ttempt to rise, but his arm held me
firmly as he said:

"Forgive me, Miss Minot, if I have caused you pain--I spoke harshly, I
fear."

"You are forgiven," I said, "let me go."

"You are my friend still?" he asked.

"Yes, yes," I said quickly, "do let me go," and I fled to my own room,
and endeavored to wash away the stains of tears, to make my appearance
down stairs, for it was already late and mother would be looking for me.

I felt unlike myself and feared all would discern my uneasiness. Mr.
Benton had, I knew, a mistaken idea, and his polite attentions were
torture to me; he evidently thought my tears needed his commiseration,
whereas, I was only sorry I had not delivered a forcible speech in
Clara's behalf, and caused him (as I had intended) to realize the
necessity of a change in his conduct toward her. I expected him to be
vexed with me and was willing he should be, if it would relieve Clara.
Now, however, he seemed to feel I was entitled to his sympathy. There
was one thought, however, that gave relief; while he was occupying
himself with me, Clara would not be annoyed. Mother said she had a
basket to send to Aunt Peg, and I volunteered to take it. Mr. Benton
smilingly said:

"Let me accompany you, Miss Minot, it will be quite dark ere you
return."

"I am not afraid, thank you, and it will be moonlight," then thinking
of Clara I added, "still I might encounter an assassin on the road."

This did not help the matter any, and only furthered the mistaken
thought of Mr. Benton; nevertheless for the sake of that dear friend,
for whom I knew I could have borne anything, I had, after all, a secret
delight, in being misunderstood. I was a willing martyr to a just cause,
and we started together.

"Take my arm, Miss Minot."

"Thank you, walking is second nature to me, and very easy," I replied.

After walking a little further he said, "I am very glad of this
opportunity to talk with you, Miss Minot; I fear, from what I gathered
in our talk of this afternoon, your idea of me is one which I would fain
alter--it is not pleasant to feel that one is misjudged--"

"I know that," I interrupted.

--"And especially when the charge is a serious one. I cannot understand
why I was so feared; rude enough I must have seemed, and your first
words gave me a shock; I hardly know now how to explain it, and what I
desire is light. Pray tell me by what act of mine, you came to such an
unwarrantable conclusion."

"It was no