"High spirits! I am not conscious of it."

"So much the worse," she replied; then, placing her hand upon my arm,
and looking earnestly at me, she added, "something has happened since I
saw you. What is it? It would be wrong, and useless as well as wrong, to
affect to deny it."

I had noticed at times in Astraea an air of solemnity, which would fall
upon her face like a shadow, slowly receding again before its habitual,
but always subdued brightness; and occasionally I imagined that I
detected a sudden and brief sternness in her eyes, which conveyed an
impression that she was interrogating with their concentrated rays, the
concealed thoughts of the person upon whom they were directed. These
were some of the outward signs of that mystery of her nature which I
never could penetrate. Upon this occasion a world of latent doubts and
suspicions appeared to be condensed in her look. It seemed as if in that
single glance she read the whole incident which, to spare her feelings,
I was so unwilling to disclose.

"What do you suppose, Astraea," I inquired, "can have happened since I
saw you?"

"You are not candid with me," she returned. "I ask you a question, and
you answer by asking me another. If nothing has happened, you can easily
satisfy me; if it be otherwise, and you are silent, I must draw my own
conclusions."

"Whatever conclusions you draw, Astraea, I know you have too firm a
reliance on my truth and devotion not to believe that I am actuated by
the purest motives. Have I not always been sincere and frank with you?"

"Always."

"Have you not an implicit confidence in the steadfastness of my love?"

"Were it otherwise, should I be now standing here questioning you, or
should there be need of questions of this kind between us? Confidence!
Why am I so sensitive to the slightest fluctuations of tone and manner I
observe in you, and where do I derive the intuitive perception of their
meanings? Love must have confidence! But it has instincts also. I feel
there is something--I am sure of it--but I will urge you no further. It
is not, perhaps, for your happiness or mine that I should seek to
know."

"Astraea," I exclaimed, passionately, "there is nothing I would conceal
from you that I think you ought to know, or that would make you happier
to know; and if I have any reserve from you, it is for your sake, and
you must ascribe it to the tenderness of my regard for you."

"For _my_ sake?" she repeated, with a slightly