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“Have you–have you”–he stammered with a faint smile, “seen my sister?”

“Not yet,” said Lady Elfrida. “I believe she is not well and is confined to her room; you will introduce me, won’t you?” she added eagerly. “Of course, when we heard that there was an Atherly here we inquired about you; and I told them you were a relation of ours,” she went on with a half-mischievous shyness,–“you remember the de Bracys,–and they seemed surprised and rather curious. I suppose one does not talk so much about these things over here, and I dare say you have so much to occupy your mind you don’t talk of us in England.” With the quickness of a refined perception she saw a slight shade in his face, and changed the subject. “And we have had such a jolly time; we have met so many pleasant people; and they’ve all been so awfully good to us, from the officials and officers down to the plainest working-man. And all so naturally too–so different from us. I sometimes think we have to work ourselves up to be civil to strangers.” “No,” she went on gayly, in answer to his protesting gesture, and his stammered reminder of his own reception. “No. You came as a sort of kinsman, and Sir Edward knew all about you before he asked you down to the Grange–or even sent over for me from the Towers. No! you Americans take people on their ‘face value,’ as my brother Reggy says, and we always want to know what are the ‘securities.’ And then American men are more gallant, though,” she declared mischievously, “I think you are an exception in that way. Indeed,” she went on, “the more I see of your countrymen the less you seem like them. You are more like us,–more like an Englishman–indeed, more like an Englishman than most Englishmen,–I mean in the matter of reserve and all that sort of thing, you know. It’s odd,–isn’t it? Is your sister like you?”

“You shall judge for yourself,” said Peter with a gayety that was forced in proportion as his forebodings became more gloomy. Would his sister’s peculiarities–even her secret–be safe from the clear eyes of the young girl?

“I know I shall like her,” said Lady Elfrida, simply. “I mean to make friends with her before we leave, and I hope to see a great deal of her; and,” she said with a naive non sequitur, that, however, had its painful significance to Peter, “I do want you to show me some Indians–your Indians, you know YOUR friends. I’ve seen some of them, of course; I am afraid I am a little prejudiced, for I did not like them. You see my taste has to be educated, I suppose; but I thought them so foolishly vain and presuming.”

“That is their perfect childishness,” said Peter quickly. “It is not, I believe, considered a moral defect,” he added bitterly.

Lady Elfrida laughed, and yet at the same moment a look of appeal that was in itself quite as childlike shone in her blue eyes. “There, I have blundered again, I know; but I told you I have such ridiculous prejudices! And I really want to like them as you do. Only,” she laughed again, “it seems strange that YOU, of all men, should have interested yourself in people so totally different to you. But what will be the result if your efforts are successful? Will they remain a distinct race? Will you make citizens, soldiers, congressmen, governors of them? Will they intermarry with the whites? Is that a part of your plan? I hope not!”

It was a part of Peter’s sensitive excitement that even through the unconscious irony of this speech he was noticing the difference between the young English girl’s evident interest in a political problem and the utter indifference of his own countrywomen. Here was a girl scarcely out of her teens, with no pretension to being a blue stocking, with half the aplomb of an American girl of her own age, gravely considering a question of political economy. Oddly enough, it added to his other irritation, and he said almost abruptly, “Why not?”