sition you prescribe for us. You may prefer to pass in society
merely as my young friend, but you are my step-son, you know; and
should you at any time of your life need my services, you may rely
upon me as an affectionate father."

That word brought cherished hopes to Gerald's mind, and he sighed as
he answered, "I thank you."

"Whatever outward inconveniences may arise from this state of things,"
resumed Mr. King, "we prefer to have them fall upon ourselves. It
is of course desirable that you and my daughter should not meet at
present. Your vacation has nearly expired, and perhaps you will deem
it prudent to return a little sooner than you intended. We shall
remain here till late in the autumn; and then, if circumstances render
it necessary, we will remove Eulalia to Cuba, or elsewhere, for the
winter. Try to bear this disappointment bravely, my son. As soon as
you feel sufficiently calm, I would advise you to seek an interview
with your mother. Her heart yearns for you, and the longer your
meeting is deferred, the more embarrassing it will be."

While this conversation was going on in the parlor, the two mothers
of the young man were talking confidentially up stairs. The intense
curiosity which Mrs. Fitzgerald had formerly felt was at once renewed
when Mrs. King said, "Do you remember having heard any one singing
about the house and garden at Magnolia Lawn, the first evening you
spent there?"

"Indeed I do," she replied; "and when I first heard you in Rome, I
repeatedly said your voice was precisely like that singer's."

"You might well be reminded of it," responded Mrs. King, "for I was
the person you heard at Magnolia Lawn, and these are the eyes that
peeped at you through the lattice of the veranda."

"But why were you there? And why did you keep yourself invisible?"
inquired Mrs. Fitzgerald.

Rosa hesitated a moment, embarrassed how to choose words to convey the
unwelcome facts. "My dear lady," said she, "we have both had very sad
experiences. On my side, they have been healed by time; and I trust
it is the same with you. Will it pain you too much to hear something
disparaging to the memory of your deceased husband?"

Mrs. Fitzgerald colored very deeply, and remained silent.

"Nothing but an imperious necessity would induce me to say what I
am about to say," continued Mrs. King; "not only because I am
very reluctant to wound your feelings, but because the recital is
humiliating and painful to myself. W