almost as much confused, as
they were on a certain memorable day in the far past, when I rose, in
brand-new wig and gown, to set my future prospects at the bar on the
hazard of my first speech.

When I entered the room I found Jessie leaning back languidly in her
largest arm-chair, watching the raindrops dripping down the window-pane.
The unfortunate box of novels was open by her side, and the books were
lying, for the most part, strewed about on the ground at her feet. One
volume lay open, back upward, on her lap, and her hands were crossed
over it listlessly. To my great dismay, she was yawning--palpably and
widely yawning--when I came in.

No sooner did I find myself in her presence than an irresistible anxiety
to make some secret discovery of the real state of her feelings toward
George took possession of me. After the customary condolences on the
imprisonment to which she was subjected by the weather, I said, in as
careless a manner as it was possible to assume:

"I have heard from my son this morning. He talks of being ordered home,
and tells me I may expect to see him before the end of the year."

I was too cautious to mention the exact date of his return, for in that
case she might have detected my motive for asking her to prolong her
visit.

"Oh, indeed?" she said. "How very nice. How glad you must be."

I watched her narrowly. The clear, dark blue eyes met mine as openly as
ever. The smooth, round cheeks kept their fresh color quite unchanged.
The full, good-humored, smiling lips never trembled or altered their
expression in the slightest degree. Her light checked silk dress, with
its pretty trimming of cherry-colored ribbon, lay quite still over the
bosom beneath it. For all the information I could get from her look
and manner, we might as well have been a hundred miles apart from each
other. Is the best woman in the world little better than a fathomless
abyss of duplicity on certain occasions, and where certain feelings of
her own are concerned? I would rather not think that; and yet I don't
know how to account otherwise for the masterly manner in which Miss
Jessie contrived to baffle me.

I was afraid--literally afraid--to broach the subject of prolonging her
sojourn with us on a rainy day, so I changed the topic, in despair, to
the novels that were scattered about her.

"Can you find nothing there," I asked, "to amuse you this wet morning?"

"There are two or three good novels," she said, carele