that," he replied; "I'm as glad as I can be,
and I suppose he's as sorry as he can be. I can't imagine any man in love
with such a girl as you not being one or the other all the while."

But the tone was a little, a very little, colder than the words, and her
quick ear caught the difference.

"What's the matter? Are you vexed about anything? What have I done?" she
asked, in a tone of anxious deprecation which no other person but
Harrison Cordis had ever heard from her lips.

"You have done nothing," he answered, passing his arm round her waist in
a momentary embrace of reassurance. "It is I that am ill-tempered. I
couldn't help thinking from the way this Burr pursues you that there must
have been something in the story about your having been engaged, after
all."

"It is not true. I never was engaged. I couldn't bear him. I don't like
him. Only he--he--"

"I don't want to pry into your secrets. Don't make any confessions to me.
I have no right to call you to account," he interrupted her, rather
stiffly.

"Please don't say that. Oh, please don't talk that way!" she cried out,
as if the words had hurt her like a knife. "He liked me, but I didn't
like him. I truly didn't. Don't you believe me? What shall I do if you
don't?"

It must not be supposed that Cordis had inspired so sudden and strong a
passion in Madeline without a reciprocal sentiment. He had been
infatuated from the first with the brilliant, beautiful girl, and his
jealousy was at least half real, Her piteous distress at his slight show
of coldness melted him to tenderness. There was an impassioned
reconciliation, to which poor Henry was the sacrifice. Now that he
threatened to cost her the smiles of the man she loved, her pity for him
was changed into resentment. She said to herself that it was mean and
cruel in him to keep pursuing her. It never occurred to her to find
Cordis's conduct unfair in reproaching her for not having lived solely
for him, before she knew even of his existence. She was rather inclined
to side with him, and blame herself for having lacked an intuitive
prescience of his coming, which should have kept her a nun in heart and
soul.

The next evening, about dusk, Henry was wandering sadly and aimlessly
about the streets when he met Madeline face to face. At first she seemed
rather unpleasantly startled, and made as if she would pass him without
giving him an opportunity to speak to her. Then she appeared to change
her mind, and,