me," answered Desmond. "Wont you give me
thanks for attention to your friend?"

"It must have been a whim of Cassandra's."

"Break her of whims, if you can--"

"I _will_."

We went into the parlor together.

"Where do you think I have been?" Ben asked.

"Where?"

"For the doctor. The _baby_ is sick"; and he looked hard at Desmond.

"I hope it will live for years and years," I said.

"I know what you are at, Ben," said Desmond. "I have wished the brat
dead; but upon my soul, I have a stronger wish than that--I have
_forgotten_ it."

There was no falseness in his voice; he spoke the truth.

"Forgive me, Des."

"No matter about that," he answered, sauntering off.

I felt happier; that spark of humanity warmed me. I might not have
another. "I would," I said, "that the last day, the last moments of my
visit had come. You will see me henceforth in Surrey. I will live and
die there."

"To-night," Ben said, "I am going to tell pa."

"That is best."

"Horrible atmosphere!"

"It would kill Verry."

"You thrive in it," he said, with a spice of irritation in his voice.

"Thrive!"

Adelaide and Ann proved gracious over my gift. They were talking of
the doctor's visit. Ann said the child was teething, for she had
felt its gums; nothing else was the matter. There need be no
_apprehension_. She should say so to Desmond and Ben, and would post a
letter to her brother in unknown parts.

"Miss Hiticutt has sent for us to come over to tea," Adelaide informed
me. The black silk I wore would do, for we must go at once.

The quiet, formal evening was a pleasant relief, although I was
troubled with a desire to inform Mrs. Somers of Ben's engagement, for
the sake of exasperating her. We came home too early for bed, Adelaide
said; beside, she had music-hunger. I must sing. Mrs. Somers was by
the fire, darning fine napkins, winking over her task, maintaining
in her aspect the determination to avert any danger of a midnight
interview with Desmond. That gentleman was at present sleeping on a
sofa. I seated myself before the piano, wondering whether he slept
from wine, ennui, or to while away the time till I should come. I
touched the keys softly, waiting for an interpreting voice, and half
unconsciously sang the lines of Schiller:

"I hear the sound of music, and the halls
Are full of light. Who are the revelers?"

Desmond made an inarticulate noise and sprang up, as if in answer to a
call. A moment after he st