This young man sorely
missed the girlish society which his sister in happier days had
constantly drawn about her. One afternoon, when time hung particularly
heavy on his hands, he decided to go over to "Bellevue," ostensibly to
give Madame DeBerczy the latest information concerning Rose, but
really to solace his soul with a sight of the beautiful Helene. On his
way over he chanced to overtake the Algonquin girl, Wanda, whom he
proceeded to upbraid in no measured terms for the way in which she had
treated him.
"Ah, don't!" she cried at last, covering her ears with her hands,
"your words are like hailstones, sharp and cruel and cold."
"Then will you not say that you are sorry?" he pleaded, bending his
fair head once more perilously near to the soft, brown neck.
"Sorry that you deserved the blow? yes; certainly!"
"Wanda," cried Edward, an irrepressible smile breaking through his
assumed anger, "you are a witch, and a wicked witch, too. It is like
your race to be cruel and merciless, indifferent to the pain you
inflict, and--"
"No, no," retorted the girl, indignantly, "it is not true." She was
irradiated by her wrath.
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