lhelmina Schulenberg in Tompkins Square to-day," he said, still
approaching the inevitable, sidewise.

"Did you?" she asked almost in a whisper. "Was she walking?"

"Yes. Why did you not tell me she was better?"

Phillida looked down. At this moment her reserve with her lover in a
matter so personal to herself seemed to her extremely reprehensible.

"I--I was a coward, Charley," she said with a kind of ferocity of
remorse. This self-accusation on her part made him unhappy.

"You?" he said. "You are no coward. You are a brave woman." He leaned
over and lightly kissed her cheek as he finished speaking.

"I knew that my course would seem foolish to you, and I couldn't bear
that you should know. I was afraid it would mortify you."

"You have suffered much yourself, my dear."

She nodded her head, the tears brimming in her eyes at this unexpected
sign of sympathy.

"And borne it bravely all alone. And all for a mistake--a cruel
mistake."

Millard had not meant to say so much, but his feelings had slipped away
from him. However, he softened his words by his action, for he drew out
his handkerchief and gently wiped away a tear that had paused a moment
in its descent down her cheek.

"How can you say it is a mistake?" she asked. "You saw Wilhelmina
yourself."

"Yes; but it is all a misunderstanding, dear. It's all wrong, I tell
you. You haven't seen much of life, and you'll be better able to judge
when you are older." Here he paused, for of arguments he had none to
offer.

"I don't want to see anything of life if a knowledge of the world is to
rob me of what is more precious than life itself." Her voice was now
firm and resolute, and her tears had ceased.

Millard was angry at he knew not what--at whatever thing human or
supernal had bound this burden of misbelief upon so noble a soul as
Phillida's. He got up and paced the floor a moment, and then looked out
of the window, saying from time to time in response to deprecatory or
defensive words of hers, "I tell you, dear, it's a cruel mistake." Now
and then he felt an impulse to scold Phillida herself; but his
affectionate pity held him back. His irritation had the satisfaction of
finding an object on which to vent itself at length when Phillida said:

"If Mrs. Frankland would admit men to her readings, Charley, I'm sure
that if you could only hear her explain the Bible--"

"No, thank you," said Millard, tartly. "Mrs. Frankland is eloquent, but
she has imposed