Monsieur Bagasse gave a sort of snort, still grinning and grimacing. The whole proceeding was quite in Fernando Witherlee’s style. A piece of boyish malice, perpetrated with mischievously subtle talent—with an expressiveness of manner which had injected the words and action with a wicked meaning not purely their own; afterwards foolishly tattled of, and defended with pig-headed perversity. “I am very sorry the thing happened,” resumed Witherlee, in a cool, sympathizing, soliloquizing tone, looking, meanwhile, at the wall with his opaquest gaze. “And I’m still more sorry to notice that Wentworth and Miss Ames are not so intimate as they were a short time ago. It really seems as if they were becoming estranged. It’s odd to see how attentive Wentworth is lately to Miss Eastman, though I’m sure he only cares for her as a friend. Then Miss Ames, on the other hand, is very agreeable to Harrington, which galls Wentworth, I know. ’Pon my word, I believe he is getting jealous of Harrington, and I shouldn’t wonder if those two fellows had a falling out presently. It’s dreadfully absurd of Wentworth, for I’m sure that if Harrington cares for either of them, it’s Miss Eastman.” The case was pretty much as Witherlee had stated it, but the explanation was, that he had been lifting his eyebrows and modulating his tones and dropping his intangible innuendoes to Miss Ames with regard to Wentworth, and the result was, that she had become filled with indeterminate suspicion and distrust of her lover, and had almost alienated him from her by her manner toward him. “Miss’r Witterly, you are ze friend of zose young men,” placidly observed Monsieur Bagasse. “See, now, suppose you tell Miss’r Wentwort’ zat he sall not be jalous of Miss’r Harrin’ton—zat Miss’r Harrin’ton haf not lof Mees Ame nevair. Zen you make zem fine young zhentilmen still good friend of ze ozzer. You say zat now to Miss’r Wentwort’.” “Dear me, no; that wouldn’t do at all,” was the reply. “It’s not my business, you know, and I might only make trouble. Better let them alone. It’ll all come right, I guess. Wentworth’s in no danger from our negro-worshipping friend, and I guess the best policy in this case, like the national policy in regard to Kossuth, will be non-intervention.” “Neeger-worship friend? Who is zat you mean?” inquired Monsieur Bagasse, with grotesque perplexity. Witherlee laughed his turtle-husky chuckle. “I was only joking,” he returned; “I meant Harrington. You know he’s a furious Abolitionist.”