That strange letter of hers had puzzled while it hurt. Far away from the scene of the trouble, he could not understand the bitterness of the strife. That for a village quarrel—some unkind words, perhaps—she could break the bond between them—was this the Celia he thought he knew so well?
The wound had rankled, but after a time he told himself it was for the best. Travel and study had broadened and matured him, and he could smile now as he recognized, what was unsuspected at the time, that his mother had planned these years of absence in the determination to cure him of a boyish fancy which her eyes had been keen enough to detect.
And yet—his thought would dwell upon her as she stood on the step, her arm around Belle, the laughter fading from her face. Not the little schoolgirl, but a woman, gracious and tender.
Rosalind danced away to join Maurice and Katherine, whose humble penitence had restored her to favor; and over the hedge came the sound of their voices singing an old tune. On the still night air, in their clear treble, the words carried distinctly:—
"Should auld acquaintance be forgot?"—
CHAPTER TWENTIETH.
THE SPINET.
"Thou art not for the fashion of these times."
"Where are you going to put it, Celia?" asked Mrs. Fair.