“I understand, Miss Vanley,” said Mr. Faradeane, with perfect gravity; and, linking his arm in Bertie’s, he raised his hat and walked away. For some few moments the two men did not speak; then Faradeane said: “You are thinking that I am a weak-minded kind of idiot, eh, Cherub?” Bertie gave a little start. “I----No, I wasn’t thinking about you, old fellow,” he replied. “I was thinking of Olivia. How beautiful she looked this morning!” “Yes,” assented Faradeane, succinctly. “I think her lovelier and sweeter every time I see her,” continued Bertie, with a sigh. Then he pulled himself together. “But I say, fancy finding her and you chatting together like old friends!” “Yes, and after my solemn declaration the other day that nothing should induce me to know her or any one else,” retorted Faradeane. “But men propose and the gods dispose. Only this morning I refused to see her father, and now----” “I’m glad, awfully glad,” said Bertie, eagerly. “I can’t tell you how delighted I was to see you with her. And I tell you what, old fellow: you may consider yourself highly honored. It isn’t every one Miss Olivia is free and--and pleasant with at starting. As a rule, people think her stiff and--and--cold, don’t you know, till they know more of her.” Faradeane nodded, with his dark eyes bent on the ground. “Yes, she could be stiff and reserved,” he said, more to himself than to Bertie. “Rather! They all call her proud, and so she is, in a right way. God bless her! She is everything that is right to me. And you have promised to spout for them, old fellow! I’m awfully glad of that, too.” “Yes,” said Faradeane, grimly. “The man who falls into the river may just as well take a bath; he couldn’t be wetter. So go all my resolutions to the winds!” he added, with a kind of desperation. “But mind, Bertie, our compact remains in full force. I am still the Harold Faradeane whose acquaintance you made the other day for the first time! Remember, you do not know, cannot guess, how much depends on your caution.” “I know. I’m awfully sorry I made that slip,” said Bertie, penitently. “But it is so hard to talk as if you and I were strangers until the other day.” “Hard as it is, you will have to do it, Cherub,” responded Faradeane, gravely. “And I--I cannot help you--you will tell me nothing?” said Bertie, gently. “You cannot help me; and I can tell you nothing,” replied Faradeane. As he spoke they reached the gate of The Dell, and saw a woman coming down the path from the cottage. She held something closely wrapped in her thin shawl, from which proceeded the unmistakable wail of a sick child. Faradeane smiled grimly. “The first time the gate has been unlocked, and the great disturber of man’s peace finds entrance instantly,” he said. “Why, it’s the gypsy who told our fortunes yesterday at the picnic, you know,” said Bertie. The anxious, black eyes flashed from face to face, and she dropped a curtsey.