ound an interest in the tower,
that the immediate neighbor should preserve so strict a silence, and such
a perfectly tranquil mind. There are but two theories possible in regard
to that man, said the self-respecting Public Sentiment: he is either a
fool or a knave--probably a little of each. In any case he must be dealt
with. So Public Sentiment accosted the farmer, and asked him if he were
not aware that a mysterious tower was going up close to him, and that
the public curiosity was sadly exercised about it? He replied that he
was blessed with tolerable eyesight, and had seen the tower from the
very first stone upward. Tell us, then, all about it! shrieked Public
Sentiment. Ask the builder, if you want to know, said the farmer. But he
won't tell us, and we want you to tell us, because we know that you must
have asked him. Now what, in the name of pity!--what is that tower for?
I have never asked, replies the farmer. Never asked? shrieked Public
Sentiment. Never, retorted Rusticus. And why, in the name of Heaven, have
you never asked? cried the crowd. Because, said the farmer--"

Lawrence Newt looked at his auditors. "Are you listening, dear Fanny?"

"Yes, Uncle Lawrence."

"--because it's none of my business."

Lawrence Newt smiled; so did all the rest, including Fanny, who remarked
that he might have told her in fewer words that she was impertinent.

"Yes, Fanny; but sometimes words help us to remember things. It is a
great point gained when we have learned to hoe the potatoes in our own
fields, and not vex our souls about our neighbor's towers."

Hope Wayne was not in the least abstracted. She was nervously alive to
every thing that was said and done; and listened with a smile to Lawrence
Newt's parable, liking him more and more.

The general restless distraction that precedes the breaking up of a party
had now set in. People were moving, and rustling, and breaking off the
ends of conversation. They began to go. A few said good-evening, and had
had such a charming time! The rest gradually followed, until there was a
universal departure. Grace Plumer was leaning upon Sligo Moultrie's
arm. But where was Abel?

Hope Wayne's eyes looked every where. But her only glimpse of him
during the evening had been that glimmering, dreadful moment in the
conservatory. There he had remained ever since. There he still stood
gazing through the door into the drawing-room, seeing but not seen--his
mind a wild whirl of thoughts.