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“Ludmilla is his sister, then, or he didn’t tell uncle the truth. It is no concern of mine; but I wish I knew,” thought Helen anxiously, and then wondered why she should care.

A feeling of distrust had taken possession of her and she determined to be on the watch, for the unsuspicious major would be easily duped, and Helen trusted more to her own quick and keen eye than to his experience. She tried to show nothing of the change in her manner: but Hoffman perceived it, and bore it with a proud patience which often touched her heart, but never altered her purpose.

VII

AT FAULT

Four weeks went by so rapidly that every one refused to believe it when the major stated the fact at the breakfast-table, for all had enjoyed themselves so heartily that they had been unconscious of the lapse of time.

“You are not going away, uncle?” cried Amy, with a panic-stricken look.

“Next week, my dear; we must be off, for we’ve much to do yet, and I promised mamma to bring you back by the end of October.”

“Never mind Paris and the rest of it; this is pleasanter. I’d rather stay here–“

There Amy checked herself and tried to hide her face behind her coffee-cup, for Casimer looked up in a way that made her heart flutter and her cheeks burn.

“Sorry for it, Amy; but go we must, so enjoy your last week with all your might, and come again next year.”

“It will never be again what it is now,” sighed Amy; and Casimer echoed the words “next year,” as if sadly wondering if the present year would not be his last.

Helen rose silently and went into the garden, for of late she had fallen into the way of reading and working in the little pavilion which stood in an angle of the wall, overlooking lake and mountains.

A seat at the opposite end of the walk was Amy’s haunt, for she liked the sun, and within a week or two something like constraint had existed between the cousins. Each seemed happier apart, and each was intent on her own affairs. Helen watched over Amy’s health, but no longer offered advice or asked confidence. She often looked anxious, and once or twice urged the major to go, as if conscious of some danger.

But the worthy man seemed to have been bewitched as well as the young folks, and was quite happy sitting by the plump, placid widow, or leisurely walking with her to the chapel on the hillside.

All seemed waiting for something to break up the party, and no one had the courage to do it. The major’s decision took every one by surprise, and Amy and Casimer looked as if they had fallen from the clouds.

The persistency with which the English lessons had gone on was amazing, for Amy usually tired of everything in a day or two. Now, however, she was a devoted teacher, and her pupil did her great credit by the rapidity with which he caught the language. It looked like pleasant play, sitting among the roses day after day, Amy affecting to embroider while she taught, Casimer marching to and fro on the wide, low wall, below which lay the lake, while he learned his lesson; then standing before her to recite, or lounging on the turf in frequent fits of idleness, both talking and laughing a great deal, and generally forgetting everything but the pleasure of being together. They wrote little notes as exercises–Amy in French, Casimer in English, and each corrected the other’s.

All very well for a time; but as the notes increased the corrections decreased, and at last nothing was said of ungrammatical French or comical English and the little notes were exchanged in silence.

As Amy took her place that day she looked forlorn, and when her pupil came her only welcome was a reproachful–

“You are very late, sir.”

“It is fifteen of minutes yet to ten clocks,” was Casimer’s reply, in his best English.