"It's a great pity about your love," she sneered; her eyes flashed, and she snapped her fingers in his face, her breast rising and falling in agitation. "Sweethearts may be hard to find, and husbands, too, but I wouldn't marry you--you who have no more gentlemanly instincts than to blame a girl for what happened when she was a helpless little baby." "What--what do you mean by that, Harriet?" he questioned, his eyes opening wide. "I have never--" "You told me--or, at least, you showed it mighty plain--" she broke in, "that it was because I was a foundling and never knew who my real parents were that you have such a contempt for me." "Harriet, as God is my judge, I don't know what you're talking about. You have never mentioned such a thing to me before." "Oh yes, I did," she was studying his startled face curiously, "or rather you told me you knew about it--that you had heard of it." "But I had never heard of it--I never dreamed of it till this minute. Besides that would not make a particle of difference to me. It would only make me love you more--it _does_ make me love you more." Her face clouded over with perplexity. Somebody was coining down the sidewalk, and she led him into the parlor. "Why, Mr. Westerfelt," she began again, "I--I don't know what to make of you. It was one day when you were sick here, just after you asked me to burn a letter you had got. I remember it distinctly." He started. "I was not alluding to that," he said. "Then what were you speaking of?" "Of Wambush, and all the rest. Oh, Harriet, I've tried so hard to forget him and overcome my--" "What about him? Answer me; what about him?" "The letter I asked you to burn was not for me. It was from old Wambush to Toot. In it he mentioned you, and how you helped Toot hide that whiskey, and how you confessed your love and cried in the old man's arms." "Mr. Westerfelt, are you _crazy_? Are you a raving maniac? I never did anything like that. Toot Wambush was writing about Hettie Fergusson. She is his sweetheart; she helped him hide the barrel of whiskey in the kitchen. Oh, Mr. Westerfelt, was that what you've been thinking all this time?" A great joy had illuminated his face, and he grasped her hands and clung to them. "Harriet, I see it all now; can you ever forgive me?" She did not answer, but hearing her mother's step in the hall she called out, while she tightened her little fingers over his, "Mother, come in here; come quick!" "What is it, darling?" asked the old woman, anxiously, as she entered the room. "Oh, mother, he thought I was Hettie; he thought I loved Toot Wambush; he says he doesn't care about the other thing one bit." "Well, I didn't see how he could," said Mrs. Floyd. "I didn't, really." "She hasn't said she will forgive me for thinking she was in love with Wambush, and making such a fool of myself on account of the mistake," said Westerfelt. "I wish you'd help me out, Mrs. Floyd."