"You must wait till I have prepared them; Hugh and aunt Lucy are not very well. I don't know that it will do for you to see them at all to-night, Marion."
"Not to-night! They are not ill?"
"No only enough to be taken care of not ill. But it would be better to wait."
"And my father?"
"He is not at home."
Marion exclaimed in sorrow, and Fleda, to hide the look that she felt was on her face, stooped down to kiss the child. He was a remarkably fine-looking, manly boy.
"That is your cousin Fleda," said his mother.
"No aunt Fleda," said the person thus introduced "don't put me off into cousindom, Marion. I am uncle Hugh's sister and so I am your aunt Fleda. Who are you?"
"Rolf Rossitur Schwiden."
Alas, how wide are the ramifications of evil! How was what might have been very pure pleasure utterly poisoned and turned into bitterness! It went through Fleda's heart with a keen pang, when she heard that name and looked on the very fair brow that owned it, and thought of the ineffaceable stain that had come upon both. She dared look at nobody but the child. He already understood the melting eyes that were making acquaintance with his, and half felt the pain that gave so much tenderness to her kiss, and looked at her with a grave face of awakening wonder and sympathy. Fleda was glad to have business to call her into the kitchen.