“Oh! you mean the song?” said Abel.
The singer blushed, and took up a bunch of roses that she had laid upon the piano and began to play with them.
“How very warm it is!” said she.
“Yes,” said Abel. “Let us take a turn in the conservatory—it is both darker and cooler; and I think your eyes will give light and warmth enough to our conversation.”
“Dear me! if you depend upon me it will be the Arctic zone in the conservatory,” said Miss Grace Plumer, as she rose from the piano. (Mrs. Newt had written Abel she was fourteen! She was seventeen in May.)
“No, no,” said Abel, “we shall find the tropics in that conservatory.”
“Then look out for storms!” replied Miss Plumer, laughing.
Abel offered his arm, and the young couple moved through the humming room. The arch eyes were cast down. The voice of the youth was very low.
He felt a touch, and turned. He knew very well who it was. It was his sister.
“Abel, I want to present you to Miss Whetwood Tully.”