“Nothing--nothing has happened--I give you my word upon it,” she said. “Oh, I feel that you are altogether right. I have no cause to be frightened--no cause to be troubled. Why, if it came to fighting, have not I a brother? Ah, I had much better say nothing more. You could not understand--psha! there is nothing to be understood, dear Dr. Goldsmith; girls are foolish creatures.” “Is it nothing to you that we have been friends so long, dear child?” said he. “Is it not possible for you to let me have your confidence? Think if it be possible, Mary. I am not a wise man where my own affairs are concerned, but I feel that for others--for you, my dear--ah, child, don't you know that if you share a secret trouble with another its poignancy is blunted?” “I have never had consolation except from you,” said the girl. “But this--this--oh, my friend, by what means did you look into a woman's soul to enable you to write those lines-- 'When lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds too late. . . '?” There was a long pause before he started up, with his hand pressed to his forehead. He looked at her strangely for a moment, and then walked slowly away from her with his head bent. Before he had taken more than a dozen steps, however, he stopped, and, after another moment of indecision, hastened back to her and offered her his hand, saying-- “I am but a man; I can think nothing of you but what is good.” “Yes,” she said; “it is only a woman who can think everything that is evil about a woman. It is not by men that women are deceived to their own destruction, but by women.” She sprang to her feet and laid her hand upon his arm once again. “Let us go away,” she said. “I am sick of this place. There is no corner of it that is not penetrated by the Agujari's singing. Was there ever any singing so detestable? And they pay her fifty guineas a song! I would pay fifty guineas to get out of earshot of the best of her efforts.” Her laugh had a shrill note that caused it to sound very pitiful to the man who heard it. He spoke no word, but led her tenderly back to where her mother was standing with Burke and her son. “I do hope that you have not missed Agujari's last song,” said Mrs. Horneck. “We have been entranced with its melody.” “Oh, no; I have missed no note of it--no note. Was there ever anything so delicious--so liquid-sweet? Is it not time that we went homeward, mother? I do feel a little tired, in spite of the Agujari.” “At what an admirable period we have arrived in the world's history!” said Burke. “It is the young miss in these days who insists on her mother's keeping good hours. How wise we are all growing!” “Mary was always a wise little person,” said Mrs. Horneck. “Wise? Oh, let us go home!” said the girl wearily. “Dr. Goldsmith will, I am sure, direct our coach to be called,” said her mother. Goldsmith bowed and pressed his way to the door, where he told the janitor to call for Mrs. Horneck's coach.