in that light,
unconcerned fashion about her conquests; he ought to be jealous, but
evidently he was not.

Then, to her delight, came a summons for Mrs. Peters; she was wanted in
the housekeeper's room.

"Now we are alone," thought Philippa, "he will tell me that he is
pleased to see me. He will remember that he called me his little wife."

But, as Lady Peters closed the door, he took a book from the table, and
asked her what she had been reading lately--which was the book of that
season. She replied to his questions, and to the remarks that followed;
but they were not what she wanted to hear.

"Do not talk to me about books, Norman," she cried at last. "Tell me
more about yourself; I want to hear more about you."

She did not notice the slight flush that spread over his face.

"If we are to talk about ourselves," he said, "I should prefer you to be
the subject. You have grown very beautiful, Philippa."

His eyes took in every detail of the rich amber costume--the waving mass
of dark hair--the splendid face, with its scarlet lips and glorious
eyes--the white hands that moved so incessantly. He owned to himself
that in all his travels he had seen nothing like the imperial loveliness
of this dark-eyed girl.

"Does it please you to find me what you call beautiful?" she asked,
shyly.

"Of course it does. I am very proud of you--proud to be known as the
cousin of Philippa L'Estrange."

Nothing more! Had he nothing more than this to be proud of? Was he so
blind that he could not see love in the girl's face--so deaf that he
could not hear it in the modulations of her musical voice? She bent her
beautiful face nearer him.

"We were always good friends, Norman," she said, simply, "you and I?"

"Yes, we were like brother and sister," he responded, "How we quarreled
and made friends! Do you remember?"

"Yes--but we were not like brother and sister, Norman. We did not call
each other by such names in those days, did we?"

"I never could find names pretty enough for you," he replied laughingly.

She raised her eyes suddenly to his.

"You cared for me a great deal in those days, Norman," she said, gently.
"Tell me the truth--in your travels have you ever met any one for whom
you care more?"

He was perfectly calm and unembarrassed.

"No, cousin, I have not. As I told you before, I have really made no
friends abroad for whom I care much--a few pleasant acquaintances,
nothing more."

"Then I am content," she sa