“Dost thou think I have reason to like him?” I said. “I did like him once, but now I do not; nor does he love me any better. Why dost thou ask me?” “Oh, for--no matter! I am not going to say why.” “I think thou knowest, Darthea, that he is no friend of mine.” “Let us join your aunt,” she said gravely. “One word more,” said I, “and I shall trouble thee no further. Best sure that, come what may, there is one man who loves thee with a love no man can better.” “I wish you had not said that. There are some, Mr. Wynne, who never know when to take No for an answer.” “I am one,” said I. To this she made no reply, and rode on looking ahead in a dreamy way that fetched back to my memory a prettiness my dear mother had. Presently turning, she said: “Let it end here; and--and my name is Miss Peniston, please.” There was no pettishness in her voice--only a certain dignity which sits better on little women than on little men, and provokes no smile. She was looking at me with a curious steadiness of gaze as she spoke. It was my last chance for many a day, and I could not let her go with a mere bow of meek submission. “If I have been rude or discourteous, I am more sorry than I can say. If I called thee Darthea, it was because hope seemed to bring us nearer for one dear moment. Ah! I may call thee Miss Peniston, but for me always thou wilt be Darthea; and I shall love Darthea to the end, even when Miss Peniston has come to be a distant dream and has another name. I am most sorry to have given thee annoyance. Forget that, and pardon me.” “Mr. Wynne, you are a kindly and courteous gentleman. I wish--and you must not misapprehend me--that I loved you. Oh, I do not. Your aunt, who is so good to me, is a fierce wooer. I am afraid of her, and--she must be miles away; let us join her.” And with this she shook her bridle, and was off at speed, and my mare and I at her side. If I have made those who loved Darthea Peniston and me understand this winning soul, I shall be glad; and if not I shall at least have had the pleasure of repeating words and describing actions which live in my remembrance with such exactness as does not apply to much of what, to the outer world, may seem far better entitled to be remembered. She had it in her to hurt you, help you, pity you, mock or amuse you, and back of it all was the honesty and truth of a womanhood capable of courageous conduct, and despising all forms of meanness. That she was variously regarded was natural. Margaret Shippen said she cared only for dress and the men; and the witty Miss Franks, seeing further, but not all, said that Darthea Peniston was an actress of the minute, who believed her every role to be real. My wise aunt declared that she was several women, and that she did not always keep some of them in order. It was clear, to me at least, that she was growing older in mind, and was beginning to keep stricter school for those other women with whom my aunt credited this perplexing little lady.