roused, chatters on ceaselessly about the old days
when he and Charles Vibart, her father, were boys together, and before
pretty Clara Blount fell in love with Vibart and married him. And Portia
listens dreamily, and gazing through the open window lets part of the
music of the scene outside sink into his ancient tales, and feels a
great longing rise within her to get up and go out into the mystic
moonbeams, and bathe her tired hands and forehead in their cool rays.

Dulce and Roger are, as usual, quarreling in a deadly, if
carefully-subdued fashion. Dicky Browne, as usual, too, is eating
anything and everything that comes within his reach, and is apparently
supremely happy. At this moment Portia's longing having mastered her,
she turns to Dulce and asks softly:

"What is that faint streak of white I see out there, through, and
beyond, the branches?"

"Our lake," says Dulce, half turning her head in its direction.

"Our pond," says Roger, calmly.

"Our _lake_," repeats Dulcinea, firmly; at which Portia, feeling war to
be once more imminent, says hastily--

"It looks quite lovely from this--so faint, so silvery."

"It shows charmingly when the moon is up, through that tangled mass of
roses, far down there," says Dulce, with a gesture toward the tangle.

"I should like to go to it," says Portia, with unusual animation.

"So you shall, to-morrow."

"The moon will not be there to-morrow. I want to go now."

"Then so you shall," says Dulce, rising; "have you had enough
strawberries? Yes? Will you not finish your wine? No? Come with me,
then, and the boys may follow us when they can tear themselves away from
their claret!" This, with a scornful glance at Roger, who returns it
generously.

"I shall find it very easy to tear myself away to-night," he says, bent
on revenge, and smiling tenderly at Portia.

"So!" says Dulce, with a shrug and a light laugh that reduces his
attempt at scorn to a puerile effort unworthy of notice; "a compliment
to _you_ Portia; and--the other thing to me. We thank you, Roger. Come."
She lays her hand on Portia's, and draws her toward the window. Passing
by Uncle Christopher's chair, she lets her fingers fall upon his
shoulder, and wander across it, so as just to touch his neck, with a
caressing movement. Then she steps out on the verandah, followed by
Portia, and both girls running down the stone steps are soon lost to
sight among the flowers.

CHAPTER IV.

"'Tis no