“Not a word. She got very pale, and seemed as though she would burst out a-crying. Heaven knows why! Indeed, I 'm not sure the tears were n't in her eyes, as she hurried away; and it was the only day I ever saw May Leslie cross.” “I never saw her so,” said Layton, half rebukefully. “Then you didn't see her on that day, that's certain! She snubbed Charley about his riding, and would n't suffer Mrs. Morris to show her something that had gone wrong in her embroidery; and when we went down to the large drawing-room to rehearse our tableau,--that scene you wrote for us,--she refused to take a part, and said, 'Get Clara; she 'll do it better!'” “And it was thus our little theatricals fell to the ground,” said Layton, musingly; “and I never so much as suspected all this!” “Well,” said the boy, with a hesitating manner, “I believe I ought not to have told you. I 'm sure she never intended I should; but somehow, after our tiff--” “And did _you_ quarrel with her?” asked Layton, eagerly. “Not quarrel, exactly; but it was what our old commander used to call a false-alarm fire; for I thought her unjust and unfair towards you, and always glad when she could lay something or other to your charge, and I said so to her frankly.” “And she?” “She answered me roundly enough. 'When you are a little older, young gentleman,' said she, 'you 'll begin to discover that our likings and dislikings are not always under our own control.' She tried to be very calm and cool as she said it, but she was as pale as if going to faint before she finished.” “She said truly,” muttered Layton to himself; “our impulses are but the shadows our vices or virtues throw before them.” Then laying his arm on the boy's shoulder, he led him away, to plan and plot out a future course of study, and repair all past negligence and idleness. Ere we leave this scene, let us follow Mrs. Morris, who, having quitted the house, quickly went in search of Charles Heathcote. There was that in the vexed and angry look of the young man, as he left the room, that showed her how easy it would be in such a moment to become his confidante. Through the traits of his resentment she could read an impatience that could soon become indiscretion. “Let me only be the repository of any secret of his mind,” muttered she,--“I care not what,- -and I ask nothing more. If there be one door of a house open,--be it the smallest,--it is enough to enter by.” She had not to go far in her search. There was a small raised terrace at the end of the garden,--a favorite spot with him,--and thither she had often herself repaired to enjoy the secret luxury of a cigar; for Mrs. Morris smoked whenever opportunity permitted that indulgence without the hazard of forfeiting the good opinion of such as might have held the practice in disfavor. Now, Charles Heathcote was the only confidant of this weakness, and the mystery, small as it was, had served to establish a sort of bond between them.