“Dear Leonidas, leave her to me. You know your room, dear boy! Go to it and call for whatever you want. Jake will wait on you as before you went away,” said Mrs. Force, gently putting the young officer aside and taking his place next her daughter.

“But Odalite? I—I feel so worried about Odalite!” urged Le.

“Oh, she will rally soon! But you see, dear, we must remove her tight clothing, and you must leave the room.”

“Oh, I see,” assented the youth, and he went out.

Wynnette and Elva were waiting for him in the upper hall. They had held council together and decided not to tell him anything about Col. Anglesea’s and Odalite’s engagement.

“For,” said canny Wynnette, “perhaps now that Le has come back Odalite may return to her first love.”

And Elva agreed with her.

Now as soon as Le appeared in the hall the two children fell upon him with the most extravagant welcomes and caresses, and, refusing to be shaken off, went up with him to his room.

In the meanwhile, in her bedchamber, Mrs. Force was doing all that she could to restore her daughter.

In a little while Odalite opened her eyes and fixed them full of unutterable anguish and reproach upon her mother’s bending face.

She did not mean to do so. It was the first involuntary expression of her waking consciousness.

“Oh, do not look at me so, my child! You will break my heart!” moaned Elfrida Force.

Odalite took her mother’s hand and kissed it tenderly; then closed her eyes and turned away her head.

Presently she said:

“Let no one tell him, mother, until I see him again. I must be the one to tell him.”

“Oh, Odalite! Oh, my child! Would you—would you——” began the lady, in alarm; but her daughter hastened to allay her fears.

“No, mother, I would not! But send every one from the room so that we may talk together,” she whispered.

Mrs. Force gave the order, and Luce, the colored woman, dropped a bridesmaid’s dress that she was unpacking, and went out, followed by all the others, leaving the mother and daughter alone together.

“No, mother, dear, your secret is as safe with me as with the dead; for I seem dead. I must tell Le myself that I wish to break with him to marry Col. Anglesea; and that is true so far as it goes, because I do wish to marry him to save you and my dear father and my little sisters from evils much greater than my marriage with Col. Anglesea could bring me. I need not tell Le why, but simply that I do. Le will believe that I am false to him. And that will be true also, for I am false to him, no matter what my excuse may be! And it will be best for him to believe it; for it will help him to get over any disappointment he may feel now, or any remaining affection for me. That is the reason why I myself must be the one to tell him.”

“Oh, Odalite! Oh, my dear! Can you do so?”

“Yes, I can compel myself to do so. And now, mother, I must get up and see Le, without delay. No! do not try to prevent me! I am strong enough in mind and body! I was only overcome for the moment by the sudden coming of Le so full of hope and joy, and the knowing what a shock of disappointment was in store for him. That was all. I am stronger now.”

So saying, the girl arose from the bed, stood up and took hold of her long, black hair, which had fallen down. She walked to the dressing bureau and secured the roll with pins, and then proceeded to smooth the folds of her disordered dress.

When all this was done she left the room.

“Odalite! Odalite! where are you going, my child?”

“To my interview with Le! Don’t hinder me, mother, dear! I can go through the ordeal now! I am nerved for it. I may not be able to meet the trial on another day, or even in another hour,” said the girl, looking back for a minute, and then closing the door and passing downstairs.

Mrs. Force threw herself back in her easy chair, covered her face with both hands, and moaned.

Meanwhile Odalite went downstairs, opened the front door, and passed out upon the porch, on which the winter sun was shining, and through which a fresh breeze was blowing.

She was immediately followed by Luce, who had seen her leave the hall, and who now came out, bearing the girl’s coat and bonnet on her arm, and saying:

“Yer want to ketch yer deff, doan yer, Miss Odylit? Goin’ out in de cole widout nuffin on yer! Yer musn’ gib yerse’f dat habit. ’Deed yer musn’. Here, put on yer coat an’ bonnet.”

The girl turned, and let the woman help her on with her outer garments, and when they were fastened, said:

“Aunt Lucy, will you go up to Mr. Le’s room, and ask him to come down and join me here?”

“Yes, honey, sure I will. Didn’ he put a s’prise on to us all? Whip you horses! how we was all took aback! Lor’! no wonder you fainted dead away. But look yere, chile. Dat was de fus time as yer ebber fainted in yer life, an’ let it be de las’. Doan gib yerse’f a habit ob it. I know it tuk yer onawares dis time, bein’ de fus time, an’ you knowin’ nuffin ’bout it. But you be on de watch out nudder time, an’ if yer feel it a-comin’ on, you ’sist it wid all yer might. Doan yer faint no mo’. Ef yer gibs yerse’f de habit, yer’ll jes be like one ob dese yere po’, mis’able, faintyfied creetures as can’t stand nuffin. Dey’s allus faintn’. It’s a habit dey gibs deirselves.”

