“Bell-Bell,” she whispered with large eyes and feverish lips, “ought I to see him—to the door? Just one instant, perhaps? I did not thank him, I was unkind to him. In the carriage I thought I hated him. He ought to have known better. He is of the world and knows. I did not. At the ball he said—he called me his—he—” She whispered something in her very ear as if to keep the horrid knowledge from her own soul. Bell-Bell nodded gravely. “And I let him!” The happy young wife pushed her toward the door. “Yes—yes, dear, I know. We cannot help some things.” “But—I wished him.” “Is it possible?” “Bell-Bell, I tempted him! I made my lips so—so! I think I pulled him down!” “Good heavens! What wickedness!” “Yes! Now—does thee think I had better let him say good-by—forever and ever?” “Yes,” said Bell-Bell, with judicial airs, “if you are sure it _is_ forever and ever. Fear not. I will wait right here—inside the door. And if I hear a sound, I’ll be on him like a lion. But only a minute for the brute. Mind!” She turned and bit her lips to keep them in order. “Yes—oh, yes! I will be sure to be only a minute. And thee shall stand—I have quite forgotten thee all the evening—such is the result of wickedness—thee shall stand right here—inside and—just here—and listen to every word I say—and thee shall call me when the minute is up—unless—I come—before—” “Yes, yes. Hurry!” She went out swiftly, calling: “John—is thee gone? Wait—wait—one minute!” Bell-Bell went to bed. VIII THE LENGTH OF A MINUTE Well, there, in the vestibule, the tendrils were still on her face, and her eyes were greater and her voice softer than before; and, somehow, without her will her hands went out to him, and without his will his arm disposed itself as it had done for dancing. “Hush!” she whispered, putting her hand on his mouth to shut out the very words she hungered for, “we have only a minute, and I wished to thank thee and to be forgiven by thee—and—and—to forgive thee—and to never, never meet again—as we agreed—so—so—oh, it was wrong—wrong! But I am so wicked that I am not sorry. No, nor ever shall be! But thee will never tell—and—and when thee is married—everybody has little secrets from his wife—or—husband—my mother has—why, do not tell thy—_wife_—” But that word was too much for either of them to endure. He kissed her so savagely that she lay quiet in his arms. “Bell-Bell,” murmured the happy and dishevelled Quaker lady to the sleepy lady of the house of Jarn, “I’m sorry. Forgive me. It was more than a minute—wasn’t it?” “I think it was an hour,” snapped Bell-Bell, with pretended savagery. “Bib—but thee did not call,” half sobbed the happy one, “and—and I—forgot!” “God bless you both!” shouted the little wife, and in a moment had the dishevelled head with the damp tendrils of hair on her breast. “I am almost as happy as you.” “Why?” questioned the Quaker lady. “Why—didn’t he ask you to marry him?”