'But that is simply!—' Hazel suddenly checked her rapid words, and brought her face back over the notebook again; bending down to hide the crimson which yet could not be hid. 'What is "simply"?' said Dane, touching his own face to the crimson. But Hazel did not speak. 'I must go, Hazel,' said he now looking at his watch. 'I have not another minute. I will send Byrom to you for orders.' And with a very gentle kiss to the bowed cheek as he spoke, he went off. And Hazel sat still where he left her, and thought,—with her face in her hands now. Thoughts, and feelings too, were in a whirl. In the first place,—no, there was no possible telling what came first. But was he going to direct every little thing of her life? Well, she had given him leave last winter, in her mind. That is, if he _would_ do it. But would he really? Somehow she had fancied he would not. She had fancied that—somehow—he would find out that she had a little sense, and trust to it. She felt so disappointed, and caged, and disturbed.—And then she had withstood him!—a thing he never pretended to bear. Maybe he had gone off disappointed, too. And one of her old saucy speeches had been on the tip of her tongue!— and next time, as like as not, it would slip out, and what should she do then? What should she do now?—go out as she was bid, like a good child? Hazel almost laughed at herself for the bound her mind gave, straight back from this idea,—which after all was the only one to act out. For the old sweetness of temper had taken to itself no edge, and the old dignity which had so often found its safety in submission did not fail her now. Nevertheless, Wych Hazel rose up and stood before the fire, knotting her fingers into various complications. Yes, it was her duty to go. But when Byrom knocked at the door, Hazel sprang away to the next room and sent her orders by Phoebe. Then, after the old comical fashion, she worked out her waywardness in every possible _proper_ way that she could. She put on one of her wonderful toilettes, and then went slowly down the broad stairs (thinking fast!)—and flashed out upon Byrom like a young empress in her robes. And a sinecure he had of it for the next few hours. To stand at the carriage door and receive the most laconic of orders; to see her pass from carriage to store and from store to carriage, erect and tall and stately, and with no more apparent notice of the icy sidewalks than if they had been strewn with cotton wool. If he followed close to pick her up, Wych Hazel took no notice and gave him no chance. In like manner she did her work with an executive force and gravity which made the clerks into quicksilver and drove one or two old admirers whom she met nearly frantic. They hailed her by her old name; and Hazel got rid of them she hardly knew how, except that it was in a blaze of discomfort for herself. And after that she kept furtive watch; quitting counters and stores, and rushing up—or down—in