promising myself that nobody would buy the house, and that I could still have it to myself for a part of the year, and could still think of it as our own, and was quiet and almost contented, when the woman came running after me this afternoon and told me some one had come to look at it, and I was almost as unhappy as at first. I have been crying down on the bank there by myself all the afternoon. So you must excuse me for being so upset. I have gone through so much for the last year, being ill and all--a little thing unnerves me.'" For Missy was beginning to feel a little frightened at her own emotion, and at the silence of her companion. "It wasn't a little thing," he said at last, "seeing me and knowing what had brought me back. I don't think you need be ashamed to be showing agitation. For you ought never to have let me go away, Miss Rothermel, don't you see it now? My being here might have saved you, I don't say everything, but a great deal. I cannot understand why you sent me away. For I thought then, and I think now, that you relied on me in a certain way--that you had a certain feeling for me. I should think you would not have repulsed me." "Those horrid women," said Missy faintly, turning very red. "I am sure I am very sorry about them. I couldn't help it. I was stupid, I suppose." "I hope they didn't come back with you?" said Missy, with sudden uneasiness. "O no, they are safe in Florence." "And you haven't married them?" she asked, with a look of relief. It made her jealous even to think of their existence. Mr. Andrews looked at her as if he were beginning to understand her, and, half amused and half sad, he said: "No, neither one nor both. And there is no danger and never was of my wanting to, because for a year and a half, and may be more, I have wanted very much to marry some one else." "Oh, that reminds me," said Missy, turning rather pale, as if what she was about to say cost her an effort. "That reminds me of something I ought to say to you. I heard, last spring, of a thing about you that I didn't know before. If I had known it I should have felt very differently about--about you generally--Oh!--why _do_ you make it so hard to say things to you--I _won't_ say it." For Mr. Andrews was quietly, attentively, and perhaps, critically, listening. He certainly did make it hard to say things. He naturally showed so little emotion, and said such tremendous things himself, in such a calm way, Missy found it very difficult to believe them, and very hard to make statements of an agitating nature to him. "I don't know why you won't say it," he said. "Do you think you shall be sorry?"