missed you, child, during these past weeks? Over and over again I have wished I had your saucy chatter to listen to. What have you been doing with yourself—anything particular?"
"Something very particular," I say, solemnly, "or at least—almost. It is a miracle you do not find Miss Fleming's pieces and mine laid out in baskets."
"What do you mean?" he asks, sharply. "You have been in danger—and Silvia?"
"It was a thunderbolt," I exclaim; "she and I were only a few yards apart, and it fell between us."
"And you were out in the storm that day, you two?" "I went to look for Silvia, she was out in it." "Did she come in after I left?"
"No!"
"Good heavens," he cries, striking his head with his clenched fist. "What a brute I was! Where is she now?"
"At Homburg."
"I wonder what she is doing!" he says, half to himself.
"Flirting!" I answer, almost before I know what I am saying. I have an unhappy knack of blurting out the thought that is uppermost in my mind.
"What makes you think that, child?" he asks, turning quickly to me.
"I did not mean to say it, Mr. Vasher. I was only thinking."
"And your opinion of her?" he says, looking at me. "I always like to have a very young person's opinion about another—it is always true; what is it?"
"She is young," I say thoughtfully, "and well-born and rich and beautiful, and—I am sorry for her."
"Sorry!" he says, looking at me keenly, "and why are you sorry? What more does she want?"
"She is not happy," I say, turning my head away that he may
