Michael had slept perhaps an hour when he was roused by the sound of voices, a sharp, hateful one with an unpleasant memory in it, and a sweet, dear one that went to his very soul.

"Sit down here, Aunt Frances. There is no one about: Papa is asleep and Michael has not yet returned from a trip out West. You can talk without fear of being heard."

"Michael, Michael!" sniffed the voice. "Well, that's what I came to talk to you about. I didn't want to say anything out there where the chauffeur could hear; he is altogether too curious and might talk with the servants about it. I wouldn't have it get out for the world. Your mother would have been mortified to death about all this, and I can't see what your father is thinking about. He never did seem to have much sense where you were concerned--!"

"Aunt Frances!"

"Well, I can't help it. He doesn't. Now take this matter of your being down here, and the very thought of you're calling that fellow Michael,--as if he were a cousin or something! Why, it's simply disgusting! I hoped you were going to stay out West until your father was well enough to go away somewhere with you; but now that you have come back I think you ought to leave here at once. People will begin to talk, and I don't like it. Why, the fellow will be presuming on it to be intimate with you--"'