At first Fanny objected. "I know," said she, "that Mr. Miller would only think me a weak, silly girl." Mrs. Miller, however, finally gained permission to tell everything to her husband. "I know, though," persisted Fanny, "that he will laugh at me. You say he likes me; I know he did once; but since the time when he visited my father’s, more than a year ago, he has not treated me with the same confidence he did before. I never knew the reason, unless it was that foolish, romping mistake which I made one afternoon by riding into the schoolhouse!" With many tears and some laughing—for the remembrance of the exploit always excited her mirth—Fanny told a part of what we already know concerning Mr. Miller’s visit at her father’s the winter previous. She related the adventure of the sled ride, and said that the morning after she noticed a change in Mr. Miller’s manner toward her. The unsuspecting girl little thought what was the true reason of that change. While she was yet speaking, Mr. Miller entered the room. On seeing Fanny there, and weeping, he said: "What, Sunshine in tears? That is hardly the remedy I would prescribe for headache. But come, Fanny, tell me what is the matter." "Oh, I cannot, I cannot!" said Fanny, and again she buried her face in Kate’s lap. Mr. Miller looked inquiringly at his wife, who had not yet ceased laughing at Fanny’s ludicrous description of her sled ride; but overcoming her merriment, she at length found voice to say, "Fanny is crying because she thinks you do not like her as well as you used to." Kate had never dreamed that her husband had once felt more than a brother’s love for the weeping girl before her, and she did not know what pain her words inflicted on his noble heart. Neither did she think there was the least ground for Fanny’s supposition, and she desired her husband to say so. "I cannot say so and tell the truth," said Mr. Miller, "but I can assure you that Bill Jeffrey’s sled had nothing to do with it." "What was it then?" asked Kate and Fanny, both in the same breath. Mr. Miller drew Fanny toward him with the freedom of an elder brother, and, in a low, earnest tone, said: "Did nothing else occur during my visit, which could have changed my opinion of you?" Fanny lifted her large blue eyes to Mr. Miller’s face with so truthful, wondering a gaze that he was puzzled. "Can it be," thought he, "that I did not hear aright, that I was deceived? I will, at least, ask her how she spent that evening," so he said: "Fanny, do you remember where you were, or how you were occupied during the last evening of my stay at your father’s?" At first Fanny seemed trying to recall the events of that night; then she said: "Oh, yes, I remember now perfectly well. You and Mr. Wilmot had letters to write, and went to your room early, while father and mother went to one of the neighbors, leaving Julia and me alone in the sitting room." "Did you both remain in the sitting room during the evening?" continued Mr. Miller.