The ladies came back from Rose Hill, just before supper, accompanied by Mr. Richard Maynadier and Mr. Bordley, who had stopped the night with him.

It was to the calm and peaceful Hedgely Hall of yesterday, that they returned, not the one of turmoil and stress, which they had left that morning. There were no traces of a struggle around the place; the grounds were as usual, the house as usual, the servants as usual. The only evidence that remained, were the scars on the rear door, and even those had been almost obliterated.

"It is all a fairy tale!" laughed Richard Maynadier, "this wonderful story of pirates, and ransom, and their chief being in manners a gentleman, bowing and scraping as though he were doing the minuet. I do not believe a word of it."

"No one asked you to believe it!" retorted Miss Marbury, with a toss of her head, "and, what is more, no one cares whether you do or whether you do not."

"You said that as if you meant it," said Maynadier with an amused smile, "and you said it very prettily, Judith,—but can you assume to answer for all your party?"

"You know perfectly well that 'no one' is equivalent to I," she answered, with another toss.

"Then I is equivalent to no one, and no one comprehends any one, and any one comprehends every one, and every one——"

"Dick!" she cried: "Stop it! stop it!"

"Stop what?"

"Winding yourself into a ball."

"I thought I was deducing a fact."

"Well, stop it! Besides, I do not care for the fact—and neither do I care for you, sir."

"Is that a fact?" he asked.

"It is," she answered. "Very much a fact."

"Are you sure—quite sure?"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Because, if you are——"

"Yes?" she inflected.

"I will be obliged to——"

"You will be obliged to what?"

"To modify my opinion of——"

"Your opinion does not concern me," she said indifferently.

"So, I assumed; but, nevertheless, I modify it in regard to the pirates. I accept everything you tell, absolutely—the pirate chief and all his mannerisms, included.—Now, do you care for me?"

"You are sincere—you believe it, every word?"

"Every word," he averred.

"Well, in that event, I may care for you to-morrow."

"And to-day—this evening?"

She shook her head. "No—you must pay penalty for a little while. I am going to give this evening to Sir Edward Parkington," she said, as he swung her out of the saddle, and added: "He, I know, cares." Then ran hurriedly up the steps, and into the house.

Richard Maynadier hastily turned the horses over to a groom, and made to follow her, reconsidered, and went on to the library.

This was a new twist in her character, savoring more of the spoiled beauty, than of the equal-tempered Judith he had known. And he was not so sure that he did not like it. She had the beauty to justify it, the poise to make it alluring—and the wealth to make it permissible, even if she had neither of the other two.

"I might almost, if I were a younger man," he reflected, "think she was trying to make a fool of me, or else was in love with me. But, as I can not think either, she must just be trying her hand on the old friend, who will not misunderstand. Sir Edward Parkington!—'he, I know, cares!' Well, my lady, do not presume with him too far. He is one, I fancy, who is apt to take whatever comes his way."

At supper, Parkington was placed at her right and Herford on the left, and he observed that the former exerted his privilege, and monopolized the conversation. Herford, several times, tried to break in, but was always manoeuvred out of it; and, presently, with a somewhat bad grace, he gave over, and, thereafter, Parkington had it all his own way.

And Judith seemed to encourage him, at least, she did nothing to discourage; she was blindly oblivious to Herford's efforts, gave him no assistance, and welcomed Sir Edward back into the talk with almost flattering eagerness. Whereat, Maynadier was puzzled, and a trifle surprised. Here, also, was a new twist in her character.

A little later, when he was strolling alone down the avenue, he was joined by Herford, who, after a few minutes' talk, said bluntly:

"Maynadier, am I right in supposing you have no particular interest in Sir Edward Parkington?"

"What do you intend by 'particular interest'?" asked Maynadier.

"Friendship—friendship as distinguished from acquaintanceship."

"If you mean, am I an acquaintance rather than a friend of Sir Edward Parkington, I should say, yes."

"Then you have no objection, if I speak plainly?"

"None whatever," said Maynadier. "I am not his sponsor, and neither am I responsible for what you say."

Herford nodded. "Did it ever strike you that there is something queer about him?" he asked.

"No, it did not. On the contrary, I think that he is possessed of faculties far above the ordinary."

"I expressed myself poorly," said Herford. "I meant that he is not what he seems."

Maynadier was silent.

"There is something about him which raises a doubt," Herford went on.

"A doubt as to his personality, or a doubt as to his good repute?" asked Maynadier.

