"This was, you know--no, you don't know--but it was the year I came out in society. And I used to go to receptions and all sorts of things with papa, and receive his company, and sit at the head of the table, and keep house, just as my mother would have done if she'd been living. I hardly remember mamma: I was not four years old when she died. And society and people's admiration seemed so glorious! I declared I'd never marry, but go on to the end of my days saying 'No' to any man that asked me, and enjoying such a lot of pity for the poor fellows. I deliberately hardened my heart, as many a girl does at that age, and fairly pitied--yes, actually pitied--the girls that were so weak as to fall in love and get married. I think papa used to encourage me in the feeling, for he didn't like to think of losing me out of the house, and he a judge and a Congressman, and having ever so much company, and nobody but dear old-fashioned Aunt Jane to help him receive them if I was to leave him. "When father was re-elected to Congress we had a glorious reception at our house in the country, and among others that came to it was a Mr. Sterling, the son of my father's college chum, and a promising young sprig of the law, father said. He came to stay a day or two in the house as a visitor before the reception, and was to leave the morning after it took place." At this point in the narrative Mr. Arthur bethought him of a letter he must write, and begged to be excused for a time--a piece of rare good sense on his part, considering how much the story had to do with himself. "During his stay we had been a good deal together. I had been his guide to all the famous spots in the neighborhood, and he had been chatty and bright, and amused me greatly. We had a little chat in the conservatory that evening of the reception, and I told him I was sorry to have him leave. "'Thank you,' he said. 'I would rather hear you say that than anything you could have said, except one.' "'What is that, pray?' I asked. "'That you would like to see me here again.' "'Oh,' I replied, 'I never give invitations: papa does that. Of course he'll be glad to see you again.' "'And you?' "'Why, since you insist upon my saying it, I shall be glad too: you amuse me greatly.' "'So might a tight-rope performer or a performing dog, I suppose?' "'No: I don't care for such amusements. I like to hear the talk of bright men, and you strike me as a very bright man.' "'It is only the reflection of yourself, Miss Bronson,' he said in a cold society tone, which, strange to say, pained me, and I replied that I didn't care for compliments: I had plenty of them, and they palled on me. "Then he said, 'Do you want me to tell you the truth, the out-and-out truth--the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God?' "'That's an oath, Mr. Sterling,' I said: 'don't commit yourself.'