The next morning at about nine o'clock Frank burst impetuously into Edgar's presence. They had not met for a good-night the evening before and they had taken breakfast separately. "Edgar, what is this I hear about Hermione Cavanagh? Is it true she lives alone in that house with her sister, and that they neither of them ever go out, not even for a half-hour's stroll in the streets?" Edgar, flushed at the other's excitement, turned and busied himself a moment with his books and papers before replying. "Frank, you have been among the gossips." "And what if I have! You would tell me nothing, and I knew there was a tragedy in her face; I saw it at the first glance." "Is it a tragedy, this not going out?" "It is the result of a tragedy; must be. They say nothing and nobody could draw from her beyond the boundary of that brick wall we rode by so carelessly. And she so young, so beautiful!" "Frank, you exaggerate," was all the answer he received. Frank bit his lip; the phrase he had used had been a trifle strong for the occasion. But in another moment he was ready to continue the conversation. "Perhaps I do speak of an experiment that has never been tried; but you know what I mean. She has received some shock which has terrified her and made her afraid of the streets, and no one can subdue this fear or induce her to step through her own gate. Is not that sad and interesting enough to move a man who recognizes her beauty?" "It is certainly very sad," quoth the other, "if it is quite true, which I doubt." "Go talk to your neighbors then; they have not been absent like yourself for a good long year." "I am not interested enough," the other began. "But you ought to be," interpolated Frank. "As a physician you ought to recognize the peculiarities of such a prejudice. Why, if I had such a case----" "But the case is not mine. I am not and never have been Miss Cavanagh's physician." "Well, well, her friend then." "Who told you I was her friend?" "I don't remember; I understood from some one that you used to visit her." "My neighbors, as you call them, have good memories." "_Did_ you use to visit her?" "Frank, Frank, subdue your curiosity. If I did, I do not now. The old gentleman is dead, and it was he upon whom I was accustomed to call when I went to their house." "The old gentleman?" "Miss Cavanagh's father." "And you called upon him?" "Sometimes." "Edgar, how short you are." "Frank, how impatient you are." "But I have reason." "How's that?" "I want to hear about her, and you mock me with the most evasive replies." Edgar turned towards his friend; the flush had departed from his features, but his manner certainly was not natural. Yet he did not look unkindly at the ardent young lawyer. On the contrary, there was a gleam of compassion in his eye, as he remarked, with more emphasis than he had before used: