rather the touch of a woman. That 's quite sufficient."
"Does she keep her composure?"
"Perfectly. You can imagine nothing simpler and less sentimental than her manner. She makes me forget myself most divinely. The child's death colors our talk; but it does n't confine or obstruct it. You see she has her religion: she can afford to be natural."
Weary as my friend looked, and shaken by his sudden subjection to care, it yet seemed to me, as he pronounced these words, that his eye had borrowed a purer light and his voice a fresher tone. In short, where I discerned it, how I detected it, I know not; but I felt that he carried a secret. He sat poking with his walking-stick at a nail in the carpet, with his eyes dropped. I saw about his mouth the faint promise of a distant smile,—a smile which six months would bring to maturity.
"George," said I, "I have a fancy."
He looked up. "What is it?"
"You 've lost your heart."
He stared a moment, with a sudden frown. "To whom?" he asked.
"To Mrs. Hicks."
With a frown, I say, but a frown that was as a smile to the effect of my rejoinder. He rose to his feet; all his color deserted his face and rushed to his eyes.
"I beg your pardon if I 'm wrong," I said.
Bingham had turned again from pale to crimson. "Don't beg my pardon," he cried. "You may say what you please. Beg hers!" he added, bitterly.
I resented the charge of injustice.
"I 've done her no wrong!" I answered. "I have n't said," I went on with a certain gleeful sense that I was dealing with massive truths,—"I have n't said that she had lost her heart to you!"
"Good God, Charles!" cried Bingham, "what a horrid imagination you have!"
"I am not responsible for my imagination."
"Upon my soul, I hope I'm not!" cried Bingham, passionately. "I have enough without that."
"George," I said, after a moment's reflection, "if I thought I had insulted you, I would make amends. But I have said nothing to be ashamed of. I believe that I have hit the truth. Your emotion proves it. I spoke hastily; but you must admit that, having caught a glimpse of the truth, I could n't stand indifferent to it."
"The truth! the truth! What truth?"
"Are n't you in love with Mrs. Hicks? Admit it like a man."
"Like a man! Like a brute. Have n't I done the woman wrong enough?"
"Quite enough, I hope."
"Have n't I turned her simple joys to bitterness?"
"I grant it."
"And now you want me to insult her by telling her that I love her?"
"I want you to tell her nothing. What you tell her is your own affair. Remember that, George. It 's as little mine as it is the rest of the world's."
Bingham stood listening, with a contracted brow and his hand grasping his stick. He walked to the dusty office-window and halted a moment, watching the great human throng in the street. Then he turned and came towards me. Suddenly he stopped short. "God forgive me!" he cried; "I believe I do love her."
The fountains of my soul were stirred. "Combining my own hasty impressions of Mrs. Hicks with yours, George," I said, "the consummation seems to me exquisitely natural."
It was in these simple words that we celebrated the sacred fact. It seemed as if, by tacit agreement, the evolution of this fact was result enough for a single interview.
A few days after this interview, In the evening, I called at Bingham's lodgings. His servant informed me that my friend was out of town, although he was unable to indicate his whereabouts. But as I turned away from the door a hack drew up, and the object of my quest descended, equipped with a trav-
