"Not before? I understood Tezzie to say there would be a stranger here at lunch."
"It may be so; Charles is to bring home a college friend, I believe."
This would have been very unsatisfactory under some circumstances, but Lillian was not curious. As her mother entered the room she discovered that strange, wild light in her eyes which she had seen there many times before, and well knew that beneath it a hidden fire was raging. Mrs. Belmont had not once looked into the face of her daughter, but had seated herself by the open window, her elbow on the heavy frame-work, while her head rested wearily upon her hand. A soft, warm breeze came softly and caressed her with its perfumed wings, fanning her heated brow, and whispering all the time the sweetest words of purity and peace through the interwoven branches of the luxurious vine outside. In her heart, however, were discordant notes to which she was listening, having no ear for other sounds, were they ever so melodious.
"Lillian," she said, at last, "did you reject George St. Clair this morning?"
"I did, Mother."
"You did?"
"Yes, I did."
The daughter spoke quietly and calmly, but Mrs. Belmont arose hurriedly from the chair and stood before her.
Lillian did not quail before the burning look which was fixed upon her, but returned it with a determined gaze, out of which pity and filial affection beamed their gentle rays.
"Child! child! this must not—cannot be! I command you to recall him. It is not too late. He loves you, and would, without doubt, overlook this unparalleled freak of foolishness in which you have been so unaccountably indulging. Recall him, Lillian; your whole future happiness depends upon it."