acity for self-control failed, at the moment when
she took Carmina's place. Those keen black eyes, so hard and cold
when they looked at anyone else--flamed with an all-devouring sense of
possession when they first rested on Ovid. "He's mine. For one golden
moment he's mine!" They spoke--and, suddenly, the every-day blind
was drawn down again; there was nobody present but a well-bred woman,
talking with delicately implied deference to a distinguished man.

"So far, we have not spoken of the birds," Ovid innocently answered.

"And yet you seemed to be both looking at them!" She at once covered
this unwary outbreak of jealousy under an impervious surface of
compliment. "Miss Carmina is not perhaps exactly pretty, but she is a
singularly interesting girl."

Ovid cordially (too cordially) agreed. Miss Minerva had presented
her better self to him under a most agreeable aspect. She
tried--struggled--fought with herself--to preserve appearances. The
demon in her got possession again of her tongue. "Do you find the young
lady intelligent?" she inquired.

"Certainly!"

Only one word--spoken perhaps a little sharply. The miserable woman
shrank under it. "An idle question on my part," she said, with the
pathetic humility that tries to be cheerful. "And another warning, Mr.
Vere, never to judge by appearances." She looked at him, and returned to
the children.

Ovid's eyes followed her compassionately. "Poor wretch!" he thought.
"What an infernal temper, and how hard she tries to control it!" He
joined Carmina, with a new delight in being near her again. Zo was still
in ecstasies over the Piping Crow. "Oh, the jolly little chap! Look
how he cocks his head! He mocks me when I whistle. Buy him," cried Zo,
tugging at Ovid's coat tails in the excitement that possessed her; "buy
him, and let me take him home with me!"

Some visitors within hearing began to laugh. Miss Minerva opened her
lips; Maria opened her lips. To the astonishment of both of them the
coming rebuke proved to be needless.

A sudden transformation to silence and docility had made a new creature
of Zo, before they could speak--and Ovid had unconsciously worked the
miracle. For the first time in the child's experience, he had suffered
his coat tails to be pulled without immediately attending to her. Who
was he looking at? It was only too easy to see that Carmina had got
him all to herself. The jealous little heart swelled in Zo's bosom.
In silent perplexity she k