vivienne.

Colonel Armour sat by the fire, pretending to read, but surreptitiously watching Vivienne, who seemed to be clad in a kind of unearthly beauty in the roseate hue cast over her face and white figure by the colored lights of the room.

“Pray, Judy, make no more jokes,” she said, drawing the deformed girl down to a seat beside her. “My lips are really fatigued with smiling. Let us be sensible. Perhaps Mr. Valentine will sing to us. Will you?” and with a pretty, beseeching gesture she turned to the young man.

He bowed gravely and went to the piano. “It is the only time that I can endure him,” mused Vivienne, “when that flood of heartfelt and touching melody comes from his frivolous lips. How can he sing so divinely—he, a trifler, an idler?”

Valentine, with eyes fixed on her, was singing “Eulalie.” His sweet, strong, and powerful tenor voice filled the room. Some penetrating quality in it touched the girl strangely, and tears came to her eyes as she listened.

As the last plaintive, piercing note died away, and while Vivienne was murmuring her thanks and Judy was examining the singer with a curious and critical eye, as though she had just discovered something new and unusual in his appearance, Mr. Armour came and stood quietly inside the doorway. Vivienne saw the other people in the room looking at him, and turned around. Perhaps owing to his coming within the radiance of the glowing lamp shades, the expression of his face seemed kinder than usual. His eyes were fixed on Judy. There was a sort of friendship between him and his cousin’s child greater than that existing between any other two members of the Armour family. It was a well-known fact that the girl detested her mother, that she often fell into violent passions with Valentine because he teased her, and that she usually ignored Colonel Armour as completely as his elder son did.

Armour and Mammy Juniper were her favorites, and even with them she did not always agree. However, Armour it was who had most influence over her, and he it was to whom Mrs. Colonibel appealed when Judy’s fits of temper threatened to disturb the balance of power in the household.

When Judy saw that Armour’s attention was directed to her, she made a face at him and dropped her head on Vivienne’s shoulder.

“Judy,” he said, “some telegrams have just come in. I must write letters and I have a headache——”

He paused for a reply, and Judy raised her head with an aggrieved expression. “Stanton Armour, am I the kind of person to be mewed up in your den with you all the evening and write letters for love?”

“No, Judy, you are not that kind of person. You require an equivalent for services rendered. I make the usual offer.”

“What do you get, Miss Secretary?” asked Valentine jokingly.

“He,” nodding toward Armour, “gives me a dollar an evening. Do you think it is enough?” suspiciously.

“Enough, Judy?” and Valentine laughed in pretended amusement; “not half nor a quarter enough. A young lady of your abilities should command three dollars at least.”

“I won’t go for a dollar, Stanton,” said Judy stoutly, and she dropped her head to its former resting place.

“If I paid my typewriter at the rate I pay you, Judy, she would think herself fortunate.”

“Have you a typewriter in your office, Stanton?” asked Judy, whose curiosity was aroused.

“Yes.”

“Does she write all your letters for you?”

“No; some of them only. I dictate to her and she takes down what I say in shorthand and then copies on her machine.”

“I should like a typewriter, Stanton. Will you get me one?”

“If you promise to learn to write on it.”

“I will; and Vivienne will help me, won’t you, my blackbird? And I will write for you this evening, Stanton,” graciously; “for on the whole, you are a satisfactory kind of man. Come Vivienne,” and getting up she extended a hand behind her.

“I wish to do some reading in my room,” said Vivienne, folding Judy’s fingers together and putting them from her.

“You can read in the library,” said Judy imperiously. “I sha’n’t go one step without you.”

“The evening is wearing away, Judy,” said Mr. Armour patiently.

“Come with me at once,” exclaimed Judy, stamping her foot at Vivienne. “I tell you I hate to write stooping over a desk and holding a stiff pen in my hand. I must have something nice to look at. You shall come.”

Vivienne was very much annoyed. For weeks Judy had not spoken to her in anything but a caressing tone. What had come over the strange girl? “I shall not go anywhere with you when you speak to me in that tone,” she said proudly.

Mrs. Colonibel looked up from her work, and seeing that she was not observed, indulged in a scornful smile. Colonel Armour laid down his paper, and in open amusement surveyed the two young people standing opposite each other with flushed and disturbed faces.

“Pray keep on quarreling, children,” said Valentine. “You are both charming in those attitudes, I assure you.”

Vivienne blushed a yet deeper crimson, and holding her head well up, walked from the room.

Judy hobbled after her, caught her hand, and kissed it repentantly. “My sweet girl, have I offended you?”

Vivienne smiled and pressed her hand, but continued on her way toward the staircase.

