A man of finer grain than Edward Neal would have known the whole truth in that first second, by the blank stern look which spread like a cloud over George Ware’s face; but the open-hearted fellow only thought that he had perhaps seemed too familiar and went on,—­

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Ware.  It must appear strange to you that I took the liberty of being so glad; but you don’t know how kindly I have been allowed to feel that your friends here would permit me to call all their friends mine,” and he glanced lovingly and confidently at my aunt and uncle, who answered by such smiles as they rarely gave.  Oh, no wonder they loved this genial, frank sunny boy, who had brought such light into their life.

In a moment George was his courteous self again, and began to express his pleasure at meeting Mr. Neal, but Annie interrupted him.

“Oh, now don’t be tiresome; of course you are to be just as good friends with Edward as you are with me:  sit down, Edward.  He is telling us the most delicious stories.  He is the dearest Cousin George in the world,” she added, stroking his hand which she still kept in hers.

It gave Edward no more surprise to see her do this than it would have done to see her sit in her father’s lap.  Even I felt with a sudden pang that George Ware seemed at that moment to belong to another generation than Edward and Annie.

Edward seated himself on a low cricket at the foot of the lounge, and, looking up in George’s face, said most winningly,—­

“Please go on, Mr. Ware.”  Then he turned one full, sweet look of greeting and welcome upon Annie, who beamed back upon him with such a diffused smile as only the rarest faces have.  Annie’s smile was one of her greatest charms.  It changed her whole face; the lips made but a small part of it; no mortal ever saw it without smiling in answer.

It was beyond George Ware’s power long to endure this.  Probably his instinct felt in both Edward’s atmosphere and Annie’s more than we did.  He rose very soon and said to me, “If you are going home to-night, Helen, will you let me walk up with you?  I have business in that part of the town; but I must go now.  Perhaps that will hurry you too much?” he added, with a tone which was almost imploring.

I was only too glad to go.  Our leave-taking was very short.  A shade of indefinable trouble clouded every face but Edward’s and Annie’s.

George did not speak until we had left the house.  Then he stopped short, took both my hands in his, with a grasp that both hurt and frightened me, and exclaimed,—­

“How dared you keep this from me!  How dared you!”

“O George,” I said, “there was nothing to tell.”

“Nothing to tell!” and his voice grew hoarse and loud.  “Nothing to tell!  Do you mean to say that you don’t know, have not known that Annie loves that boy, that puppy?”

I trembled from head to foot.  I could not speak.  He went on:—­