"Only don't fret yourself, dear," said Adèle, kissing her mother affectionately; "and listen! is that not Arthur's knock? I dare say he can help us."
"Very likely!" said Mrs. Churchill in a manner that was meant to be splendidly satirical. "However," she continued, "I must dress now, but I shall come down again before I go out; and remember, Adèle, if I find he has excited your mind by any of his absurd romances, I shall forbid him the house at once."
Adèle's eyes twinkled pleasantly at this awful threat. She knew her mother too well to have even the faintest fear of its fulfilment.
When Arthur came in she saw in a moment that he was changed. The languid, quasi-sentimental look had gone from his face, his step was brisk and vigorous, he held himself erect; he even seemed to his cousin's partial eyes to have grown since she saw him last. For the moment as she gazed she trembled. It was all over, then. He had come to tell her of success; but, reproving herself for the selfishness of the thought, she held out her hand with a smile: "The sea-air has done you good, Arthur; you look a different person."
He looked down upon her kindly: "I think I am better, Adèle, and in more ways than one; but, my poor little cousin, I can't return the compliment; you look as pale as a ghost. What in the world has Aunt Ellen been doing with you?"
Adèle flushed painfully, for she was impatient to know what his experience had been: "Please don't mind my looks, Arthur. Remember I am curious. Be kind to me, dear," she smiled faintly; "keep me no longer in suspense. Your eyes tell me something has been done."
Arthur sat down, and took one of her hands in his: "What do you read in them, Adèle?"
She looked away, shading her face with her hand: "That you have something to live for at last—that she, the woman whom you love—and I believe she is worthy of your love"—it was bravely said, though there was a certain rebellious rising in the poor little throat; she paused a moment to choke it down, then continued very calmly—"that Margaret has chosen you for her protector, that you are already busy planning to restore her to happiness."
Arthur smiled again, then stooped over his cousin's sofa: "Why do you look away, Adèle? If I should say that all this is true, that you are the most penetrating little lady in the world, would you not be glad, seeing that I have only obeyed you?"
"Don't, Arthur, don't," was the stifled answer, for he was struggling with the hand which hid her averted face, and tears were in her eyes, tyrannous exponents of a secret she would have died rather than reveal. Arthur might have descanted with reason on the capriciousness of woman's character, but he did not; he only smiled very tenderly, and drew the tear-stained face to a surer shelter as he told in a few earnest, manly words of the experiences of the last few days, and of the task he had set himself.