“One moment, Alice,--one moment,” said he, taking her hand. “What is this story my mother tells me?” He stopped, unable to go on; but she quickly broke in, “Scandal travels quickly, indeed; but I scarcely thought your mother was one to aid its journey.” “She never believed it,” said he, doggedly. “Why repeat it, then? Why give bad money currency? I think we had better join my friend. I see she is impatient.” The coldness with which she spoke chilled him like a wintry blast; but he rallied soon, and with a vigorous energy said, “My mother no more believed ill of you than I did; and when I asked you what the slander meant, it was to know where I could find the man to pay for it.” “You must deny yourself the pleasure this time, Tony,” said she, laughing. “It was a woman's story,--a disappointed woman,--and so, not so very blamable as she might be; not but that it was true in fact.” “True, Alice,--true?” “Yes, sir. The inference from it was the only falsehood; but, really, we have had too much of this. Tell me of yourself,--why are you here? Where are you now going?” “You 've heard of my exploits as a messenger, I suppose,” said Tony, with a bitter laugh. “I heard, as we all heard with great sorrow, that you left the service,” said she, with a hesitation on each word. “Left it? Yes; I left to avoid being kicked out of it I lost my despatches, and behaved like a fool. Then I tried to turn sailor, but no skipper would take me; and I _did_ turn clerk, and half ruined the honest fellow that trusted me. And now I am going--in good truth, Alice, I don't exactly know where, but it is somewhere in search of a pursuit to fit a fellow who begins to feel he is fit for nothing.” “It is not thus your friends think of you, Tony,” said she, kindly. “That's the worst of it,” rejoined he, bitterly; “I have all my life been trying to justify an opinion that never should have been formed of me,--ay, and that I well knew I had no right to.” “Well, Tony, come back with us. I don't say with me, because I must be triple discreet for some time to come; but come back with papa; he 'll be overjoyed to have you with us.” “No, no,” muttered Tony, in a faint whisper; “I could not, I could not.” “Is that old grudge of long ago so deep that time has not filled it up?” “I could not, I could not,” muttered he, evidently not hearing the words she had just spoken. “And why not, Tony? Just tell me why not?” “Shall I tell you, Alice?” said he; and his lip shook and his cheek grew pale as he spoke,--“shall I tell you?” She nodded; for she too was moved, and did not trust herself to speak. “Shall I tell you?” said he; and he looked into her eyes with a meaning so full of love, and yet of sorrow, that her cheek became crimson, and she turned away in shame. “No, Tony,” whispered she, faintly, “better not say--what might pain us both, perhaps.” “Enough, if you know,” said he, faintly.