“There, I thought so,” answered Mrs. Lansing, who the reader will remember had, at my first introduction, taken me to be twenty-five. “I thought she must be more than eighteen, didn’t you, Richard?” “_Eighteen!_” repeated Ada. “It isn’t possible she calls herself eighteen. She dare not do it in my presence. Why, she had been a teacher, I don’t know how long, and, besides that, ’twas said that she had once been engaged to a Dr. Clayton, who, for some reason, jilted her, and was then a married man as much as thirty years old. _Eighteen_, indeed. I’d like to hear her say so.” I was confounded, but supposing she had mistaken me for Anna, my first impulse was to go out and tell her so, but fearing lest she should think I had intentionally listened, my second thought was to go away where I could hear nothing further, and then, when Mrs. Lansing questioned me, as I felt sure she would, I fancied it would be an easy matter to exonerate myself from the falsehood Ada had put upon me. I had reached the hall, and was half-way up the stairs, when Mr. Delafield, who had arisen and was walking back and forth on the piazza, espied me, and called me back. There was a troubled look on his face, and fixing his piercing black eyes upon me as if he would read my inmost thoughts, he said with something of bitterness in the tones of his voice, “I _did_ think I had found _one_ female who, on all occasions, spoke the truth; but if what Ada has said is true, I am mistaken; though why _you_ (and his hand involuntarily clutched my arm) or any other woman should stoop to a falsehood, or seek to deny her age, be she a hundred or less, is a secret which Heaven knows, perhaps, but I do not.” I felt my face flush with indignation, and turning towards Ada, who, not having expected a scene like this, was very pale, I said, “It is not necessary, Miss Montrose, for you to repeat what you have asserted concerning me, for I accidentally overheard it, and I thank Mr. Delafield for giving me an opportunity to exonerate myself from the charge you are pleased to bring against me.” “Been listening,” muttered Mrs. Lansing. “Silence, Angeline. Go on, Rose,” interrupted Mr. Delafield, in a voice which we both obeyed, she resuming her needlework, while I continued, “I had taken my seat by the open window ere you and Miss Montrose came out here, and not thinking it necessary to leave, I remained, without, however, hearing a word of your conversation until I caught the sound of my name. Then, indeed, my senses were sharpened, and I heard Miss Montrose’s statement, which I am sure she would never have made were she not laboring under a mistake.”