The logic of a lady who, in spite of the fact that she persistently called her own niece out of the name which had been given the girl at her christening, the name by which everyone else, from her own father downwards, habitually called her, yet could thus lay down the law, was too fearful a thing for a mere male to contemplate, so I smiled weakly, and said, "I beg your pardon! 'Miss Clara,' I meant, of course. How silly of me!" Incidentally I made a note in my memory to the effect that the best way out of the dilemma would be, when speaking of my Lady of the Lake, to refer to her as "your niece," or as "Miss Carleton." "No," said Miss Clara, philosophically, and with the air of one who, not expecting too much from fallen human nature, is always ready to be tolerant, and to make allowance; "no, I don't say, and I don't see, that it is silly of you. That is too severe a word, and the mistake is not unnatural on your part, when you remember that her own father made it twenty years ago, and has gone on doing it ever since." As she spoke the clock struck eleven. "Is it so late?" I said. "I had no idea. Now, with your permission, Miss Carleton, I'll be off to the garden. I shall never forget your goodness to me to-night--taking me on trust, as you have, when everything was against me, and making me feel, now that I am about to say good-night, as if I were saying it, not to one who an hour or so ago was a complete stranger to me, but to a dear and kind and generous friend. How shall I ever thank you?" "Don't try," she said laconically, rising. "Good-night." I sprang to open the door for her, stooping low to raise to my lips the surprisingly small and white and well-formed hand which she extended to me.