, it is all my fault. Good night!"

I refused to say good night--I refused to let him go. His wanting to go
was in itself a reproach to me. He had never done it before. I asked him
to sit down again.

He shook his head.

"For ten minutes!"

He shook his head again.

"For five minutes!"

Instead of answering, he gently lifted a long lock of my hair, which hung
at the side of my neck. (My head, I should add, had been dressed that
evening on the old-fashioned plan, by my aunt's maid--to please my aunt.)

"If I stay for five minutes longer," he said, "I shall ask for
something."

"For what?"

"You have beautiful hair, Lucilla."

"You can't want a lock of my hair, surely?"

"Why not?"

"I gave you a keepsake of that sort--ages ago. Have you forgotten it?"

[Note.--The keepsake had of course been given to the true Oscar, and was
then, as it is now, still in his possession. Notice, when he recovers
himself, how quickly the false Oscar infers this, and how cleverly he
founds his excuse upon it.--P.]

His face flushed deep; his eyes dropped before mine. I could see that he
was ashamed of himself--I could only conclude that he _had_ forgotten it!
A morsel of _his_ hair was, at that moment, in a locket which I wore
round my neck. I had more I think, to doubt him than he had to doubt me.
I was so mortified that I stepped aside, and made way for him to go out.

"You wish to go away," I said; "I won't keep you any longer."

It was his turn now to plead with _me._

"Suppose I have been deprived of your keepsake?" he said. "Suppose
somebody whom I would rather not mention, has taken it away from me?"

I instantly understood him. His miserable brother had taken it. My
work-basket was close by. I cut off a lock of my hair, and tied it at
each end with a morsel of my favorite light-blue ribbon.

"Are we friends again, Oscar?" was all I said as I put it into his hand.

He caught me in his arms in a kind of frenzy--holding me to him so
violently that he hurt me; kissing me so fiercely that he frightened me.
Before I had recovered breath enough to speak to him, he had released me,
and had gone out in such headlong haste that he knocked down a little
round table with books on it, and woke my aunt.

The old lady called for me in her most formidable voice, and showed me
the family temper in its sourest aspect. Grosse had gone back to London
without making any apology to her; and Oscar had knocked down her books.
The i