omoted to the proud role of valet, requesting orders for
the day, and lingering with an appreciative ear for the conversation of
his betters.

When these were out of the way, a firm tap at the door revealed Jemima,
book in hand or with a basket of sewing, announcing quietly that she now
had an hour or so at Mr. Channing's disposal; whereupon Jacqueline would
give up in despair and flounce away, or resign herself to listen, seated
behind her sister's back where she could make faces at it unseen except
by the invalid.

The afternoons were quite as bad, the family solicitude being augmented
by the presence of visitors, the most frequent of whom was Farwell; and
in the evenings all sat together about the great fireplace in the
hall--for the nights were growing chill--playing games, or listening to
Jacqueline's music, or telling stories like children, until nine
o'clock; at which hour Mrs. Kildare assembled her household, white and
black, read a few prayers in a firm but inattentive manner, and sent
everybody to bed.

The life had a simple charm which Channing savored with due
appreciation; but it gave him very little of Jacqueline, and both
thought longingly of the Ruin, at present inaccessible. In one thing
Jemima's inexperience played her false. To a man of Channing's
temperament, occasional and tantalizing glimpses of the _inamorata_ had
an allure that unrestricted intercourse might soon have lessened. But
considering her youth, Jemima was doing very well indeed.

Mag Henderson was the lovers' only ally. Notes still passed between them
with a frequency which eluded Jemima's vigilance; and notes make very
good fuel for a fire, if there is none better available.

One of these, extracted by Channing from his napkin under the very eye
of the enemy, read:

Jemmy is certainly taking notice. Look out! We must put her off the
track somehow. Couldn't you make love to her--a little? Not much,
and, oh, please, _never_ before me, because I just couldn't bear
it!--This is a kiss. O

Channing appreciated this Machiavellian policy, and endeavored to put it
into practice; but without success.

Nothing doing! (He wrote in answer). There's a look in that cool,
greenish eye that sheds Cupid's darts like chain armor. If I must
make love to any one but you, darling, it will have to be your
mother. She's human. I tell you no man living would have the
courage to breathe airy nothings into