s he said it.

Tears rose in Mrs. Thorne's eyes; but she repressed them, they did not
fall. "I depend greatly upon you," she said, with more directness than
she had yet used. She drew her hand from his, took up his hat, which was
lying on a chair near her, and gave it to him; she seemed to wish him to
go, to say no more.

He obeyed her wish, he left the house and went to the rose garden. Here,
after looking about for a moment, he saw Garda.

CHAPTER XI.

She was under the great rose-tree. Dressed in an old white gown of a
thick cotton material, she was sitting on the ground, with her crossed
arms resting on the bench, and her head laid on her arms; her straw hat
was off, the rose-tree shading her from the afternoon sun. Carlos Mateo,
mounting guard near, eyed Winthrop sharply as he approached. But though
Garda of course heard his steps, she did not move; he came up and stood
beside her, still she did not raise her head. He could see her face in
profile, as it lay on her arm; it was pale, the long lashes were wet
with tears.

"Garda," he said.

"Yes, I know who it is," she answered without looking up;--"it is Mr.
Winthrop. Mamma has asked you to come and talk to me, I suppose; but it
is of no use." And he could see the tears drop down again, one by one.

"I should be glad to come on my own account, without being asked, if I
could be of any use to you, Garda."

"You cannot," she murmured, hopelessly.

His speech had sounded in his own ears far too formal and cold for this
grieving child--for the girl looked not more than fourteen as she sat
there with her bowed head on her arms. He resisted, however, the impulse
to treat her as though she had been indeed a child, to stoop down and
try to comfort her.

"I am very sorry to find you so unhappy," he went on, still feeling that
his words were too perfunctory.

"I don't believe it; I wish I did," answered Garda, who was never
perfunctory, but always natural. "If I did, perhaps I could talk to you
about it, and then it wouldn't be _quite_ so hard."

"Talk to me whether you believe it or not," suggested Winthrop.

"I cannot; you never liked him."

A frown showed itself on Winthrop's face; but Garda could not see it,
and he took good care that his voice should not betray irritation as he
answered: "But as I like you, won't that do as well? You ought to feel
safe enough with me to say anything."

"Oh, why won't you be good to me?" said the girl, in a weep