Still the figure of M’liss stood before the master as he bent before the doctor’s words, in the same defiant attitude, with something of scorn in the great dark eyes, that made the blood tingle in his cheeks, and seemed to make the reasoning of the speaker but meaningless and empty words. At length he rose. As he stood with his hand on the latch he turned to Dr. Duchesne, who was watching him with careful solicitude. “I don’t know but that you have done well to keep this from me. At all events it has not—cannot, and should not alter my opinion toward M’liss. You will of course keep it a secret. In the mean time you must not blame me if I cling to my instincts in preference to your judgment. I still believe that you are mistaken in regard to her.” “Stay, one moment,” said the doctor; “promise me you will not say anything of this, nor attempt to prosecute the matter further till you have consulted with me.” “I promise. Good-night.” “Good-night;” and so they parted. True to that promise and his own instinctive promptings the master endeavored to atone for his momentary disloyalty by greater solicitude for M’liss. But the child had noticed some change in the master’s thoughtful manner, and in one of their long post-prandial walks she stopped suddenly, and mounting a stump, looked full in his face with big searching eyes. “You ain’t mad?” said she, with an interrogative shake of the black braids. “No.” “Nor bothered?” “No.” “Nor hungry?” (Hunger was to M’liss a sickness that might attack a person at any moment.) “No.” “Nor thinking of her?” “Of whom, Lissy?” “That white girl.” (This was the latest epithet invented by M’liss, who was a very dark brunette, to express Clytemnestra.) “No.” “Upon your word?” (A substitute for “Hope you’ll die!” proposed by the master.) “Yes.” “And sacred honor?” “Yes.” Then M’liss gave him a fierce little kiss, and hopping down, fluttered off. For two or three days after that she condescended to appear like other children and be, as she expressed it, “good.”