this!" said Mrs. Amphlett, angrily. "Was
there ever an underbred girl who was not
always ready for a scene!" she added, as if
making a reflection to herself.

"Leave the question of vulgarity alone,"
said Geraldine in a new tone of her voice—
one of command, "and come to that of
truth. I will speak," she continued, silencing
Mrs. Amphlett by her uplifted hand and
dilating eyes; "it is my right, and I will
use it."

"Upon my word, this is a natural
phenomenon!" sneered Mrs. Amphlett, leaning
forward, fixing her eyes on the girl, as if
trying to subdue her by her look. But
Geraldine was roused; and, like most timid
people, was more reckless, more careless of
consequences and more impossible to overbear
than the naturally brave and self-assertive.
Her latent power of will must have
been roused indeed, when it could sweep
down Mrs. Amphlett's sternest and angriest
opposition.

"You wrote these letters," continued
Geraldine, laying her finger on the packet;
"and as you have spoken of Miss Vaughan
and cousin Henry, I wish them to give
Arthur their version of the same stories.
Miss Vaughan," she said, speaking in the
same rapid and positive voice, "did you ever
reprove me for undue familiarity with my
cousin Henry?" And she read the passage
from the letter, referring to Miss Vaughan
having crushed Geraldine with one of her
lofty looks, because of cousin Hal.

"Why, no," said that lady deliberately,
dropping her lorgnon, and unbuttoning her
gauntlet gloves; "I do not remember ever
speaking to you on the subject; but I
certainly did say to Mrs. Amphlett, that I
thought it scarcely proper that you should
ride so much with Captain Aztler: and
indeed, to tell the truth, it was to prevent
anything unpleasant being said that I have
gone so much with you of late. I thought
you were ignorant of the world, and I could
not understand your mother's indifference
to appearances—or probabilities, " she added
in the same careless way as she would have
spoken of a rent opera cloak or a damaged
riding whip.

"Mrs. Amphlett!" cried Geraldine, turning
full on her mother-in-law, "was it not
you—yourself—who, when I objected to ride
alone with my cousin, scolded me for my
presumption in holding an opinion contrary
to yours? Have you not thrown me
into my cousin's way as you would into a
brother's? Those were your words: you
said he was to be my brother, and that I was
to treat him with unreserved affection."

"I am afraid, Aunt Amphlett, that you
have been playing rather a double game!"
said Harry; whose good-humoured, frank,
manly voice came like a charm into the midst
of all this tense and nervous feminine excitement.
"Arthur," he added, "do you come
with me: your wife can stay with Miss
Vaughan. Why, bless my soul, man!" he
cried, as soon as they were outside the door,
"how could you be such a—ahem!—well, so
weak as to believe in such obvious
misrepresentations? Your wife and I have been on
kindly friendly terms enough; but, bless my
heart! what's that to make a row about?
When I came, I saw that she had been
regularly bullied since her marriage, and I
took her part in a quiet way, and paid her
all the attention I could; trying simply to
give her self-confidence. But, I hope indeed
that I am not so bad a fellow as ever
to take advantage of such a young thing's
innocence and candour,—still less, to plan or
plot, as the guest of a relative, for the
dishonour and misery of the family. Your
mother threw Geraldine (excuse me, you
know my way) under my protection entirely.
I was astonished at the first; but I have not
studied my aunt for all these years, not
to be able to understand her now. I soon
suspected that something was in the wind by
her over-graciousness to me—whom she never
liked—and by her flattery of Geraldine—
whom I saw she hated. And I was not long
in finding out the drift of it all. But she lost
her game; for Geraldine had no inclination
to flirt with me, nor had I the smallest
intention of running away with her." He
laughed as if he had said a good thing, and
ran his finger through his hair, with a
pleasant kind of debonnaire vanity, not at all
offensive. "All that nonsense about
Geraldine's acting is a perfect fabrication. She
was very anxious about you when you did
not write, and spoke of all sorts of fears, such
as my aunt mentions, truly enough in
substance; but she spoke of them in sorrow, not
in jest; and Miss Vaughan's anger with her
was for her folly in fretting at your silence so
much. I felt for the poor little girl, and
defended her, and then Miss Vaughan put
me down;" and he laughed again.
"Certainly she did come across the room—
Geraldine, I mean—and put her hands into
mine, and say, 'Thank you, cousin Henry,
for your kind championship;' but her eyes
were full of tears, and her poor little heart
was almost breaking about you."

"I am afraid, Henry, I have been a fool,"
said Arthur.

Cousin Hal looked grave, and not in the
least contradictory.

V.

ARTHUR was humiliated, but still sufficiently
generous to acknowledge that he had been in
error. He could not apologise, nor enter into
any lengthened defence with Geraldine; that
would not have been Arthur; but, meeting
her in the hall, he held out his arms, and,
calling her by her name, strained her
tenderly to his heart, whispering:

"Will my own true wife forgive me?"

She held up her fresh face and stood on