“I confess to an intention in the dodging, not because I feared the question, for a simple negative was all it needed, but I was afraid of what might follow.” “I hoped, after the trust of the other day—You do not want to tell me your story?” “Are there not some things that cannot be put into words, Miss Walton? Could you tell me your story?” “But mine is no mystery,” you replied. “It has been the world’s property for years. Why, your very help to-night proves that it is known to you,—that you know, indeed, facts that were unknown to me.” “Facts, yes; feelings, no.” “Do you appreciate the subtilty of the compliment? You really care for such valueless and indefinable things as feelings?” “Yes.” “A bargain, then, while you are in this mood of giving something for nothing. Question for question, if you choose.” “You can tell your secrets?” “To you, yes, for you have told me your greatest.” “Then, with the privilege of silence for both, begin.” “Ah, you begin already to fear the gimlet! Yes. Nothing is to be told that—There again we lack a definition, do we not? Never mind. We shall understand. You knew her in Germany?” “Yes.” “And she—You wear a mask, at moments even merry-faced, but now and again I have surprised a look of such sadness in your eyes that—Is that why you came to America? She”— “No. She was, and is, in so different a class, that I never”— “You should not allow that to be a bar! Any woman”— “But even more, there are other claims upon me, which make marriage out of the question.” “And this is why you have resigned reputation for money-making? Is there no escape? Oh, it seems too cruel to be!” “You draw it worse than it is, Miss Walton, forgetting that I told you of my happiness in loving.” “You make me proud to feel that we are friends, Dr. Hartzmann,” you said gently. “I hope she is worthy of such a love?” I merely nodded; and after a slight pause you remarked, “Now it is only fair to give you a turn.” I had been pondering, after my first impulsive assent, over my right to win your confidence, with the one inevitable conclusion that was so clear, and I answered, “I have no questions to ask, Miss Walton.” “Then I can ask no more, of course,” you replied quietly, and at once turned the conversation into less personal subjects, until the time came for our return to My Fancy. When we parted in the upper hall, that evening, you said to me, “I always value your opinion, and it usually influences me. Do you, as your speech to-night implied, think it right to go on loving baseness?” “It is not a question of right and wrong, but only whether the love remains.” “Then you don’t think it a duty to crush it out?” “No. All love is noble that is distinct from self.” You held out your hand. “I am so glad you think so, and that you spoke your thought. You have done me a great kindness,—greater far than you can ever know. Thank you, and good-night.” Good-night, Maizie. XX