THERE was a mountain party that afternoon, organized by Mr. Dibble. Vane supposed that Miss Thomas would be of the number, and himself stayed away, not caring to meet her. But when he came back, after a long walk, she was sitting on the piazza with Mrs. Haviland. Vane passed by, raising his hat. She looked at him almost wistfully, not blushing this time, but very pale. When he came down from his room, before tea, he went up and spoke to her. "You have not gone to the picnic, Miss Thomas!" She looked up for a moment at him earnestly; then, dropping her eyes, spoke gravely and rather coldly. "I do not go on mountain parties, Mr. Vane." "At Cinerea Lake?" "At Cinerea Lake or elsewhere." "Really, I had flattered myself that I had been enjoying your own diversions." Miss Thomas made no answer whatever to this. Then, after some minutes--"Why did you not answer my letter?" "I did not know it required an answer." "I value your friendship very highly. It made me very unhappy." "Apparently you were successful in concealing your unhappiness from your friend Miss Gibbs. I did not know it was my friendship you cared for." "I am in the habit of concealing most things from Miss Gibbs. Have I ever given you reason to suppose I cared for anything _else_ than your friendship?" "You have lost little of your old skill," said Vane, grimly. "I cannot conceive, clever as you still are, that you should have been, for a year, so slow of comprehension. You would rather I should think you a flirt than maladroit." "You think me so?" Miss Thomas spoke as if she were going to cry. Vane looked at her. "I beg your pardon," said he, simply, and walked away. Miss Thomas went on with her sewing, bending her head over the work. Truly, thought Vane, it was not a very manly thing in him taunting her that he had failed to make her love him. But had he honestly tried? he questioned himself, as he walked up and down the piazza that evening. Had he not rather put the thing on a basis of flirtation from the beginning? Bah! he was going back to his old innocence. He had definitely given her to understand that he had loved her, and she had forced him to the utmost boundary of the explicit, and in his foolish magnanimity had made a fool of him. He had failed to make her love him; no one could make her love until she chose, for worldly reasons of her own, to try. He stopped his walk when next he passed by the place where she was sitting. "You do not seem to have your old attention," he said, brutally. He had a way of saying petty things when with her, and was conscious of it. "Why do you think I care for attention?" said she, simply. "You cared for mine----" "You admit it?" ----"Like that of any masculine unit." "I used to respect you, Mr. Vane. Pray do not console me for the loss of your friendship by showing me how worthless it is." "You seem to have made that friendship of mine for you a matter of common knowledge among the people in this place."