Judy clung to her. “Do come with me; it is hateful in there. Stanton is so solemn. If you will come, you may sit with your back to him and look at me.”

“Pray put an end to this teasing, Miss Delavigne,” said Armour wearily, and opening the door of the near library.

To Judy’s great delight, Vivienne came back with her. Into the large, quiet room with its sombre rose and ashen tints they went. “How can you have a headache in this cool place, Stanton?” said Judy. “Now if you were in the fiery furnace of the drawing room one might understand it. You must turn up your lamp—there is not light enough for me—and poke your fire. I am cold. Where shall I sit? Not too far from the heat, if you please. Draw that little table up for me and put that grandfatherly chair in front of the fire for Vivienne, and you may sit behind the big table.”

“Does your head ache badly?” asked Vivienne, fixing her large, dark eyes on Armour’s face.

“Rather badly.”

“That means it is splitting,” said Judy briskly. “Most men would say that. Stanton never exaggerates.”

Armour smiled slightly, and having complied with Judy’s rather unreasonable demands in the way of supplies of pens, blotting paper, and all the paraphernalia of a secretary’s desk, seated himself at a little distance from her and began to dictate. Judy wrote a fair, round hand, and under the pressure of a silver spur had become familiar with the ordinary forms of business correspondence, so that the writing went smoothly on. The girl, unlike her spendthrift mother, was inclined to be miserly, and hoarded every cent that she received to be deposited in the savings bank, the gloating over her bank book being one of her chief pleasures in life.

One hour passed, then another, and still Judy wrote steadily on, only stopping once or twice to ask Mr. Armour to replenish the fire, or to bestow a loving glance on Vivienne who had fallen asleep over her book, her head resting on the cushion of her high-backed chair. “I’m tired,” she exclaimed at last, throwing down her pen. “Won’t this do?”

“Yes,” he said looking at his watch. “I had no idea it was so late. I fear that I have fatigued you.”

“Are they to be posted to-night?” said Judy, her eyes wandering to the heap of letters on the table.

“Yes. Just ring the bell beside you; Vincent must go to the post office.”

“I will stamp the envelopes,” said Judy obligingly. “Please pass me your glass moistener. I hate to lick things. Here is Martha; will you give her the message for Vincent?”

When the letters were disposed of, Armour took up his station on the hearth-rug, and Judy threw herself in an ecstasy of silent adoration before Vivienne. “Isn’t she an angel, Stanton?”

“Not an angel, but very much of a woman,” he replied, calmly surveying the sleeping girl.

“You’re a man,” said Judy sharply, “and when you see a pretty girl in a white dress you admire her, and you needn’t try to make me think you don’t. I was reading the other day that Napoleon thought a slight woman—he hated fat ones—dressed in white and walking under trees, was a lovely sight, and I quite agree with him. So do you. What are you frowning about? Don’t you like Napoleon? Everybody worships him nowadays.”

“A human tiger with a thirst for blood? No.”

“Well, he admired women.”

“He was a beast in his relations to them, Judy. Why does Miss Delavigne so often wear white?”

“She likes it; but she’s going to give it up.”

Armour was struck by Judy’s mysterious tone. “Why does she do that?” he asked.

“She says she can’t afford it; it’s a terrible grief to her that she has no money of her own.”

“Ah, she told you about that discovery, did she?”

“Yes, she couldn’t keep it from me. I saw that she was fretting over something and I teased her till she told me. Don’t you see a difference in her?”

“In what way?”

“Why, she is so subdued, and she thinks a great deal and often lies awake at night. That’s why she’s sleeping now. And she tries to mend her clothes. Dear me!” and Judy began to laugh, “she makes a sad botch of it. She darned a stocking the other day till it was so lumpy she couldn’t wear it. She worries too about breaking her engagement to Captain Macartney. You know that, don’t you?”

“Do you imagine that Miss Delavigne would confide the history of her love affairs to me?”

“No; but you might make her. When are you going to let her leave here, Stanton?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’ll miss her when she goes, mark my words. You are as red as one of mamma’s lamp shades now merely from thinking about it. I shouldn’t wonder if you are in love with my treasure yourself,” and seizing a fold of Vivienne’s gown she pressed it to her lips.

“Do you see any symptoms of it?” he asked coolly.

“Yes; when you are carving you always give her the bit of meat nearest the bone, and you watch her when no one is looking, and you hate for Val to pay her any attention, and you don’t want Uncle Colonel to come near her. You and I are a sad pair of pagans, Stanton. You don’t like your father, and I don’t like my mother—who isn’t worthy of the name, so I call her mamma. Do you know what makes me hate Uncle Colonel so much?”

