too
much of a fine lady."

"I--you--a fine lady! Did anything ever give you the impression that I
did?"

"I shall not get poor Harry into a scrape, shall I? He told me that you
said so, last spring, and I feared you judged me too truly."

After a few exclamations of utter surprise, it flashed on Norman. "I
know, I know--Harry interpreted my words in his own blunt fashion!"

"Then you did say something like it?"

"No, but--but--In short, Meta, these sailors' imaginations go to great
lengths. Harry had guessed more than I knew myself, before he had
sailed, and taxed me with it. It was a subject I could not bear then,
and I answered that you were too far beyond my hopes."

"Six years ago!" said Meta slowly, blushing deeper and deeper. "Some
eyes saw it all that time, and you--and," she added, laughing, though
rather tearfully, "I should never have known it, if Tom had not taken me
through the plantations!"

"Not if I had not discovered that your preferences did not lie--"

"Among boudoirs and balls?" said Meta. "Harry was right. You thought me
a fine lady after all."

The gay taunt was cut short by a tap at the door, and Flora looked in.

"Dr. Spencer has brought your things, Norman. I am sorry to disturb
you--but come down, Meta--I ran away very uncivilly to fetch you. I hope
it is not too cruel," as she drew Meta's arm into her own, and added, "I
have not been able speak to George."

Meta suspected that, in the wish to spare her, Flora had abstained from
seeking him.

The evening went off like any other evening--people ate and talked,
thought Mrs. Rivers looking very ill, and Miss Rivers very pretty--Flora
forced herself into being very friendly to Sir Henry, commiserating the
disappointment to which she had led him; and she hoped that he suspected
the state of affairs, though Tom, no longer supplanted by his elder
brother, pursued Meta into the sheltered nook, where Flora had favoured
her seclusion, to apologise for having left her to the guidance of poor
Norman, whose head was with the blackamoors. It was all Harry's fault.

"Nonsense, Tom," said Harry; "don't you think Norman is better company
than you any day?"

"Then why did you not walk him off instead of me?" said Tom, turning
round sharply.

"Out of consideration for Meta. She will tell you that she was very much
obliged to me--"

Harry checked himself, for Meta was colouring so painfully that his own
sunburned face caught the glow. He pushed