“So ho!” thought the young man, “that explains it;” and turning on his heel, he walked back to the house just as the last bell was ringing for dinner.

On entering the dining-room, he found all the family assembled, except ’Lena.  She had excused herself on the plea of a severe headache, and now in her own room was chiding herself for being so much affected by a remark accidentally overheard.  What did she care if Durward did think her plain?  He was nothing to her, and never would be—­and again she bathed her head, which really was aching sadly.

“And so ’Lena’s got the headache,” said John Jr.  “Well, I don’t wonder, cooking all the dinner as she did.”

“What do you mean?” asked Anna, while Mrs. Livingstone’s angry frown bade her son keep silence,

Filial obedience, however, was not one of John Jr.’s cardinal virtues, and in a few words, he repeated what Aunt Milly had told him, adding aside to Durward, “This explains the extreme rosiness which so much offended your lordship.  When next you see her, you’ll change your mind.”

Suddenly remembering that his grandmother had not been introduced, he now presented her to Durward.  The Noble’s blood had long been forgotten, but grandma was never at a loss for a subject, and she commenced talking notwithstanding Carrie’s efforts to keep her still.

“Now I think on’t, Car’line,” said she at last, turning to her granddaughter, “now I think on’t, what made you propose to have my dinner sent up to my room.  I hain’t et there but once this great while, and that was the day General Fontaine’s folks were here, and Matilda thought I warn’t able to come down.”

Durward’s half-concealed smile showed that he understood it all, while John Jr., in his element when his grandmother was talking, managed, to lead her on, until she reached her favorite theme—­Nancy Scovandyke.  Here a look from her son silenced her, and as dinner was just then over, Durward missed of hearing that remarkable lady’s history.

Late in the afternoon, as the family were sitting upon the piazza, ’Lena joined them.  Her headache had passed away, leaving her face a shade whiter than usual.  The flush was gone from her forehead and nose, but mindful of Durward’s remark, the roses deepened on her cheek, which only increased her loveliness.

“I acknowledge that I was wrong—­your cousin is beautiful,” whispered Durward to Carrie, who, mentally hating the beauty which had never before struck her so forcibly, replied in her softest tones, “I knew you would, and I hope you’ll be equally ready to forgive her for winning hearts only to break them, for with that face how can she help it?”