't doubt that you have spoken sincerely," she said; "but you have
failed to do justice to my son's good sense; and you are--naturally
enough, in your position--incapable of estimating his devoted attachment
to Carmina." Having planted that sting, she paused to observe the
effect. Not the slightest visible result rewarded her. She went on.
"Almost the last words he said to me expressed his confidence--his
affectionate confidence--in my niece. The bare idea of his being jealous
of anybody, and especially of such a person as Mr. Le Frank, is simply
ridiculous. I am astonished that you don't see it in that light."

"I should see it in that light as plainly as you do," Miss Minerva
quietly replied, "if Mr. Ovid was at home."

"What difference does that make?"

"Excuse me--it makes a great difference, as I think. He has gone away on
a long journey, and gone away in bad health. He will have his hours
of depression. At such times, trifles are serious things; and even
well-meant words--in letters--are sometimes misunderstood. I can offer
no better apology for what I have said; and I can only regret that I
have made so unsatisfactory a return for your flattering confidence in
me."

Having planted _her_ sting, she rose to retire.

"Have you any further commands for me?" she asked.

"I should like to be quite sure that I have not misunderstood you," said
Mrs. Gallilee. "You consider Mr. Le Frank to be competent, as director
of any young lady's musical studies? Thank you. On the one point on
which I wished to consult you, my mind is at ease. Do you know where
Carmina is?"

"In her room, I believe."

"Will you have the goodness to send her here?"

"With the greatest pleasure. Good-evening!"

So ended Mrs. Gallilee's first attempt to make use of Miss Minerva,
without trusting her.

CHAPTER XXIII.

The mistress of the house, and the governess of the house, had their own
special reasons for retiring to their own rooms. Carmina was in solitude
as a matter of necessity. The only friends that the poor girl could
gather round her now, were the absent and the dead.

She had written to Ovid--merely for the pleasure of thinking that
her letter would accompany him, in the mail-steamer which took him to
Quebec. She had written to Teresa. She had opened her piano, and had
played the divinely beautiful music of Mozart, until its tenderness
saddened her, and she closed the instrument with an aching heart. For
a while she sat