“No; I wish you wouldn’t run that word ‘hate’ so hard.”

“Well, ‘detest’ then. Do you remember that wall-eyed housemaid with pink cheeks that we had three years ago?”

“Yes.”

“One day I saw Uncle Colonel kissing her in the back hall, and she looked as if she liked it, and then he kissed her again, and she said, ‘Law sir, there might be some one lookin’.’ I went up behind and gave her a slap on the back, and said, ‘You saucy hussy, get to your work,’ and I said to Uncle Colonel, ‘You old fool!’ and I have never liked him since. I don’t see what gentlemen want to kiss servants for, when there are flocks of ladies who would be proud and happy of the honor; do you, Stanton?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Did you ever kiss a woman, Stanton?”

“I once had a mother, Judy.”

“You are begging the question; but your mother was lovely, wasn’t she? In that painting in your room she has a sweet, patient face like a nun’s. I don’t see how she got on with Uncle Colonel; probably he hastened her end. Mammy Juniper says you are more like her than Val. Hush, my sweet saint is waking up. No, she isn’t. I want to beat myself sometimes when I think how hateful I was to her when she came.”

“What did you do?”

“I teased her; but soon I began to like her, and now I could not live without her, and if she leaves Pinewood I shall go too,” and Judy threw a defiant glance up at the man standing over her.

“Don’t talk nonsense, Judy,” he said, scanning disapprovingly the little passionate figure crouched on the hearthrug.

“Why shouldn’t I follow her?” continued the girl vehemently. “Hasn’t she done more for me already than my mother has ever done? Wasn’t I left, a baby, to the charge of servants who tumbled me about, and injured my spine, and made me a fright, so that I shall never get married as long as I live?” with a choking sob. “And then she hated me because I was ugly, and any time that I had died she would have been glad; but I sha’n’t die. I am going to live for Vivienne. She is making me well and strong. Do you notice how much better I am looking?”

“Yes,” he said kindly. “There is a change in you. You are putting on flesh and have more color in your cheeks, and I see that you don’t use your crutches as much as you did. Camperdown, you know, has told you for years that you were too dependent on them.”

“Vivienne did it,” said Judy triumphantly. “She begged me to gradually lay them aside, and she goes for walks with me, and urges me not to eat sweets and pore over books. You know mamma was always bribing me to do something for her by saying that she would give me a box of caramels and chocolates, and Vivienne puts them in the fire; and have you noticed, Stanton, that at the table I watch her and eat only what she does?”

“No; I haven’t.”

“I do; she says it will help me, to see another person doing without dainties. Was that ice cream nice this evening?” wistfully.

“I forget; did we have any? Yes, I believe it was.”

“It was pistachio, my favorite flavoring,” said Judy. “Vivienne didn’t take it, so I couldn’t. She was hungry, but she refused ever so many things. All this afternoon we were at the rink. She is as graceful as a bird on the ice, Stanton. She skated in Scotland, so she has kept up with the new things. She was waltzing with Mr. Trelawney, and doing the double Dutch roll and the grapevine and all kinds of figures that I don’t know; and I walked about and watched her and sat by the fire in the dressing room and drank only one cup of tea, for Vivienne was looking.”

“Was your mother there?”

“Oh, yes, and ever so many other people, skating around and around. Such a gossip and clatter! Mamma skates gracefully too. Why do fat people so often skate and dance well, Stanton?”

“I don’t know.”

“Stop Stanton; don’t talk any more; Vivienne is really coming out of her sleep. See her eyelids quivering. What will she say first? ‘Is your headache better, Mr. Armour?’ Now I am going to wake her as the princes in the fairy tales wake the princesses. Don’t you envy me?” and bending over Vivienne, Judy laid an airy kiss on her lips. “Heigh ho, maiden, awake!”

Vivienne lifted her heavy lids and started up in laughing confusion.

“You adore Parkman,” said Judy tantalizingly; “yet you fall asleep over him.”

Vivienne smiled at her, and without replying turned to Armour and uttered the predicted sentence.

“My headache is gone, thank you,” he replied, stroking his mustache in sober amusement.

“I beg your pardon for falling asleep,” Vivienne went on; “but the sound of your voices was soothing; I found it impossible to resist.”

“Now what shall we do?” said Judy, jumping up. “Go to bed, I suppose. What time is it, Stanton? Ten o’clock; too late for tea in the drawing room, but we might make some here. Will you help me, Vivienne?”

“If it will not take very much time.”

“That is another thing that she makes me do,” said Judy to Mr. Armour, “go to bed early. But we won’t be long, dearest. Will you drink some tea, Stanton?”

