On leaving Miss Lafitte the young man went to his cousin and told her how he had become acquainted with the beauty.
"Well?"
"She is but a spoilt child, Clare."
"Infatuated," exclaimed the lady.
"Jealous," returned the gentleman.
The young doctor, though he had frequent opportunities of being with his fair patient, soon chafed at a relation which, while it permitted him to see her, prevented him from taking advantage of his intimacy. The confidence with which she now treated him was an additional grievance: she was too friendly. Her position toward the outside world had also changed. Three, four, five weeks passed by, and had any one gathered the opinions of the crowd who surrounded Miss Lafitte, he would have heard but praise. Perhaps her capricious nature was tired of seclusion, for at present she had smiles for all. Piquant, original and clever, her popularity became as great as it was sudden, while she was only invalid enough to enlist sympathy or exact attention. But in one particular the girl had never varied—that of her rooted dislike to Mrs. Felton.
One morning when Maurice was paying a professional visit, which afforded his only chance of seeing her alone, he curiously asked, "Miss Lafitte, what is the cause of your aversion to my cousin?"
She was silent a few moments, then with apparent irrelevancy said, "Do you believe in premonitions?"
An emphatic "No" was the answer.
"Why should they not be true? Our thoughts arise from the same source as our actions; or, rather, there must be a creative thought for every separate act. Now, whether the act follows its producing impulse by moments, days or years, the fact remains the same."