I felt unlike myself and feared all would discern my uneasiness. Mr. Benton had, I knew, a mistaken idea, and his polite attentions were torture to me; he evidently thought my tears needed his commiseration, whereas, I was only sorry I had not delivered a forcible speech in Clara's behalf, and caused him (as I had intended) to realize the necessity of a change in his conduct toward her. I expected him to be vexed with me and was willing he should be, if it would relieve Clara. Now, however, he seemed to feel I was entitled to his sympathy. There was one thought, however, that gave relief; while he was occupying himself with me, Clara would not be annoyed. Mother said she had a basket to send to Aunt Peg, and I volunteered to take it. Mr. Benton smilingly said: "Let me accompany you, Miss Minot, it will be quite dark ere you return." "I am not afraid, thank you, and it will be moonlight," then thinking of Clara I added, "still I might encounter an assassin on the road." This did not help the matter any, and only furthered the mistaken thought of Mr. Benton; nevertheless for the sake of that dear friend, for whom I knew I could have borne anything, I had, after all, a secret delight, in being misunderstood. I was a willing martyr to a just cause, and we started together. "Take my arm, Miss Minot." "Thank you, walking is second nature to me, and very easy," I replied. After walking a little further he said, "I am very glad of this opportunity to talk with you, Miss Minot; I fear, from what I gathered in our talk of this afternoon, your idea of me is one which I would fain alter--it is not pleasant to feel that one is misjudged--" "I know that," I interrupted. --"And especially when the charge is a serious one. I cannot understand why I was so feared; rude enough I must have seemed, and your first words gave me a shock; I hardly know now how to explain it, and what I desire is light. Pray tell me by what act of mine, you came to such an unwarrantable conclusion." "It was no act of yours at all. Common sense, I suppose, told me you would not be foiled if you could help it. All men are selfish." "Are not women?" "No, sir," I replied, "they are foolish." "Excuse the question, but has Mrs. Desmonde complained to you?" "No, sir," I said quickly--that was a little story and then again it was not, I reasoned. "So I must conclude that you feared for the safety of your friend, reading, as you thought you did, the terrible selfishness of my heart. "I guess that is about right," I said. "You admit this as a fact?" "Yes; before a judge, if you desire," I said. "That being the case, let me here say from my heart I am not as much in love with Mrs. Desmonde as I might be, and one reason is that I find her more and more enveloped in the strange fancies peculiar, I judge, to herself alone."