“No, thank you.”

“Perhaps cocoa would be better,” suggested Vivienne.

“Yes,” replied Judy, “much better. Brian Camperdown says it is the least harmful of all our beverages. Do you think you could find us a pot, Stanton, to boil some water?”

“I will try,” he said, laying his hand on the door knob.

“Let us all go,” exclaimed Judy, seizing Vivienne by the hand.

Together they visited kitchen and pantries, and on their return journey were met by Mrs. Colonibel, who stared in astonishment at their burdens of a water kettle, cups and saucers, a cream jug and sugar basin, biscuits and bread and butter.

“We’re trying a cooking experiment, mamma,” said Judy. “Stanton is going to boil a book in that kettle, and Vivienne is to eat it buttered.”

“It is cocoa that we are about to make, Mrs. Colonibel,” said Vivienne; “we shall only be a short time.”

The lady smiled benevolently upon them and proceeded on her way upstairs.

“Talk to us about your beloved France, Vivienne,” pleaded Judy, a few minutes later, when they were seated around the fire drinking their cocoa. “Tell us about beautiful Touraine and the castles of the Loire. No, begin with the crowd on the Newhaven boat, Vivienne, and the Frenchwomen that had no berths and had to lie on the floor. They were deathly ill, Stanton, and cried out ‘Oh la, la, la, la, la,’ and ‘Ha yi, yi, yi, yi, yi,’ and ‘Je meurs! Tout cela va se passer’; and one of them lost her artificial teeth and couldn’t find them.”

Vivienne smiled at the remembrance. “It seems but yesterday,” she said dreamily, “that we landed in Dieppe, and the people ran across from the shops to our train, bringing us soups and milk and coffee. You cannot imagine, Mr. Armour, how very strange and yet familiar it appeared to me—the French faces and language. It was as if I had been asleep all my life and had just waked up.”

“Go on, dear Vivienne; the journey to Paris.”

“I don’t know why it is,” said Vivienne, with an apologetic smile bestowed on Mr. Armour, “but Judy never wearies of tales of France.”

“It is because I hope to go there some day,” said Judy triumphantly; “to visit every place that you have been in. You need not stare at me, Stanton; I am going. Proceed, dear Vivienne, describe to him the lovely scenery on the way to Paris and quaint old OrlÉans.”

“Did you send me to OrlÉans because my father’s ancestor, Guillaume Delavigne, had come from there?” said Vivienne to Mr. Armour.

“Partly; also on account of the good Protestant school in the town, where the facilities for studying French would be better than in Paris where there are so many English people.”

She looked gratefully at him. He had thought somewhat of her pleasure. It had not been all business and sternness with him as she had at first imagined. She talked on disjointedly for some time and replied to Judy’s abrupt questions; then she got up with a quiet, “Now we must say good-night.”

“Ah! not yet, not yet,” pleaded the girl; “you have not come to the chÂteau of the Lacy d’Entrevilles.”

Vivienne stood firm. “Some other time,” she said smiling. “Let us go now,” and Judy, grumbling a little, prepared to obey her, though she cast her eyes about the room as if seeking an excuse to remain.

“Stanton,” she said amiably, “come up and have afternoon tea with us to-morrow, will you?”

“With pleasure,” he said with equal amiability.

“You’re a good boy,” said Judy condescendingly. “I’ll kiss you for that. Bend your proud neck; I haven’t kissed you for a long time.”

With a little squeal of delight she felt herself lifted off her feet. “Oh, put me down,” she said laughingly; “I don’t like to leave terra firma. Now say good-night to Vivienne. Kiss her too,” she added mischievously.

Armour gave her a look that made her limp expeditiously out into the hall. Then he extended his hand toward Vivienne.

What was the matter with the girl? Her happy gentle demeanor had suddenly turned into stiff reserve and her face was deathly pale.

“You must not!” she exclaimed, when he made a step toward her and extended his hand.

“Must not what?” he asked in surprise. Then her meaning flashed upon him. She thought that he was going to act upon Judy’s suggestion.

“Can you imagine that I would?” he said hastily; “that I would be so, so——”

He was still hesitating for a word, when she drew her fingers from him and hurried away.

He remained rooted to the floor in acute surprise. Just for an instant the girl’s admirable self-control had given way. There had been a flash of the eye, a trembling of the lip. “Something must have disturbed her,” he muttered. “It could not be possible that—no, never. She would not fancy me, a man so much older. And yet it would be just like one of the tricks that fate plays us. If she did, if I were a revengeful man, what an opportunity for me. Stuff and nonsense! What am I thinking of?” and he threw himself in his favorite chair for reflection.