She had a work-basket on the little spider-legged table by her side and a mass of embroidery on her lap, but the needle had fallen from her hold, her hands lay idly upon her knee, and she was looking out over the bright waters with a dreamy, wistful gaze, which had become habitual with her whenever the necessity for self-restraint was removed and she was free to suffer, unobserved. Tom entered the room in his usual haste, and found her sitting in this dreamy attitude; she started at the sound of his tread, and with the caution she was daily acquiring changed her listless position, and threw the mask of a smile over her face, which it was so dangerous to lift even for an instant. "Here I am," cried Tom; "back again, like a bad penny. I hope you are not beginning to hate the sight of my ugly face." He rushed towards her, upset the spider-legged table that was always ready to topple over on the least provocation, made a hopeless labyrinth of her embroidery silks, gave her a kiss of greeting, and hurried on with numberless questions, just as if he were in the greatest possible haste, and it was a necessity of life and death that he should throw off everything that happened to be on his mind before he dashed away. "And you are not tired of seeing me, Bessie, you are sure of that?" he repeated. "You are a silly fellow to ask such questions," she replied; "you know how glad I am to have you come." "You're a darling old girl," cried Tom, "and there's no more to be said about it." "Then, if you have finished, please pick up my unfortunate table. See what a state these poor silks are in." "I'm always in mischief," said Tom, contritely, restoring the table to its equilibrium with great difficulty; "I'm more out of place in a lady's parlor than an owl in a canary bird's cage." "Your mistakes are better than other men's elegancies," said Elizabeth, heartily. It rested her to be in Tom's society; with him she was not forced constantly to play a part, and he had been a great resource to her ever since his return. Many times she said to herself: "He would love me, whatever came--I can always depend on him." She was thinking something of the kind, just then, while she began assorting her silks; and Tom stood meekly by, longing to repair the mischief he had occasioned, but perfectly certain that he should only do a good deal more harm if he attempted it. Besides that, something else was in his mind--there always was before he had been five minutes in the house if Elsie did not make her appearance. He shuffled about, answered Elizabeth's questions haltingly, and at last burst out: "Where is the little fairy--has she gone out, too?" "Elsie, do you mean?" "Who else, of course? Where is she?" "Up in her room, I fancy," replied Elizabeth. "I don't see how you can bear her out of your sight for an instant," cried Tom; "I'm sure I couldn't if I lived in the house with her." "Nonsense, Tom!" "There is no nonsense about it; it's just the truth."