Mrs. Snowdon was pale to the lips, and Maurice impatiently
tapped the arm of his chair, while the girl innocently
chatted on.
“I am sorry the general is such an invalid;
yet I dare say you find great happiness in taking
care of him. It is so pleasant to be of use to
those we love.” And as she spoke, Octavia
leaned over her cousin to hand him the glove he had
dropped.
The affectionate smile that accompanied the act made
the color deepen again in Mrs. Snowdon’s cheek,
and lit a spark in her softened eyes. Her lips
curled and her voice was sweetly sarcastic as she answered,
“Yes, it is charming to devote one’s life
to these dear invalids, and find one’s reward
in their gratitude. Youth, beauty, health, and
happiness are small sacrifices if one wins a little
comfort for the poor sufferers.”
The girl felt the sarcasm under the soft words and
drew back with a troubled face.
Maurice smiled, and glanced from one to the other,
saying significantly, “Well for me that my little
nurse loves her labor, and finds no sacrifice in it.
I am fortunate in my choice.”
“I trust it may prove so—”
Mrs. Snowdon got no further, for at that moment dinner
was announced, and Sir Jasper took her away. Annon
approached with him and offered his arm to Miss Treherne,
but with an air of surprise, and a little gesture
of refusal, she said coldly:
“My cousin always takes me in to dinner.
Be good enough to escort the major.” And
with her hand on the arm of the chair, she walked away
with a mischievous glitter in her eyes.
Annon frowned and fell back, saying sharply, “Come,
Major, what are you doing there?”
“Making discoveries.”
BYPLAY
A right splendid old dowager was Lady Treherne, in
her black velvet and point lace, as she sat erect
and stately on a couch by the drawing-room fire, a
couch which no one dare occupy in her absence, or share
uninvited. The gentlemen were still over their
wine, and the three ladies were alone. My lady
never dozed in public, Mrs. Snowdon never gossiped,
and Octavia never troubled herself to entertain any
guests but those of her own age, so long pauses fell,
and conversation languished, till Mrs. Snowdon roamed
away into the library. As she disappeared, Lady
Treherne beckoned to her daughter, who was idly making
chords at the grand piano. Seating herself on
the ottoman at her mother’s feet, the girl took
the still handsome hand in her own and amused herself
with examining the old-fashioned jewels that covered
it, a pretext for occupying her telltale eyes, as
she suspected what was coming.
“My dear, I’m not pleased with you, and
I tell you so at once, that you may amend your fault,”
began Madame Mere in a tender tone, for though a haughty,
imperious woman, she idolized her children.
“What have I done, Mamma?” asked the girl.