So talking, Luce went into the house and up the stairs to give her message.

In a few moments Le came bounding down the steps, three or four at a bound, and out of the door with a shout of joy, to join his sweetheart, little thinking of what he was to meet.

“Luce tells me that you are all right now!” he exclaimed, suddenly clasping her in his arms and pressing her to his bosom, while he covered her face with kisses.

“Little mistress of Greenbushes! Little lady of the manor! Have they done everything to please you over there? If they have not—if any man has failed to please my little lady—that man must march. How soon will our wedding be? Before Christmas? Let it be before Christmas. Let us keep our Christmas at Greenbushes, and have uncle and aunt and all the family there to keep it with us. Won’t that be jolly? For you and me to entertain our friends at our own home! I was thinking of all this, and a lot more, all the homeward voyage. Odalite, why don’t you answer me? Why, Odalite! Odalite! What is the matter?” he anxiously inquired, seeing at length how pale and cold and silent she was—how utterly irresponsive to his enthusiasm.

She struggled out of his embrace, and stood leaning for support against the railings of the porch.

He followed her in surprise and alarm.

“Odalite! what is the matter, dear? Are you—are you going to be ill?”

“No!” she answered, in a hollow, far-off sounding voice. “No! But come with me—somewhere—where I can—breathe! Come down to the shore, Le. I have something to tell you.”

He stepped back into the hall, hastily drew on his overcoat, seized his hat and gloves, and rejoined her, still in some anxiety, but without the least suspicion of the blow that was about to fall upon him.

He drew her arm within his own, and holding and fondling her hand, led her down the steps, across the lawn to the east gate, and down the wooded hill to the shore.

“No; I do not wish to walk further. We will rest here,” she said, as soon as they had reached the sands. And she sank wearily upon the rude wooden bench that stood on the beach just above the water mark.

He sat down beside her, took her hand, looked into her pale face, and tenderly questioned:

“What has happened to distress you, darling? Is anyone you care for sick or in trouble? Can I help you, then? You know I would aid to my last dollar if it were any one you cared for,” he said, caressing the little fingers he toyed with.

“Oh, Le! Le!” she moaned.

“Odalite!” he whispered, in an access of anxiety, “is any one—dead? Tell me! I have just come, and know nothing. Is any one—dead?”

“Oh, no! No, Le! No one is dead. I—I wish to Heaven some one were!”

“Odalite!”

“Not any one we love, Le. Oh, Le! I will tell you as soon as I can. Something has happened. I—I brought you out here to tell you. But, oh, Le! Le! dear Le! how shall I tell you?”

“My darling Odalite, what?”

“Don’t speak to me, Le! Don’t speak! Listen! Le, hate me! scorn me! I deserve that you should. Oh, no! no! Don’t! don’t! I should go mad if you did. But—try not to mind me; try not to care for me at all. I am not worth it, Le. Not worth a regret—not worth a thought. I am such a poor thing! Such a very poor thing! And I shall not last long. That is the best of it.” She breathed these last words out in a low, long-drawn sigh, dropping her head upon her bosom and her arms upon her lap.

“Oh, my dear Odalite, what is the meaning of all this? What ails you? What misfortune has happened to you? Have you lost your health? Oh, my own, own darling! is it so? You are so pale and cold and faint! That must be it. You have lost your health. But do you think I would give you up for that? Oh, no, no, no, my precious! That would make me only more your own devoted Le than ever before. I would care for you, and wait on you, and nurse you more tenderly than ever a mother did her baby. For are you not my own—my very own?” he said, putting his arms around her and drawing her close to his heart.

“Oh, Le, Le! No, no, no! I am no longer your own! No longer your Odalite,” she exclaimed, struggling out of his embrace, and bursting into a tempest of tears and sobs.

“Not my Odalite! Nonsense, dearest dear! Not my own Odalite? Whose else should you be, I wonder? Why, you have been my own Odalite all your little life. What can be the matter with you? I know now! I have read and heard about hysterics in young girls, and that is what has come over you, darling! I took you too much by surprise! You fainted, and now you are hysterical! What can I do for you, Odalite? I wish I knew just what to do! Do you know? No! you shake your head. Well! let us go back to the house! We had certainly better do that!” said the youth, rising and offering his arm.

“No! no, Le! not to the house! It is here that I must tell you! here by the sea! Yes! it is a fitting place for such a confession! here by the treacherous sea!” she said, trying to suppress the sobs that still shook her bosom.