with perfect fluency, had a slight trace of the foreign air which characterized her whole appearance.
"The steamer will be here in fifteen minutes," she said. "It is coming at the usual time. Are you so impatient to see your betrothed bridegroom, Edith?"
Edith tossed her little head. "Well, what if I am! We have become almost strangers to each other. I was a child when we left home, and Gerald only came from the military school to bid us good-bye. He was a handsome fellow then–I remember him perfectly–but a little priggish, rather stupid, and possessed of a horrible talent for lecturing. But I'll cure him of that most thoroughly."
"Do you intend to 'cure' your future husband before you have ever seen him?" asked Danira, with a tinge of sarcasm. "Perhaps he isn't so yielding as your father."
Edith laughed. "Oh! Papa is sometimes stern enough to other people–yet I do as I please with him, and it will be the same with Gerald. Do you like his picture?"
She took a large photograph from the writing-table and held it toward Danira, who, with a hasty glance at it, answered in a curt, positive tone, "No."
Edith's blue eyes opened wide in amazement.
"What, you don't like this picture? This face with its handsome, regular features–"
"And eyes as cold as ice! That man has never loved, his glance says so."
"Well, he must learn then! That shall be my task. Of course I shall see little enough at first of this lieutenant, who has been sent campaigning and courting at the same time. He must go and fight your countrymen for weeks up in the mountains before he can pay proper attention to me. I hope it won't be long ere the bands of insurgents are scattered and destroyed. I shall tell Gerald that he must hasten the victory and his return on pain of my displeasure."
There was only saucy mirth in the words, nothing more, but Danira seemed to find a different meaning. Her eyes flashed, and in a voice that sounded almost cutting, she replied:
"Better tell him to take care that he does not lose up yonder all hope of return and marriage–forever!"
Edith gazed at her a few seconds, perplexed and startled, then indignantly exclaimed:
"I believe you are quite capable of wishing it. Is it possible that you still care for those savages, who have not troubled themselves about you since your childhood? Papa is perfectly right when he says you have no affection, no gratitude, in spite of all he has done for you."
A half bitter, half grieved expression hovered around Danira's lips as she heard these reproaches. "Gratitude!" she repeated, in a low tone. "You do not know how hard a duty gratitude is, when it is required."
Spite of the sharp tone there was something in the words which disarmed Edith's anger. Stealing to her companion's side, she laid her hand on her arm.
"And I?" she asked in a voice of mingled reproach and entreaty, "am I nothing to you?"
Danira looked down at the rosy blooming face, and her tone involuntarily softened.
"You are much to me, Edith. But–we do not understand each other and never shall."
"Because you are inaccessible and self-contained as a book with seven seals. I have always been a friend, a sister to you. You would never be the same to me."
The reproach must have struck home, for Danira's head drooped as if she were conscious of guilt.
"You are right," she said in a troubled tone, "it is all my fault. But you do not, cannot know–"
"What is it I don't know?" asked Edith, curiously. Danira made no reply, but passed her hand lightly over the curly head resting on her shoulder and gazed into the blue eyes, now glittering with tears. Perhaps the young girl's feelings were deeper, more earnest than she had believed.
Just at that moment they heard the signal announcing that the steamer had reached the landing. Edith started, her tears vanished as quickly as they had come, anger and reproaches were alike forgotten and the young girl rushed to the window with the eagerness and curiosity of a child that has been promised a new toy and cannot wait for the moment of seeing it.
The scornful expression again hovered around Danira's lips. She pushed aside, with a gesture of repugnance, the photograph which still stood on the table, and, taking up her book again, turned her back to the window.
Yet the young fiancée's impatience was very excusable, for her remembrance of her betrothed husband dated from her earliest childhood. Her father. Colonel Arlow, before being transferred to the distant Dalmatian fortress, had been stationed with his regiment in the capital of Southern Tyrol, only a few hours ride from Castle Steinach, and the matrimonial plan had been arranged at that time. Gerald's father, on his death-bed, had told his son of this darling wish, and Edith had been educated expressly for him. While the young officer was preparing for his military career, his betrothed bride, who had lost her mother when very young, had grown up in the house of a father who spoiled and idolized her. Distance had hitherto prevented a meeting between the young couple, but at the outbreak of the insurrection Gerald's regiment was unexpectedly ordered to Cattaro, and thus chance ordained that his first campaign should also be a courtship.
Meantime the disembarkation had already begun, but amid the confusion of arrivals and greetings it was scarcely possible to distinguish individuals. At last, a group of officers separated from the throng and walked toward the city, and but half an hour elapsed ere the commandant entered the room with his guest.
Colonel Arlow, a fine-looking, soldierly man in the prime of life, led the young officer to his daughter, saying, in a jesting tone:
"Herr Gerald von Steinach, lieutenant in the Imperial Chasseurs, desires an introduction to you, my child. See whether you can recognize in this young warrior the features of your former playfellow. Of course, Gerald, you will not remember the child of those days; she has altered considerably in the course of the years."
The last words and the look that rested on his daughter expressed joyous paternal pride, a pride certainly justifiable. Edith was wonderfully charming at that moment.
Gerald approached her with perfect ease, and, holding out his hand, said cordially:
"How are you, Edith?" The words from his lips, with their native accent, sounded as familiar as if he had taken leave of his little fiancée only the day before.
Edith looked up at the tall figure, met the eyes resting gravely but kindly upon her, and suddenly lost her composure entirely. A burning blush crimsoned her face, the words of greeting died upon her lips, and she stood silent and confused, perfectly unconscious how bewitching she looked in her embarrassment.
Gerald gallantly kissed the little hand that rested in his own, but only held it a moment ere he relaxed it.
He had evidently received a pleasant impression of his young fiancée, but his nature was apparently incapable of deep or passionate emotion.
He now saw for the first time that another lady was standing at the back of the room, and turned with a gesture of inquiry to the colonel.
"My adopted daughter, Danira," said the latter carelessly. He seemed to consider any further introduction unnecessary, and there was even a tone of negligence in his voice.
The young officer bowed, casting a somewhat puzzled glance at the girl's sullen face. Danira returned the salute without raising her eyes.
Gerald
