In this frame of mind the last person he would have cared to meet was Clytie. That young woman’s evil genius, however, led her to pass the burnt district that morning. Perhaps she had anticipated the meeting. At all events, he had proceeded but a few steps before he was confronted by the identical round hat and cherry colored ribbons. But in his present humor the cheerful color somehow reminded him of the fire and of a ruddy stain over McSnagley’s heart, and invested the innocent Clytie with a figurative significance. Now Clytie’s reveries at that moment were pleasant, if the brightness of her eyes and the freshened color on her cheeks were any sign, and, as she had not seen the master since then, she naturally expected to take up the thread of romance where it had been dropped. But it required all her feminine tact to conceal her embarrassment at his formal greeting and constrained manner. “He is bashful,” reasoned Clytie to herself. “This girl is a tremendous fool,” growled the master inwardly. An awkward pause ensued. Finally, Clytie _loquitur_:— “M’liss has been missing since the fire!” “Missing?” echoed the master in his natural tone. Clytie bit her lip with vexation. “Yes, she’s always running away. She’ll be back again. But you look interested. Do you know,” she continued with exceeding archness, “I sometimes think, Mr. Gray, if M’liss were a little older”— “Well?” “Well, putting this and that together, you know!” “Well?” “People will talk, you know,” continued Clytie, with that excessive fondness weak people exhibit in enveloping in mystery the commonest affairs of life. “People are d——d fools!” roared the master. The correct Clytie was a little shocked. Perhaps underneath it was a secret admiration of the transgressor. Force even of this cheap quality goes a good way with some natures. “That is,” continued the master, with an increase of dignity in inverse proportion to the lapse he had made, “people are apt to be mistaken, Miss Morpher, and without meaning it, to do infinite injustice to their fellow mortals. But I see I am detaining you. I will try and find Melissa. I wish you good-morning.” And Don Whiskerandos stalked solemnly away. Clytie turned red and white by turns, and her eyes filled with tears. This denouement to her dreams was utterly unexpected. While a girl of stronger character and active intelligence would have employed the time in digesting plans of future retaliation and revenge, Clytie’s dull brain and placid nature were utterly perplexed and shaken. “Dear me!” said Clytie to herself, as she started home, “if he don’t love me, why don’t he say so?”