ined these to me. Here, I will give you my scarabaeus. Whenever you
feel some wicked Corsican thought stir in you, look at my talisman, and
tell yourself you must win the battle our evil passions wage against us.
Why, really, I don't preach at all badly!"

"I shall think of you, Miss Nevil, and I shall say to myself----"

"Say to yourself you have a friend who would be in despair at the idea
of your being hanged--and besides it would be too distressing for your
ancestors the corporals!"

With these words she dropped Orso's arm, laughing and running to her
father.

"Papa," she said, "do leave those poor birds alone, and come and make up
poetry with us, in Napoleon's grotto!"

CHAPTER VIII

There is always a certain solemnity about a departure, even when the
separation is only to be a short one. Orso and his sister were to start
very early in the morning, and he had taken his leave of Miss Lydia the
night before--for he had no hope that she would disturb her indolent
habits on his account. Their farewells had been cold and grave. Since
that conversation on the sea-shore, Miss Lydia had been afraid she had
perhaps shown too strong an interest in Orso, and on the other hand, her
jests, and more especially her careless tone, lay heavy on Orso's heart.
At one moment he had thought the young Englishwoman's manner betrayed
a budding feeling of affection, but now, put out of countenance by her
jests, he told himself she only looked on him as a mere acquaintance,
who would be soon forgotten. Great, therefore, was his surprise, next
morning, when, as he sat at coffee with the colonel, he saw Miss Lydia
come into the room, followed by his sister. She had risen at five
o'clock, and for an Englishwoman, and especially for Miss Nevil, the
effort was so great that it could not but give him some cause for
vanity.

"I am so sorry you should have disturbed yourself so early," said Orso.
"No doubt my sister woke you up in spite of my injunctions, and you must
hate us heartily! Perhaps you wish I was hanged already!"

"No," said Miss Lydia, very low and in Italian, evidently so that
her father might not hear her, "but you were somewhat sulky with me
yesterday, because of my innocent jokes, and I would not have you carry
away an unpleasant recollection of your humble servant. What terrible
people you are, you Corsicans! Well, good-bye! We shall meet soon, I
hope."

And she held out her hand.

A sigh was the only answer Orso