"As to the latter," was the sneering reply, "he is a friend of Baltimore—which is sufficient to put him under a standing suspicion. As to his personality, I do not mean that he is not Sir Edward Parkington—his letters were entirely regular—but that he is playing a part. He does not ring true. I cannot tell just what it is, Maynadier, but it is. How does he impress you?"

"No! no! Herford," said Maynadier. "I did not engage to swap confidences with you, concerning Sir Edward Parkington. All I said was that you might speak plainly concerning him, if you so wished."

"I do not ask for your confidence," said Herford. "I recognize that you are of the Council, and may know matters which are not for us——"

"The Council has no information whatever, concerning Sir Edward," Maynadier interrupted.

"Which goes to show that he is not an agent of the government."

("Which goes to show nothing of the sort," thought Maynadier.)

"And that he is here solely on his own account. As I said, I do not know what makes me suspicious, but I am. Did you notice him with Miss Marbury—ever since we came here, it has been going on—but especially to-night. He has fascinated her."

"Oh! I think not," said Maynadier. "She is the gracious hostess to her guest, who happens to be a man of prominence—nothing more. And, even if he has fascinated her, how does it concern either of us? She has a father and a brother, who are amply able to care for her. Furthermore, as to your proposition, it proves nothing, except that he is much above the average in attractiveness."

"But you could warn them."

"Warn them of what?" said Maynadier, smiling.

"Of the danger."

"The danger of what?"

"Of her showing him so much encouragement."

"And be laughed at for my pains—or shown the door."

"Your intimacy with the Marburys will permit it."

"Intimacy never warrants presumption."

"Friendship does."

"Besides I do not agree with you."

"You are blind!" declared Herford, "as blind as the Governor, himself."

"And how is his Excellency afflicted?"

"In blindness, as to his niece. The fellow is there all the time—morning, afternoon and night."

"And you would change places with him!" said Maynadier, with a laugh.

"I would," Herford answered, promptly, (and Maynadier liked him for it) "but that is not my reason. Were he one whom we knew—one of the men of Maryland—Miss Stirling might favor him, and I have no fault to find. But this is different. An Englishman, with a title, and unsavory antecedents will bear the closest watching."

"Give yourself no concern, Herford," said Maynadier. "If ever there was a girl capable of taking care of herself, and, at the same time, getting the most out of life and its opportunities, it is Miss Stirling. There is no chance of her head being turned by Sir Edward Parkington's attentions. She knows his world and his likes, and will give to his conduct the value it deserves."

"I wish I could think so," said Herford.

"Look here, Captain! I do not usually meddle in affairs which do not concern me, but your trouble is jealousy—plain jealousy. It is all you have against Sir Edward. He happens to be fascinating, and good looking, and an English Baronet—and, of course, Miss Stirling is pleased, (and so is Miss Marbury, though she is only an incident, with you) and is apt to monopolize all the attentions he will give her—as any other girl would do. He will not be here very long, and you will have your chance after he leaves. I do not imagine, for a moment, that Miss Stirling is really interested, any more than she is interested in you, or Paca, or Constable, or a dozen others. They would all marry her, too, if they could; but they are not imagining all sorts of things about Parkington just because he has the call, for the present, with Miss Stirling. No, no! Herford; you are jealous—and there lies the whole trouble. Get rid of it, man, get rid of it!"

He raised his tones a trifle at the close.

"Get rid of what, Dick?" called Miss Marbury's voice behind them. She was with Sir Edward Parkington, and had approached unnoticed.

"Ah! listening were you?" said Maynadier.

"Listening, indeed! You disturbed us with your noise—you fairly dinned it in our ears."

"And just enough to make you wish for more! Oh, no, Miss Inquisitive, we will keep the secret to ourselves."

"Then, it is a secret?"

"A great secret—oh, very great!" said Maynadier, with assumed gravity. "Herford has the doldrums."

"And you were walking him up and down the avenue to help him get rid of them?" she mocked. "Oh, kind Mr. Maynadier! I fear, Captain Herford is weary of our hospitality."

"Your fears are groundless, mademoiselle," said Herford, with a bow; "the doldrums fled at the sound of your voice."

"Then, you know how to banish them in future," she replied.

"I would not impose——"

"It is the hostess' duty to serve to her guests—and her pleasure as well, sir."

"And may I—now——" extending his arm.

"The doldrums fled at the sound of my voice, I thought you said?"

"But they may return—whereas, to effect a permanent cure, Miss Marbury, I would prescribe a walk in the moonlight.—Sir Edward will excuse you, I know."

She turned to Parkington. It was as well to leave him, now—she had done enough, for one evening.

"It shall be as mademoiselle wishes," said he.

She laid her hand on Herford's arm.

