ned, as if her experience of
humanity, in its relation to love, had been experience in the cannibal
islands. She decided on leaving her niece to repose, and on taking her
son away with her.

"In your present state of health, Ovid," she began, "Carmina must not
accept your professional advice."

Something in those words stung Ovid's temper.

"My professional advice?" he repeated. "You talk as if she was seriously
ill!"

Carmina's sweet smile stopped him there.

"We don't know what may happen," she said, playfully.

"God forbid _that_ should happen!" He spoke so fervently that the women
all looked at him in surprise.

Mrs. Gallilee turned to her niece, and proceeded quietly with what she
had to say.

"Ovid is so sadly overworked, my dear, that I actually rejoice in his
giving up practice, and going away from us to-morrow. We will leave you
for the present with your old friend. Pray ring, if you want anything."
She kissed her hand to Carmina, and, beckoning to her son, advanced
towards the door.

Teresa looked at her, and suddenly looked away again. Mrs. Gallilee
stopped on her way out, at a chiffonier, and altered the arrangement of
some of the china on it. The duenna followed on tiptoe--folded her thumb
and two middle fingers into the palm of her hand--and, stretching out
the forefinger and the little finger, touched Mrs. Gallilee on the back,
so softly that she was unaware of it. "The Evil Eye," Teresa whispered
to herself in Italian, as she stole back to her place.

Ovid lingered near his cousin: neither of them had seen what Teresa
had done. He rose reluctantly to go. Feeling his little attentions
gratefully, Carmina checked him with innocent familiarity as he left his
chair. "I must thank you," she said, simply; "it seems hard indeed that
you, who cure others, should suffer from illness yourself."

Teresa, watching them with interest, came a little nearer.

She could now examine Ovid's face with close and jealous scrutiny. Mrs.
Gallilee reminded her son that she was waiting for him. He had some last
words yet to say. The duenna drew back from the sofa, still looking at
Ovid: she muttered to herself, "Holy Teresa, my patroness, show me that
man's soul in his face!" At last, Ovid took his leave. "I shall call and
see how you are to-morrow," he said, "before I go." He nodded kindly to
Teresa. Instead of being satisfied with that act of courtesy, she wanted
something more. "May I shake hands?" she asked. M