James was watching Carry's face, and saw a sudden rush of colour come up into it at the name. To tell the truth, Carry had thought a good deal of Frank Maynard since that solitary visit of his. His having saved her father's life had endowed him in her eyes with all the qualities of a hero of romance. She had thought over that interview very many times, and never without blushing at the thoughts of the kiss she had given him. He had said he would come again, and very eagerly had she looked forward to his next visit, but as days and weeks had passed on without his coming, she felt both very resentful and hurt. Did he think her so forward that he would not come again? Or did he not think them worth another visit? Her only consolation had been that perhaps he was out of town all this time. And now this hope was dispelled, and Carry blushed even deeper than before with pique and wounded pride. “Is it the Mr. Maynard who lives in the Temple?” she asked, clinging to a last hope. “Yes, Miss Carry. Do you know him?” “A little,” Carry said, coldly; “he picked my father up one evening last winter when he had slipped down in Knightsbridge.” The cripple lad noticed all this—the first sudden blush at his name, then the coldness of manner and the slighting way in which she spoke of a service which, he remembered well, she had described in such enthusiastic terms not long before. What could this mean? Carry afterwards was rather ashamed of her little fit of petulance, and listened with great interest to the account of Bessy Holl's hopes and plans for the future. Then, after a few words to James, she took her leave. Very often afterwards James pondered the matter over in his mind, while his fingers almost mechanically worked at his wax flowers. “Why should Carry have blushed so deeply upon hearing Mr. Maynard's name suddenly mentioned, and why should she have spoken so coldly of him when she had formerly been so enthusiastic in his praises as the preserver of her father's life?” All this was utterly beyond James's comprehension. His knowledge of the world was completely confined to what he had learned from books, and he owned with a sigh that his books were of no assistance whatever to him in the present case. All that, after great thought, he arrived at satisfactorily, or rather unsatisfactorily, to himself was, that there was some mystery or other, although of what nature he could not even guess, between Carry Walker and Mr. Maynard.