"No, no; do not speak, do not move; call no one; I shall be well in a moment. I was trying my strength." "It was wrong of you," she said, in a tone of sweetest chiding. "Strength! You have none. Why, _I_ could vanquish you!" "You have done so, Lauretta." She gazed at me in innocent surprise, and I equivocated by asking, "You are not angry at my calling you Lauretta?" "No, indeed," she replied; "I should feel strange if you called me by any other name. Lean on me, and I will guide you to your chair. You will not hurt me; I am stronger than you think." Her touch, her voice with its note of exquisite sympathy, made me faint with happiness, I sank into the chair, and still retained her hand, which she did not withdraw from me. "Do you feel better?" "Much better, Lauretta, thanks to your sweet help. Remain with me a little while." "Yes, I will. It was fortunate my father sent me to you, or you might have fallen to the ground with your rash experiment." "Your father sent you to me, Lauretta?" "Yes." This proof of confidence, after what had passed between us, did wonders for me. A weight was lifted from my heart, a cloud from my eyes. I would prove myself worthy of his confidence. "The colour has come back to your face," said Lauretta. "You are better." "I am almost quite well, Lauretta. I have been so great a burden to you and your good parents that I thought it was time to give up my idle ways and show I was capable of waiting upon myself." "It was very, very wrong of you," she repeated. "And as wrong to say you are a burden to us. It is almost as if you believed we thought you were. I must tell my dear mother to scold you." "No, do not tell her, Lauretta; it might pain her. I did not mean what I said. Let it be a secret between us." "A secret!" she exclaimed, raising her eyes to my face. "I never had one; but there is no harm in this." "You have no secrets, Lauretta?" "Not one," she replied, with guileless frankness; "and I will promise that my mother shall not chide you if you will promise not to try to force yourself into strength. The wisest and cleverest man cannot do that. But perhaps you are weary of us, and wish to run away?" "I should be content to remain here for ever, Lauretta." "Well, then," she said gaily, "be patient for a few days, and, as my dear father would say, do not be inconsistent." She uttered the last four words in playful imitation of her father's voice, and I was enchanted with this revealment of innocent lightness in her nature. "But I am losing sight of his admonition." "He bade you do something?" "Yes; he said you might like me to read or play for you. Which shall I do?" "Neither, Lauretta." "Can I do nothing?" "Yes; talk to me, Lauretta." I was never tired of uttering her name. It was the sweetest word in all the languages. "Well, then," she said, clasping her hands in her lap, she had gently withdrawn the hand I held, "what shall I talk about?"