"For a little while, then, Captain Herford, you may try the cure!" she laughed, and they moved away.

"I wonder whether she was tired of me, or whether she thought you were tired of the Captain?" said Parkington.

"A little of both, doubtless!" replied Maynadier—and when Sir Edward looked at him quizzically, he added, "But it is, mainly, the butterfly, which every woman has, in some degree, in her nature."

"And a man has in a great degree. Talk about variety—we men are the bigger butterfly of the two. However, it served as a salve for my hurt feelings!"

"Were they hurt?" asked Maynadier, amused.

"What would yours be, if Captain Herford were preferred to you?" laughing.

And Maynadier joined in the laugh.

"He is a queer fellow," Parkington went on. "It is not exactly ill-nature; it is more of a disposition to quarrel with everything—of never being suited. In short, a chronic grumbler. He came out to me, the other morning, with the well developed intention of picking a quarrel—we would have been scraping rapiers, in a minute, if I had wished. Instead, I simply ignored his manner, and laughed him into a decent humor. Has he such a way with every one?"

"Yes—we understand him, and do not mind. He is a good fellow, when you get past his eccentricities."

"But one cannot be always side-stepping," said Parkington. "Some time, he will run against a man with similar tendencies—and then, there will be a little blood-letting, may be, a death."

"You see, in your case," said Maynadier, "you have touched him on the raw. Miss Stirling is a tender point with him."

Parkington smiled. "Which made me all the more careful to avoid trouble.—He is a good officer, I am told."

"A very good one—he went out with Forbes against Fort Duquesne, and made an enviable record. Now, his duties are merely nominal;—he is attached to his Excellency's staff."

Parkington nodded. "Well, I will try to keep on side-stepping. Only, what one overlooks when alone, one cannot let slip in a crowd. I am quite willing to do anything that will not compromise me."

Miss Marbury's laughter had floated to them, at intervals; now, she and Herford came slowly into view.

"Waiting?" she asked—"for what?"

"For you to change escorts," said Maynadier. "It is my turn, now."

Herford was perfectly willing to yield to Maynadier. His sole purpose had been to take Judith from the Englishman, and, that effected, he was ready to retire. He stepped back, and bowed himself away.

"You have accomplished wonders, Miss Marbury," he said. "The doldrums have completely vanished. I trust you may be as successful with Mr. Maynadier."

"Mr. Maynadier never gets the doldrums," she answered, over her shoulder. "He is far too serious minded!"

"Which might mean, that I am a bore," said Maynadier.

"Fishing, monsieur?"

"No."

"What do you call it, then?"

"What do you call it?" he asked.

"Now, Dick, you want me to say you are the most entertaining man in the world."

"Not unless you think so."

"You know you are conceited, dreadfully conceited."

"No one ever told me so."

"No one ever took the trouble to tell you."

"Except you."

"And that is because I like you so well."

"Whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth!" he soliloquized.

"What?"

"I said, whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth."

"I should like to see the Lord, or any one else, chastening you!"

"My dear Judith!"

"Does that shock you?"

"A trifle. You handle the Lord rather unceremoniously."

"Not any more unceremoniously than you men do, when we women are not present."

He laughed indulgently, bending down over her.

"Do you know," said he, "that you have a peculiarly fetching way with you this evening?"

"I always have had it," she answered, with a fling of the head, "but you have never noticed it."

"I have been blind," he said.

"Yes, you have been blind," she agreed, with a quick glance upward.

"Henceforth, my eyes are open."

"Such is the result of walking in the moonlight, Dick. Oh, you will improve, in time!—give the moonlight a chance."

"It requires more than the moonlight," he declared.

"Of course—a pretty girl is essential, too."

"And it requires more than a pretty girl."

"No, the moon and the girl are sufficient."

"Does not inclination play a part?"

"It is resultant of the other two."

"But in varying degrees."

"Oh, yes!" she said.—"For instance, you are more earnest to-night than you used to be—though, in truth, sir, I never before knew you to take the two necessary ingredients in one dose."

"The girl and the moonlight, you mean?"

She nodded, smiling naÏvely.

"That is because they were never offered me——"

"Offered you!" she exclaimed. "Do you expect them to be offered?"

"Again I have expressed myself poorly!" he laughed. "What I mean is, I never had the moonlight, and the inclination, and you all together."

"I cannot answer for the inclination," she replied, "but as you have the moonlight and me, for the last four years, I may be pardoned if I doubt it."

"But do you doubt it?" he insisted.

"Certainly, I doubt it!—what woman would not?"

"No man would, if he could see you, now."

