It is a week since my adventure in the wood--five days since Mr. Carrington's last visit. On that occasion having failed to obtain one minute with him alone, the handkerchief still remains in my possession, and proves a very skeleton in my closet, the initials M. J. C.--that stand for Marmaduke John Carrington, as all the world knows--staring out boldly from their corner, and threatening at any moment to betray me: so that, through fear and dread of discovery, I carry it about with me, and sleep with it beneath my pillow. Looking back upon it all now, I wonder how I could have been so foolish, so wanting in invention. I feel with what ease I could now dispose of anything tangible and obnoxious. There is a slight chill in the air, in spite of the pleasant sun; and I half make up my mind to go for a brisk walk, instead of sauntering idly, as I am at present doing, when somebody calls to me from the adjoining field. It is Mr. Carrington. He climbs the wall that separates us, and drops into my territory, a little scrambling Irish terrier at his heels. "Is this a favorite retreat of yours?" he asks, as our hands meet. "Sometimes. Oh, Mr. Carrington, I am so glad to see you to-day." "Are you, really? That is better news than I hoped to hear when I left home this morning." "Because I want to return you your handkerchief. I have had it so long, and am so anxious to get rid of it. It--it would probably look nicer," I say, with hesitation, slowly withdrawing the article in question from my pocket, "if anybody else had washed it; but I did not want any one to find out about--_that day_: so I had to do it myself." Lingering, cautiously, I bring it to light and hold it out to him. Oh, how dreadfully pink and uncleanly it appears in the broad light of the open air! To _me_ it seems doubly hideous--the very last thing a fastidious gentleman would dream of putting to his nose. Mr. Carrington accepts it almost tenderly. There is not the shadow of a smile upon his face. It would be impossible for me to say _how_ grateful I feel to him for this. "Is it possible you took all that trouble," he says, a certain gentle light, with which I am growing familiar, coming into his eyes as they rest upon my anxious face. "My dear child, why? Did you not understand I was only jesting when I expressed a desire to have it again? Why did you not put it in the fire, or rid yourself of it in some other fashion long ago? So"--after a pause--"you _really_ washed it with your own hands for me?" "One might guess that by looking at it," I answer, with a rather awkward laugh: "still, I think it would not look _quite_ so badly, but that I kept it in my pocket ever since, and that gives it its crumpled appearance." "Ever since? so near to you for five long days? What a weight it must have been on your tender conscience! Well, at all events no_ other_ washerwoman"--with a smile--"shall ever touch it. I promise you that." He places it carefully in an inside pocket as he speaks.