I think he was quite disgusted; for with a slight gesture of impatience he changed his manner and in a very businesslike way began to reason the case with me, urging a great many reasons why I should not leave; the most potent one with me, being the fact that _he_ wanted me to stay—“he would miss me very much,” he said, “for he liked my society—it was a pleasure to talk with me, for he was sure I meant what I said; I was natural—truthful—so different from most of the young ladies (of course he excepted Ada), and then, too, it seemed as if he had known me always, or at least, had met me before, for my voice was familiar.” I could not tell him of our meeting in Boston, but I saw no harm in reminding him of the night, when for a few hours I was his travelling-companion, and so to his last remark, I answered, “We have met before, in the cars between Utica and Albany.” In some surprise he looked earnestly at me a moment, and then said, “Is it possible? Why have you never mentioned it before?” “Because, sir,” I replied, “I did not suppose you would remember me.” He appeared thoughtful for a time, and then again, looking closely at me, said, “I did not, I believe, get a glimpse of your features then, and still it seems as if I had seen them before—or something like them. At all events, I sometimes dream of a childish face, which must resemble you as you were a few years ago.” Once I half determined to remind him of the little girl who fainted at the theatre; but ere I did so, he continued, “When I met you in the cars, if I mistake not, you spoke of Miss Montrose. Did you ever see her? but of course not,” he added, ere I had time to reply. I cannot tell why I shrank from acknowledging my slight acquaintance with Ada, but I did, and for a moment I said nothing; then thinking it would be wrong to give him a false impression, I said, “I can hardly say that I am acquainted with Miss Montrose; but I have met her several times at my uncle’s in Boston, where I spent the winter, four years ago.” Again he bent forward as if to scan my face, while he replied, “Indeed! Were you in Boston then? It is strange Ada never spoke of you, or you of her before. Was there a misunderstanding between you?” “Oh, no,” I answered quickly; “she was a fashionable young lady, and I a mere school-girl; so, of course, we knew but little of each other.” “What was your uncle’s name?” he inquired; and I answered “Lee,” noticing the while, how the shadow which had settled upon his face at the mention of Boston, passed gradually away. For a moment he was silent, and then rather abruptly, he asked, “Did you like her?” I remembered the time when Dr. Clayton had asked me a similar question concerning Dell Thompson, and now, as then, I answered evasively, that “I hardly knew her—she was very beautiful and accomplished.” Here he interrupted me by saying, “I did not ask if you thought her _beautiful_. I asked if you liked her.”