The gray dreamy eyes turned from Mr. Darrell again, to that busy figure in the garden. With her cheeks flushed, her brown eyes shining, her rosy lips apart, and laughing, as she wrangled with that particular boarder on the subject of floriculture, she looked a most dangerous nurse for any young man of three-and-twenty.
"I owe Miss Darrell and you all, more than I can ever repay," he said, quietly; "that is understood. I have never tried to thank her, or you either—words are so inadequate in these cases. Believe me though, I am not ungrateful."
"Say no more," Mr. Darrell cut in hastily; "only tell us how we are to address you while you remain. 'Mr. Charley' is an unsatisfactory sort of application."
"My name is Stuart; but, as a favor, may I request you to go on calling me Charley?"
"Stuart!" said the other, quickly; "one of the Stuarts, bankers, of
New York?"
"The same. My father is James Stuart; you know him probably?"
The face of Frederic Darrell darkened and grew almost stern. "Your father was my wife's cousin—Edith's mother. Have you never heard him speak of Eleanor Stuart?"
"Who married Frederic Darrell? Often. My dear Mr. Darrell, is it possible that you—that I have the happiness of being related to you?"
"To my daughter, if you like—her second cousin—to me, no," Mr. Darrell said, half-smiling, half-sad. "Your father and his family long ago repudiated all claims of mine—I am not going to force myself upon their notice now. Edie—Edie, my love, come in here, and listen to some strange news."
She threw down her spade, and came in laughing and glowing, her hair tumbled, her collar awry, her dress soiled, her hands not over clean, but looking, oh! so indescribably fresh, and fair, and healthful, and handsome.