Evelyn met Jasper, as arranged, on Tuesday evening. She found it quite easy to slip away unnoticed, for in truth Lady Frances was too unhappy to watch her movements particularly. The girls had been dining alone. Audrey had a headache, and had gone to bed early. Evelyn rushed up to her room, put on a dark shawl, which completely covered her fair hair and white-robed little figure, and rushed out by a side entrance. She wore thin shoes, however, being utterly¹ reckless with regard to her health. Jasper was waiting for her. It took but an instant for Jasper to clasp her in her arms, lifting her off the ground as she did so.  
“Oh, my little darling,” cried the affectionate woman—“my sweet little white Eve! Oh, let me hug you; let me kiss you! Oh, my pet! it is like cold water to a thirsty person to clasp you in my arms again.”
 
“Do not squeeze me quite so tight, Jasper,” said Evelyn. “Yes, of course, I am glad to see you—very glad.”
 
“But let me feel your feet, pet. Oh, to think of your running out like this in your house-shoes! 277 You will catch your death! Here, I will sit down on this step and keep you in my arms. Now, is not that cozy², my fur cloak wrapped round you, feet and all? Is not that nice, little Eve?”
 
“Yes, very nice,” said Evelyn. “It is almost as good as if I were back again on the ranch³ with mothery and you.”
 
“Ah, the happy old days!” sighed Jasper.
 
“Yes, they were very happy, Jasper. I almost wish I was back again. I am worried a good bit; things are not what I thought they would be in England. There is no fuss made about me, and at school they treat me so horribly.”
 
“You bide⁴ your time, my love; you bide your time.”
 
“I don’t like school, Jas.”
 
“And why not, my beauty? You know you must be taught, my dear Miss Evelyn; an ignorant young lady has no chance at all in these enlightened days.”
 
“Oh! please, Jas, do not talk so much like a horrid⁵ book; be your true old self. What does learning matter?”
 
“Everything, love; I assure you it does.”
 
“Well, I shall never be learned; it is too much trouble.”
 
“But why don’t you like school, pet?”
 
“I will tell you. I have got into a scrape; I did not mean to, but I have.”
 
“Oh, you mean about that book. Sylvia told me. Why did you tell Sylvia, Evelyn?” 278
“I had to tell some one, and she is not a schoolgirl.”
 
“She is not your sort, Evelyn.”
 
“Is she not? I like her very much.”
 
“But she is not your sort; for instance, she could not do a thing of that kind.”
 
“Oh, I do not suppose many people would have spirit enough,” said Evelyn in the voice of one who had done a very fine act.
 
“She could not do it,” repeated Jasper; “and I expect she is in the right, and that you, my little love, are in the wrong. You were differently trained. Well, my dear Eve, the long and short of it is that I admire what you did, only somehow Sylvia does not, and you will have to be very careful or she may——”
 
“What—what, Jasper?”
 
“She may not regard it as a secret that she will always keep.”
 
“Is she that sort? Oh, the horrid, horrid thing!” said Evelyn. “Oh, to think that I should have told her! But you cannot mean it; it is impossible that you can mean it, Jasper!”
 
“Don’t you fret

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