The time passed pleasantly away, despite the gloomy surroundings, until Marian was called to account by Dame Propriety, who administered so sharp a reprimand that the color came to her cheeks, and she grew suddenly demure and silent. She conversing with a stranger! What would her father think? And what did the stranger himself think? Who would have believed that she could have been guilty of making advances, of drawing the attention of anybody, much less one of whom she knew utterly nothing? She had heard of others doing such things, and she had judged them severely. It was too humiliating! Her transparent face reflected her inner self like a mirror, so, when she became suddenly silent and wore a troubled look, Mr. Lynde divined the cause and reverenced her for it. He had a strong impression that he ought to go back to his own seat, and leave this sensitive plant to itself, but it was dreary work to sit alone and think over one's misfortunes, and her society was so charming; so he lingered, taking the burden of talk upon himself, and managing so adroitly as to necessitate few replies; and Marian listened, taking very little part in the conversation, as she supposed. She forgot, though, that eyes and mouth can talk when tongues are still, and it would have been an obtuse person, indeed, who would not have felt flattered with the responses he received from the eloquent face of his listener, as the eyes lighted with a smile or grew dark with shadows of thought. When he went away at last he asked her to take pity on him, and lend him a book, as he had exhausted his library. "And this is the extent of mine," Marian said, producing her little books, "my Christmas present from a dear old auntie," and she gave them into his hands, and received his volume of essays. It had been such a pleasant diversion from the wearisome monotony, this new acquaintance, with his varied knowledge, his fascinating conversation and graceful courtesy, and yet Marian felt ill at ease and disturbed by what she had done. He would never have noticed her, she told herself, if she had not invited his attentions. But how could she do otherwise? It was a mere act of humanity. She did not compel him to talk with her all the afternoon, though it was too true that she felt acquainted with him at once and talked on as if he had been an old friend, and that encouraged him. Perhaps he was the greatest villain in the world; but even as the thought flashed through her mind, it was indignantly repelled. He was good and noble; she was sure of it, and she set herself to work to see what proof she possessed on that point. His conversation was refined; he liked good books; he was kind to an old lady, and he had remarked that his chief regret at the detention was that his mother would be wretchedly anxious at his nonappearance in his home. A bad man would not care for his mother, nor concern himself as to the comfort of old ladies.