remarked "that after
having passed the day in wet clothes, she had better take some ordinary
precautions and go to bed." Indeed, her slightly feverish manner perhaps
warranted the advice.

"Good night, then, Bertie, and mind you are here early to-morrow for
Lola's picnic."

It was the child's birthday, and she had written roundhand invitations to
all of them, to spend the day on Long Island and lunch there.

"Tell Lola," said Bertie, smiling, "I would not miss it for the world.
She will think me very shabby, but I can't get her a present at Rice
Lake."

He went away himself a few minutes after, half hoping to obtain from
Cecil a second and more affectionate farewell, but could see nothing of
her. Just as he stepped out, though, a casement shot open, and her bright
face appeared for an instant as she threw down a rose, round the stalk of
which was a slip of paper with the word "_Courage?_" scratched upon it.
She put a finger on her lips warningly, then kissed her hand, and
vanished.

Bertie picked up the rose. It was one she had plucked as they entered the
garden, and worn in her dress that evening.

As he got into one of the various canoes at the landing, another one
passed, paddled by a good-looking youth, who half stopped, and gazed
intently at Du Meresq, then catching sight of the flower in his
button-hole, an expression of baffled rage came over his boyish face,
and he shot away.

It was Alec Gough prowling around with his flageolet, intent upon
addressing some minstrelsy to Bluebell, and much disconcerted by the
sight of Du Meresq coming from that house with a trophy in the shape of
a faded rose.

About two hours after, Cecil, too feverish from the exciting events of
the day to sleep, became sensible of some strains of music, apparently
from the lake. She sat up to listen. Could it possibly be Bertie? No; he
was too good a musician for that barrel-organ style; some wandering
person from the hotel it must be. The air was familiar to her, though she
could not immediately recall the name. At last she recollected it was
one of Moore's melodies, and a verse of it, really intended by Alec for
an indignant expostulation to Bluebell, came into her head.--

"Fare thee well, thou lovely one,
Lovely still, but dear no more;
Once the soul of truth is gone,
Love's sweet life is o'er."

One is more prone to fancies and superstitions in the night-time, and
something in the sentiment saddened her. Th