"He maligns me, this dissector of the emotions," he said. "He desires artfully to give you the impression that I am not serious by nature. I am, in fact, seriousness itself. It is the wicked world which gets the better of me." Which statement Mrs. Sylvestre might have chosen to place some reliance in as being a plausible one, if she had not seen the professor at other times, when he spoke of this friendship of his. It was certainly a warm one, and then, feeling that there must be reason for it, she began to see these reasons for herself, and appreciate something of their significance and value. The change which finally revealed itself in her manner was so subtle in its character that Arbuthnot himself could not be sure when he had first felt it; sometimes he fancied it had been at one time, and again at another, and even now it was not easy for him to explain to himself why he knew that they were better friends. But there was an incident in their acquaintance which he always remembered as a landmark. This incident occurred at the close of the season. One bright moonlight night, having a fancy for making a call upon Bertha, who was not well enough to go out for several days, Mrs. Sylvestre made the visit on foot, accompanied by her maid. The night was so pleasant that they were walking rather slowly under the trees near Lafayette Park, when their attention was attracted by the sound of suppressed sobbing, which came from one of two figures standing in the shadow, near the railings, a few yards ahead of them. The figures were those of a man and a young woman, and the instant she saw the man, who was well dressed, Agnes Sylvestre felt her heart leap in her side, for she recognized Laurence Arbuthnot. He stood quite near the woman, and seemed trying to console or control her, while she--less a woman than a girl, and revealing in her childish face and figure all that is most pathetic in youth and helplessness--wept and wrung her hands. "You must be quiet and have more confidence in"--Agnes heard Arbuthnot say; and then, prompted by some desperate desire to hear no more, and to avoid being seen, she spoke to her maid. "Marie," she said, "we will cross the street." But when they had crossed the street some chill in the night air seemed to have struck her, and she began to shiver so that Marie looked at her in some affright. "Madame is cold," she said. "Is it possible that madame has a chill?" "I am afraid so," her mistress replied, turning about hurriedly. "I will not make the visit. I will return home." A few minutes later, Mrs. Merriam, who had settled her small figure comfortably in a large arm-chair by the fire, and prepared to spend the rest of the evening with a new book, looked up from its first chapter in amazement, as her niece entered the room. "Agnes!" she exclaimed. "What has happened! Are you ill? Why, child! you are as white as a lily."