“Yes, really, I _am_ ashamed!” said Fanny, hastily. “It is abominable conduct, I know. But you see I am shallow--shallow as that”--indicating about a quarter the depth of her little finger--“and I can’t help it if one nail drives out another in my mind. I wonder if it is my mind or my heart, by the by? Well, anyway, in _me_. It is not my fault that I am shallow; and, on the whole, I think I rather like it. One has a much easier life. Isn’t it a great deal wiser for me to make the best of things as they are, for instance, than to be distracted about Lennox Kyrle, who I really like better than anybody else in the world, if I let myself think of him?” “I--I don’t know,” said Aimée, who found this question too deep for her solving. “You must decide, of course.” “I _have_ decided,” said Fanny. “Things are best as they are. But now we must have done with talking and proceed to action. In the first place, I will tell you exactly what you must say to Mr. Kyrle when you meet him.” “Yes,” answered Aimée, beginning to shiver at that anticipation. “You are to say,” went on Fanny, “that I feel it is impossible for me to take such a desperate step as to elope with him; that it would break mamma’s heart; and--and that it would ruin his life, for I should only tie him down to hopeless poverty. Say that I am sorry, and blame myself dreadfully, that my feelings will not permit me to see him, and that--be sure to make this point emphatic!--he must not dream of attempting to see me. My resolution can not be changed. I am sure I can trust you to put it all as well as possible, Aimée--you have a great deal of tact and judgment.” “But why not write it?” demanded Aimée, whose dismay was not soothed by this compliment. “My dear child, could he read a letter in the dark?” asked the other, impatiently. “Besides, I _never_ write; I have learned too much of the mischief that lurks in ink. Tell him all this as quickly as you can--and be sure to make it very positive about his not trying to see me--and then run back to the house as fast as possible. How lucky it is that we live so near the water, else I could not let you go!” It is safe to say that, in this view of the case, such lucky proximity was something for which Aimée did not feel very grateful as she rose to prepare for the expedition. Her courage was sadly failing, not so much on account of the lonely walk through the midnight streets, as from the realization of the strange and awkward position in which she would be placed. She was trembling like a leaf from nervousness and excitement as Miss Berrien enveloped her in a large, dark cloak, and drew the hood over her head. “Now,” said Fanny, glancing at her watch, “it is time for you to go. I hate--oh, I hate dreadfully to send you! If there were any other way--” “But there is none,” said Aimée, trying to smile. “And I am not afraid.”