"Maurice is dead. He went to Florida,--took the fever,--which killed him, of course. He died only a week after--after Laura. Poor fellow! did he interest you much? I believe he was in love with you, too; but musical people are never desperate, except when they play a false note." "Yes," I answered; "I was fond of him. His conceit did not trouble me, and he never fatigued me; he had nothing to conceal. He was a commonplace man; one liked him, when with him,--and when away, one had no thought about him." "I alone am left you," said my visitor, putting his hat on a chair, and slowly pulling off his gloves, finger by finger. He had slender, white hands, like a woman's, and they were always in motion. After he had thrown his gloves into his hat, he put his finger against his cheek, leaned his elbow on the arm of his chair, crossed his legs, and looked at me with a cunning self-possession. I glanced at his feet; they were small and well-booted. I looked into his face; it was not a handsome one; but he had magnetic eyes, of a lightish blue, and a clever, loose mouth. It is impossible to describe him,--just as impossible as it is for a man who was born a boor to attain the bearing of a gentleman; any attempt at it would prove a bungling matter, when compared with the original. He felt my scrutiny, and knew, too, that I had never looked at him till then. "Do you sing nowadays?" he asked, tapping with his fingers the keys of the piano behind him. "Psalms." "They suit you admirably; but I perceive you attend to your dress still. How effective those velvet bands are! You look older than you did two years ago." "Two years are enough to age a woman." "Yes, if she is miserable. Can you be unhappy?" he asked, rising, and taking a seat beside me. There was a tone of sympathy in his voice which made me shudder, I knew not why. It was neither aversion nor liking; but I dreaded to be thrown into any tumult of feeling. I realized afterward more fully that it is next to impossible for a passionate woman to receive the sincere addresses of a manly man without feeling some fluctuation of soul. Ignorant spectators call her a coquette for this. Happily, there are teachers among our own sex, women of cold temperaments, able to vindicate themselves from the imputation. They spare themselves great waste of heart and some generous emotion,--also remorse and self-accusations regarding the want of propriety, and the other ingredients which go to make up a white-muslin heroine. Harry Lothrop saw that my cheek was burning, and made a movement toward me. I tossed my head back, and moved down the sofa; he did not follow me, but smiled and mused in his old way.