said heartily, "Why, of
course. It's the only thing," and Matt went away with a face which was
cheerful with good-will, if not the hope of pleasure.

He met Suzette in the avenue, dressed for walking, and coming forward
with the magnificent, haughty movement she had. As she caught sight of
him, she started, and then almost ran toward him. "Oh! _You_!" she said,
and she shrank back a little, and then put her hand impetuously out to
him.

He took it in his two, and bubbled out, "Are you walking somewhere? Are
you well? Is your sister at home? Don't let me keep you! May I walk with
you?"

Her smile clouded. "I'm only walking here in the avenue. How is Louise?
Did she get home safely? It was good of her to come here. It isn't the
place for a gay visit."

"Oh, Miss Northwick! It was good of you to see her. And we were very
happy--relieved--to find that you didn't feel aggrieved with any of _us_
for what must happen. And I hope you don't feel that I've taken an
advantage of your kindness in coming?"

"Oh, no!"

"I've just been to see Wade." Matt reddened consciously. "But it doesn't
seem quite fair to have met you where you had no choice but to receive
me!"

"I walk here every morning," she returned, evasively. "I have nowhere
else. I never go out of the avenue. Adeline goes to the village,
sometimes. But I can't meet people."

"I know," said Matt, with caressing sympathy; and his head swam in the
sudden desire to take her in his arms, and shelter her from that shame
and sorrow preying upon her. Her eyes had a trouble in them that made
him ache with pity; he recognized, as he had not before, that they were
the translation in feminine terms, of her father's eyes. "Poor Wade," he
went on, without well knowing what he was saying, "told me that he--he
was very sorry he had not been able to see you--to do anything--"

"What would have been the use? No one can do anything. We must bear our
burden; but we needn't add to it by seeing people who believe that--that
my father did wrong."

Matt's breath almost left him. He perceived that the condition on which
she was bearing her sorrow was the refusal of her shame. Perhaps it
could not have been possible for one of her nature to accept it, and it
required no effort in her to frame the theory of her father's innocence;
perhaps no other hypothesis was possible to her, and evidence had
nothing to do with the truth as she felt it.

"The greatest comfort we have is that none o