“Did he tell you any other news?” asked Mrs. Maynard, looking up from her letter again,—­“anything about the german?”

“He says he thinks it a shame we are to be away and—­well, read it yourself.”  And she placed it in her mother’s hands, the dark eyes seriously, anxiously studying her face as she read.  Presently Mrs. Maynard laid it down and looked again into her own, then, pointing to a certain passage with her finger, handed it to her daughter.

“Men were deceivers ever,” she said, laughing, yet oracularly significant.

And Alice Renwick could not quite control the start with which she read,—­

“Mr. Jerrold is to lead with his old love, Nina Beaubien.  They make a capital pair, and she, of course, will be radiant—­with Alice out of the way.”

“That is something Mr. Jerrold failed to mention, is it not?”

Miss Renwick’s cheeks were flushed, and the dark eyes were filled with sudden pain, as she answered,—­

“I did not know she was there.  She was to have gone to the Lakes the same day we left.”

“She did go, Alice,” said her mother, quietly, “but it was only for a brief visit, it seems.”

The colonel was not at their cottage when the omnibus reached the lake.  Over at the hotel were the usual number of loungers gathered to see the new arrivals, and Alice presently caught sight of the colonel coming through the park.  If anything, he looked more listless and dispirited than he had before they left.  She ran down the steps to meet him, smiling brightly up into his worn and haggard face.

“Are you feeling a little brighter, papa?  Here are letters for you.”

He took them wearily, barely glancing at the superscriptions.

“I had hoped for something more,” he said, and passed on into the little frame house which was his sister’s summer home.  “Is your mother here?” he asked, looking back as he entered the door.

“In the north room, with Aunt Grace, papa,” she answered; and then once more and with graver face she began to read Mr. Jerrold’s letter.  It was a careful study she was making of it this time, and not altogether a pleasant one.  Aunt Grace came out and made some laughing remark at seeing her still so occupied.  She looked up, pluckily smiling despite a sense of wounded pride, and answered,—­

“I am only convincing myself that it was purely on general principles that Mr. Jerrold seemed so anxious I should be there.  He never wanted me to lead with him at all.”  All the same it stung, and Aunt Grace saw and knew it, and longed to take her to her heart and comfort her; but it was better so.  She was finding him out unaided.

She was still studying over portions of that ingenious letter, when the rustle of her aunt’s gown indicated that she was rising.  She saw her move towards the steps, heard a quick, firm tread upon the narrow planking, and glanced up in surprise.  There, uncovering his close-cropped head, stood the tall stranger, looking placidly up as he addressed Aunt Grace: