When they arose from breakfast, and the room was tidied up, and Edith, and Marian, and their guest, were seated at their work, with all the cottage windows open to admit the fresh and fragrant air, and the rural landscape on one side, and the sea view on the other, and while little Miriam sat at their feet dressing a nun doll, and old Jenny betook herself to the garden to gather vegetables for the day, Miss Nancy opened her budget, and gave them all the news of the month.  But in that which concerned Thurston Willcoxen alone was Edith interested, and of him she learned the following facts:  Of the five years which Mr. Willcoxen had been absent in the eastern hemisphere, three had been spent at the German University, where he graduated with the highest honors; eighteen months had been passed in travel through Europe, Asia, and Africa; and the last year had been spent in the best circles in the city of Paris.  He had been back to his native place about three weeks.  Since the death of Fanny Laurie’s old guardian, the judge of the Orphans’ Court had appointed him sole trustee of her property, and guardian of her person.  As soon as he had received this power, he had gone to the asylum, where the poor creature was confined, and hearing her pronounced incurable, though harmless, he had set her at liberty, brought her home to his own house, and had hired a skillful, attentive nurse to wait upon her.

“And you never saw such kindness and compassion, Miss Marian, except in yourself.  I do declare to you, that his manner to that poor unfortunate is as delicate and reverential and devoted as if she were the most accomplished and enviable lady in the land, and more so, Miss Marian, more so!”

“I can well believe it!  He looks like that!” said the beautiful girl, her face flushing and her eyes filling with generous sympathy.  But Marian was rather averse to sentimentality, so dashing the sparkling drops from her blushing cheeks, she looked up and said:  “Miss Nancy, we are going to have chickens for dinner.  How do you like them cooked?  It don’t matter a bit to Edith and me.”

“Stewed, then, if you please, Miss Marian! or stop—­no—­I think baked in a pie!”

CHAPTER VIII

The forest fairy.

On the afternoon of the same day spent by Miss Nancy Skamp at Old Field Cottage, the family at Luckenough were assembled in that broad, central passage, their favorite resort in warm weather.

Five years had made very little alteration here, excepting in the case of Jacquelina, who had grown up to be the most enchanting sprite that ever bewitched the hearts, or turned the heads of men.  She was petite, slight, agile, graceful; clustering curls of shining gold encircled a round, white forehead, laughing in light; springs under springs of fun and frolic sparkled up from the bright, blue eyes, whose flashing light flew bird-like everywhere, but rested nowhere.  She seemed even less human and irresponsible than when a child—­verily a being of the air, a fairy, without human thoughtfulness, or sympathy, or affections!  She only seemed so—­under all that fay-like levity there was a heart.  Poor heart! little food or cultivation had it had in all its life.