Captain Temple was not happy about the events of that evening. He had begun to grow very fond of Lottie, and he was not pleased that she should have “made an exhibition of herself.” He went over it so often to his wife that Mrs. Temple learned the incident by heart. There was in her mind, mingled with an intense silent interest in the girl who was like her own, a feeling of repulsion too, equally intense and silent, which joined with the opposite sentiment, and kept Lottie as constantly present to her mind as she was in the Captain’s talk. And, though it sometimes appeared to her that she would die of this girl, who reminded her at every step that she had lost her child, yet she could not check her husband’s ever-flowing, continually repeated talk on the subject. Mrs. Temple thought this was all for his sake. Sometimes, in the bitterness of her loss, she would cry out that she loathed the very name of this other, who was so well and bright and full of life, while her child was dead and gone; but, notwithstanding, Lottie had gradually come to hold a large place in her life. How could she help thinking of her? Grudging her very life and brightness, repenting her grudge, praying God’s blessing on the girl whom she thus injured, avoiding her, fearing the sight of her, watching for her whom she feared; how could it be but that Mrs. Temple, in her lonely hours, should think of Lottie? She was the confidant now of the old Captain’s regret. “I thought she was a sweet, modest girl,” he said, shaking his head; “shy, even--as I like a girl to be--very like---- My dear, I cannot bear a girl to make an exhibition of herself----” “But if there was no one to see her, and if you were in the dark?” “That is true, my dear; but if they did not see her they heard her. Such a voice! I wish you had been there--but that sort of public use of it--and to have the confidence to sing when she was not asked!” Captain Temple shook his head. He seemed to have done nothing but shake his head since last night. “Do you think that the more she has a beautiful voice the less she should let it be heard?” said his wife. “I am not so taken up with this Miss Despard as you are; but still I think you are unjust to her.” “Perhaps I am unjust to her. How can I help being taken up with her? If you knew her as well you would be taken up with her too. And I wish you did; it would be a comfort to you. In everything she does, her walk, every little gesture, I see something that reminds me---- I know you don’t like to speak of it, my dear.”