girl’s dumb eloquence irritated him more than anything else would have done, and he caught himself murmuring more than once that it was a grievous pity his only child was a simpleton. His murmurs, however, were inaudible; and for a while he said nothing to any one. He would have liked to know exactly how often young Townsend came; but he had determined to ask no questions of the girl herself—to say nothing more to her that would show that he watched her. The Doctor had a great idea of being largely just: he wished to leave his daughter her liberty, and interfere only when the danger should be proved. It was not in his manner to obtain information by indirect methods, and it never even occurred to him to question the servants. As for Lavinia, he hated to talk to her about the matter; she annoyed him with her mock romanticism. But he had to come to this. Mrs. Penniman’s convictions as regards the relations of her niece and the clever young visitor who saved appearances by coming ostensibly for both the ladies—Mrs. Penniman’s convictions had passed into a riper and richer phase. There was to be no crudity in Mrs. Penniman’s treatment of the situation; she had become as uncommunicative as Catherine herself. She was tasting of the sweets of concealment; she had taken up the line of mystery. “She would be enchanted to be able to prove to herself that she is persecuted,” said the Doctor; and when at last he questioned her, he was sure she would contrive to extract from his words a pretext for this belief. “Be so good as to let me know what is going on in the house,” he said to her, in a tone which, under the circumstances, he himself deemed genial. “Going on, Austin?” Mrs. Penniman exclaimed. “Why, I am sure I don’t know! I believe that last night the old grey cat had kittens!” “At her age?” said the Doctor. “The idea is startling—almost shocking. Be so good as to see that they are all drowned. But what else has happened?” “Ah, the dear little kittens!” cried Mrs. Penniman. “I wouldn’t have them drowned for the world!” Her brother puffed his cigar a few moments in silence. “Your sympathy with kittens, Lavinia,” he presently resumed, “arises from a feline element in your own character.” “Cats are very graceful, and very clean,” said Mrs. Penniman, smiling. “And very stealthy. You are the embodiment both of grace and of neatness; but you are wanting in frankness.” “You certainly are not, dear brother.” “I don’t pretend to be graceful, though I try to be neat. Why haven’t you let me know that Mr. Morris Townsend is coming to the house four times a week?” Mrs. Penniman lifted her eyebrows. “Four times a week?” “Five times, if you prefer it. I am away all day, and I see nothing. But when such things happen, you should let me know.” Mrs. Penniman, with her eyebrows still raised, reflected intently. “Dear Austin,” she said at last, “I am incapable of betraying a confidence. I would rather suffer anything.”