A horrible thought comes into my head. Suppose--of _course_ it is impossible--but _suppose_ Mr. Carrington were to come in now, and in the course of conversation mention my photograph: what will not mother and Dora think? What is to prevent their drawing a conclusion about what happened yesterday? Although I do not in the least believe it _was_ my picture Mr. Carrington was seen embracing, still the very idea that it _might_ be, and that he might at any time speak of it turns me cold. Something must be done, and that quickly. Without further hesitation I rise from my seat, put down my work, and make for the door. No one attempts to detain me, and in an instant I am in the hall, face to face with our visitor. I lay my hand upon the front of his coat, and whisper hurriedly:--- "Do not say a word about my picture, not a _word_. Do you understand?" I have raised my face very close to his in my anxiety, and shake him slightly to emphasize my words. "I do;" replies he, placing his hand over mine as it lies almost unconsciously upon his breast. "Of course I will not. But--why---" "Nothing," I say; "at least only a fancy. Go now. I will tell you some other time." "Phyllis, will you meet me at the oak-tree to-morrow evening at five--at _four?_" he asks, eagerly, detaining me as I seek to escape; and I say, "Yes," with impatient haste, and, tearing my hand out of his, I turn my back upon him and gladly disappear. CHAPTER XI. "At last! How late you are! I thought you were _never_ coming," is Mr. Carrington's somewhat impatient greeting next evening, as he advances to meet me from under the old oak-tree. My cheeks are flushed with the rapidity of my walk; my breath rushes from me in short, quick, little gasps. "I was so busy, I could not come a moment sooner. I would not be here at all but that I promised, and was afraid you would think me out of my senses yesterday," I say, laughing and panting. "I certainly thought you rather tragical, and have been puzzling my brain ever since to discover the cause. Now, tell it to me." "If I do you will think me horribly conceited." I hesitate and blush uneasily. For the first time it occurs to me that I have a very uncomfortable story to relate. "I will not," says Mr. Carrington, amiably. "Well then, the fact is, down at the trout-river, the day before yesterday, somebody saw you kissing a picture in a locket, and I feared if you mentioned having _my_ portrait they might--they take up such ridiculous fancies at home--they _might_ think it was _mine_." "Is it possible they would imagine anything so unlikely?" "Of _course_"--with eager haste--"_I_ know it was not, but they might choose to think differently; and, besides, something has whispered to me two or three times since that perhaps I was wrong in giving my photograph to you at all. Was I?" wistfully. "That is a hard question to ask _me_, Phyllis, who am so happy in the possession of it. I certainly do not think you were."