“Not John Day’s daughter—Glynne?”
“Good guess, mother. Glynne Day is to be my wife by-and-by. The old man is agreeable and the major isn’t. So now, the sooner you go and call upon them and make it all right the better.”
Poor Marjorie dropped out of Mrs Rolph’s sight.
“Rob! my dear boy!” she cried as she flung her arms about her son’s neck to kiss him fondly, while Marjorie rose slowly, looking white even to her lips, and with a peculiar smile dawning upon them as her eyes flashed upon the group before her.
“I knew I could trust you, Rob,” cried Mrs Rolph; and then, recollecting herself, “Madge, my poor child, I am very sorry, but, you see, it was not to be.”
“No, auntie dear,” said the girl, with the smile growing more marked; “marriages are made in Heaven, you know. I shall not mind—much. Of course the great aim of all our lives was to see dear Rob happy. Glynne Day is very beautiful and sweet, and a daughter of whom you will be quite proud. I should be deceitful if I did not own to being grievously disappointed, but, as was natural, Rob’s love for me has only been that of a brother for a sister”—she fixed Rolph’s eyes as she spoke, and his turned shiftily away—“and if I have been a little silly, the pain will soon wear off. Glynne Day. How nice. I’m sure I shall love her very much, though she is rather cold. Isn’t she, Rob?”
“That is very nice of you, Madge, my dear,” said Mrs Rolph, embracing her niece. “And who knows how soon another prince may come, my dear.”
“Oh, aunt!”
“And you will try to forget all this?”
“Of course, aunt, dear. It was fate,” said the girl innocently.