"Fol-de-rol!" she laughed, and snapped her fingers in his face. "Am I different from what I was last week, or last month, or last year?"

"No, you are not," said he. "I recognize it, now. Alas! that I did not recognize it sooner."

"And you expect me to believe?" she mocked—though her eyes belied her tones, had she but let him see them.

"No! all I can ask is that you be merciful."

"Do you even expect mercy?"

"After a time—when you have revenged yourself sufficiently."

"Revenged myself!" she quoted. "For what, pray?"

"For my blindness——"

She laughed, a light, alluring laugh. "Revenge is for a wrong done.—You have not wronged me. You have always been my good friend—the best friend a woman ever had."

He moved to catch her; she eluded him and sprang away, out of distance.

"Fie! Mr. Maynadier, you forget the dignity due a Governor's Councillor."

"I am apt to forget many things," said he, laughing, "with such a teasing beauty just out of reach."

"Where she will take care to hold herself until you are better mannered. What has come over you, Dick, you used to be proper enough—too proper, indeed."

"You little flirt!" he exclaimed, "what has come over you, you better say—where did you learn such tricks?"

"Not from you, sir."

"No, not from me—God save the mark!"

"But you seem to like them, Dick," she said. "Don't you wish it had been you who taught me?"

"No!" he said. "No; I would rather you taught me."

"I am afraid you could never learn!" she laughed.

"Try me!" he begged. "I have unsuspected possibilities."

She looked at him with eyes half closed, a roguish, enticing look.

"And you think I could develop them?" she asked.

"I am sure you could."

"Better let Miss Stirling try—she can teach you far better than I.—Besides, I think she would welcome the opportunity."

"Miss Stirling has enough to do with the young men," he answered.

"I fancy you will find her very willing to take another."

"Where there are so many pupils, the instruction can not be thorough," he objected.

"Have you ever heard of the favorite pupil, sir?" she asked, with a sly smile. "Indeed, I am very much of the opinion she would even drop all the others, if you applied."

"You flatter me!" he remarked.

"Do I?" she asked, "well, I am not so sure; you see, she does not know you quite so well as some others do. And, if you are clever, she may never find you out."

"Lucky me!—You advise me, then, to take lessons from Miss Stirling?"

"Undoubtedly! You are ripe for it, and she is a rare instructor—it will be an admirable arrangement."

"And when I have learned everything that she can teach me, may I come back to you for the completion of my education?" he asked.

"May be you will not want to come back," she said.

"But, if I do," he persisted.

"And, may be, I shall have too many pupils, then, to bother with another."

"But, if you have not—if there is room for me?"

"I cannot answer, now. Wait until you apply, it will depend on what you have been taught, and the extent of your proficiency?"

He thought a moment. "The extent of my proficiency?" he repeated. "Should it be much or little?"

"That is for you to judge," she answered, enigmatically—and left him.

"That is for me to judge!" he muttered, looking after her. "Did she mean to warn me against learning too much from Miss Stirling? Did she mean to warn me against learning anything from her?" He smiled:—"Is she just a bit jealous of Miss Stirling, and has her jealousy quickened her perceptions?... My little Judith, have you cared for me—really, cared for me—all these years?—And have I been blind to the character of your affection, and blind to my own, as well?"

He turned aside into the park, where the great trees were whispering, softly, to one another, and all else was still.

Yes, he loved her! Not as the old friend, who had advised, and guided, and reproved. Not as he thought the man of steady life and confirmed habits, with wealth and reputation made, would love. Still more, not in the seemly manner a Governor's Councillor should love—but with a sudden rush of affection, that threatened to sweep away all the reserve and dignity of forty years. A love such as Paca, or Constable might have.

He steadied himself. He might love as a young man, but he must act with the judgment and discretion of his years—sedately and with good sense. He thought she loved him—thought she had shown it with all the openness she dared. But he was not sure. He might have been mistaken—he might have tinctured her words with his own hope—read in them far more than they conveyed, far more than a younger man would have dared to read.... Moreover, even if he had read aright, he must not permit his love to overbalance his duty. He must be the protector still; must guard her from all danger of a hasty choice, from a semblance which she mistook for the reality. Must put her happiness first, his own, only if it chimed with hers.... She was a dear girl—a dear girl! She would preside at Rose Hill in a manner in keeping with the mistresses who had preceded: his own sweet mother, his grandsire's stately wife. She would restore the life which had been of it, until he had become master, and let the old life die. He would go home, and prepare for her coming—prepare to live!...

Suddenly, he shook himself, as one awakening from a dream.

God! what if she would not come—what if she married another!...