It was the face she had seen in the miniature, changed from childhood to youth. The same blue eyes, frank, confiding, and womanish—the same golden hair clustering in short curls, instead of falling on the shoulders as in the picture—the same smiling mouth, with its little touch of weakness about the under lip. A taking, a pretty rather than a handsome face; it ought to have belonged rather to a girl than a boy.

Stella stared, and doubted the evidence of her senses. Her dream flashed across her mind and made her heart beat with a sudden emotion, whether of fear or pleasure she could not tell.

Who was this boy, and what was he doing there leaning on the gate as if the place belonged to him, and he had a right to be there?

She took a step nearer, and he opened the gate for her.[140] Stella entered, and he raised his hat, allowing the moonbeams to fall on his yellow hair, and smiled at her, very much as a child might smile, with grave, open-eyed admiration and greeting.

"Are you—you are Stella!" he said, in a voice that made her start,—it was so like her uncle's, but softer and brighter.

"My name is Stella!" she said, filled with wonder.

He held out his hand frankly, but with a little timid shyness.

"Then we are cousins," he said.

"Cousins?" exclaimed Stella, but she gave him her hand.

"Yes, cousins," he said. "You are Stella, Uncle Harold's daughter, are you not? Well, I am Frank."

She had felt it.

"Frank?" she repeated, amazedly.

He nodded.

"Yes, I am your Cousin Frank. I hope"—and a cloud settled on his face—"I hope you are not sorry?"

"Sorry!" she uttered, feeling stupid and confused. "No, I am not sorry! I am very glad—of course I am very glad!" and she held out her hand this time. "But I didn't know!"

"No," he said, with a little sigh. "No, I suppose you did not."

A step was heard behind them, and Mr. Etheridge appeared.

Stella ran to him with a glad cry and put her arms round his neck.

"Uncle!"

He kissed her, and parting the hair from her forehead, looked into her eyes tenderly.

"Yes, Stella, I am back," he said; there was a sad weariness in his voice, and he looked haggard and tired. "And"—he hesitated, and put his hand on the boy's shoulder—"I have brought someone with me. This—is Frank," he hesitated again, "my son."

Stella suppressed a start, and smiled up at him as if the announcement were one of the most natural.

"I am so glad," she whispered.

He nodded.

"Yes, yes," and his gaze wandered to the face of the boy who stood looking at them with a little faint smile, half timid, half uneasy. "Frank has come to stop with us for a time. He is going to the university."

"Yes," said Stella, again. She felt that there was some mystery, felt that the boy was connected in some way with that telegram and the hurried visit to town, and with her characteristic gentleness and tact hastened to smooth matters. "I'll go and see if Mrs. Penfold has made proper arrangements," she said.

Mr. Etheridge looked after her as she went into the house; the boy's voice startled him.

"How beautiful she is!" he murmured, a faint flush on his cheek, a light of boyish admiration in his eyes. "I didn't know I had such a beautiful cousin, so——"

"No," said the old man, warmly. "Go on, Frank. Wait."

[141]

The boy paused and Mr. Etheridge put his hand on his shoulder.

"She is as good as she is beautiful. She is an angel, Frank. I need not say that she knows—nothing."

The boy's face flushed, then went pale, and his eyes drooped.

"Thank you, sir," he said, gratefully. "No," and he shuddered, "I wouldn't have her know for—for the world."

Then he went in. Stella was flitting about the room seeing the laying of a cloth for an impromptu meal. He paused at the window as if afraid to approach or disturb her, but she saw him and came to him with that peculiar little graceful gait which her uncle had noticed so particularly on the first night of her coming.

"I am so glad you have come!" she said. "Uncle must be glad, too!"

"Yes," he said, in a low voice. "You are glad, really glad!"

Her beautiful eyes opened, and she smiled.

"Very glad. You must come in and have some supper. It is quite ready," and she went and called her uncle.

The old man came in and sat down. The boy waited until she pointed to a chair, into which he dropped obediently.

Mr. Etheridge offered no explanation of his visit to London, and she asked for none; but while he sat with his usual silent, dreamy taciturnity, she talked to him.

Frank sat and listened, scarcely taking his eyes off her.

Presently Mr. Etheridge looked up.

"Where have you been this evening, Stella?" he asked.

A sudden blush covered her face, but though Frank saw it, his father did not.

"I have been into the woods," she said, "to the river."

He nodded.

"Very beautiful. The witches' trysting-place, they call it," he added, absently.

Stella's face paled, and she hung her head.

"You were rather late, weren't you?"

"Yes—too late," said Stella, guiltily. If she might only tell him! "I won't be so late again."

He looked up.

"You will have Frank to keep you company now," he said.

Stella turned to the boy with a smile that was still eloquent of guilt.

"I shall be very glad," she said, feeling dreadfully deceitful. "You know all the pretty places, no doubt, and must act as cicerone."

His eyes dropped.

"No, I don't," he said. "I haven't been here before."

"Frank has been at school," said Mr. Etheridge, quietly. "You will have to be the cicerone," and he rose and wandered to the window.

Stella rang the bell, wheeled up the arm-chair, and got the old man's pipe, hanging over him with marked tenderness, and the boy watched her with the same intent look.

[142]

Then she came back to her seat, and took out some work.

"You are not going to work to-night?" he said, leaning his elbows on the table and his head upon his hands—small, white, delicate hands, to match the face.

"This is only make-believe," she said. "Don't you know the old proverb about idle hands?" And she laughed.

He started, and his face paled.

Stella wondered what she had said to affect him, and hurried on.

"I can't sit still and do nothing, can you?"

"Yes, for hours," he said, with a smile; "I am awfully idle, but I must get better habits; I must follow your example. I mean to read while I'm down here—read hard, don't you know. Shall I begin to-night?" he asked, his eyes upon her with almost slavish intentness.

"Not to-night," she said, with a laugh; "you must be tired. You have come from London, haven't you?"

"Yes," he said; "and I am rather tired. I would rather sit and watch you, if you don't mind."

She shook her head.

"Not in the least. You can tell me about your school."

"I would rather sit and watch you in silence," he said, "unless you like to talk. I should like that."

He seemed a queer boy; there was something almost sad in his quietness, but Stella felt that it was only temporary.

"He is tired, poor boy," she thought.

Presently she said:

"How old are you?"

"Seventeen," he said.

She looked at him.

"I did not think you were so old," she said, with a laugh.

He smiled.

"Few persons do. Yes; I am seventeen."

"Why, you are quite a man," she said, with a laugh.

He blushed—proving his boyhood—and shook his head.

"Stella," came the old man's voice, "will you play something?"

She rose instantly, and glided to the organ and began to play.

She had been playing some little time; then she commenced to sing.

Suddenly she heard a sound suspiciously like a sob close to her side, and looking round saw that the boy had stolen to a low seat near her, and was leaning his face upon his hands. She stopped, but with a sudden gesture and a look toward her, the silent, seated figure motioned her to go on.

She finished—it was the "Ave Maria,"—and then bent down to him.

"You are tired!" she whispered.

The voice was so sweet, so kind, so sisterly, that it went straight to the bottom of the lad's heart.

He looked up at her, with that expression in his eyes which one sees in the eyes of a faithful, devoted dog then bent and kissed the sleeve of her dress.

All the tenderness of Stella's nature welled up at the simple[143] act, and with a little murmur she bent down and put her lips to his forehead.

His face flushed and he shrank back.

"Don't!" he said, in a strained voice. "I am not worthy!"

For answer she stooped again and kissed him.

He did not shrink this time, but took her hand and held it with a convulsive grasp, and something trembled on his lip, when he started and stared toward the wi............