that I thought she must have stood behind it listening. She

remained there in the interval quite still; but she had a look that

I cannot put a name on, as of one in a bitter trouble.

"Are we not to have our walk to-day either?" so I faltered.

"I am thanking you," said she. "I will not be caring much to walk,

now that my father is come home."

"But I think he has gone out himself and left you here alone," said

I.

"And do you think that was very kindly said?" she asked.

"It was not unkindly meant," I replied. "What ails you, Catriona?

What have I done to you that you should turn from me like this?"

"I do not turn from you at all," she said, speaking very carefully.

"I will ever be grateful to my friend that was good to me; I will

ever be his friend in all that I am able. But now that my father

James More is come again, there is a difference to be made, and I

think there are some things said and done that would be better to

be forgotten. But I will ever be your friend in all that I am

able, and if that is not all that . . . . if it is not so much . .

. . Not that you will be caring! But I would not have you think of

me too hard. It was true what you said to me, that I was too young

to be advised, and I am hoping you will remember I was just a

child. I would not like to lose your friendship, at all events."

She began this very pale; but before she was done, the blood was in

her face like scarlet, so that not her words only, but her face and

the trembling of her very hands, besought me to be gentle. I saw,

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