Harry still maintained his attitude and his silence. A furious word from an angel would not have surprised or pained him more than this expression of her anger, that had flashed upon him like a fire from hell. Still the lady knelt, and pleaded for his forgiveness. "No one loves me, Harry. If you leave me, and do not forgive me, I shall wish I were dead. You cannot be so cruel." "I didn't know that ladies ever said such words," said Harry. "Ladies who have little boys to love them never do," responded Mrs. Dillingham. "If I love you, shall you ever speak so again?" inquired Harry. "Never, with you and God to help me," she responded. She rose to her feet, led the boy to her chair, and once more held him in her embrace. "You can do me a great deal of good, Harry--a great deal more good than you know, or can understand. Men and women make me worse. There is nobody who can protect me like a child that trusts me. You can trust me." Then they sat a long time in a silence broken only by Harry's sobs, for the excitement and the reaction had shaken his nerves as if he had suffered a terrible fright. "You have never told me your whole name, Harry," she said tenderly, with the design of leading him away from the subject of his grief. "Harry Benedict." He felt the thrill that ran through her frame, as if it had been a shock of electricity. The arms that held him trembled, and half relaxed their hold upon him. Her heart struggled, intermitted its beat, then throbbed against his reclining head as if it were a hammer. He raised himself, and looked up at her face. It was pale and ghastly; and her eyes were dimly looking far off, as if unconscious of anything near. "Are you ill?" There was no answer. "Are you ill?" with a voice of alarm. The blood mounted to her face again. "It was a bad turn," she said. "Don't mind it. I'm better now." "Isn't it better for me to sit in a chair?" he inquired, trying to rise. She tightened her grasp upon him. "No, no. I am better with you here. I wish you were never to leave me." Again they sat a long time in silence. Then she said: "Harry, can you write?" "Yes." "Well, there is a pencil on the table, and paper. Go and write your father's name. Then come and give me a kiss, and then go home. I shall see you again, perhaps to-night. I suppose I ought to apologize to Mrs. Balfour for keeping you so long." Harry did her bidding. She did not look at him, but turned her eyes to the window. There she saw Mr. Belcher, who had just been sent away from the door. He bowed, and she returned the bow, but the smile she summoned to her face by force of habit, failed quickly, for her heart had learned to despise him.