Mr. Dalton had not treated him with his usual politeness this summer, and he was not sure but that he had done this purposely, in order to remove Editha from his society, and, if that was the case, he doubted the propriety of going after them. These reflections were interrupted by the entrance of a servant, who brought him a card. It proved to be that of Madam Sylvester, and he immediately went down to the reception-room, taking with him the note Editha had written. “Why that brow of gloom, my friend? You look as if you had met with some sudden and great disappointment,” madam said, playfully, after they had exchanged greetings. “And so I have. I have just learned that Miss Dalton and her father have gone to Saratoga; and the suddenness of the movement disturbs and perplexes me exceedingly.” “Gone! Now _I_ am dismayed, for I had come to call and be introduced to Papa Dalton, and ask him to spare his charming daughter to me for a few days. We are going to join a party to the White Mountains, and I thought if I could tempt Miss Dalton to accompany us, the change would do her good,” madam said, with regret. “It would have been beneficial to her, and it was very thoughtful in you to remember her,” replied Mr. Tressalia, much pleased at this attention. “Do not give me any credit for what is pure selfishness on my part,” madam said, laughing. “I am over head and ears in love, as they say here, with your lovely little friend, and I wanted her under the shadow of my own wing for awhile to get better acquainted with her;” and the lady’s face was very wistful, notwithstanding her playful speech. “I cannot understand their sudden flight—for such it seems to me,” returned Mr. Tressalia, moodily. “Then you did not know anything of their intention?” “Not a breath, until about half an hour ago, when I knocked at Miss Dalton’s door, and the chambermaid gave me this note;” and he handed it to her. “What a pretty hand she writes,” said madam, smiling, as she noted the delicate chirography upon the perfumed envelope. She read it through, growing grave as she marked the regret the note expressed at being obliged to go away. Her eyes lighted with tenderness at the mention of herself, but she started as if in sudden pain, her fair face flushing a vivid crimson, as she read and involuntarily repeated the name signed at the bottom. “Editha! Mr. Tressalia, you never told me what your friend’s name is,” and he thought her lips quivered slightly, as if at the remembrance of some sad incident of the past. “No; I usually call her Miss Dalton when speaking of her to others. It is the dearest name in the world to me,” he added, with a slight huskiness in his voice, “though I never utter it without pain.” “_Et tu_,” madam said, softly, noting the pain in his face, and knew all about it at once. “I thought you said——” she began again, and then suddenly stopped, as if she were trespassing upon forbidden ground.