And so they passed for mere acquaintances; and there were some who said—Philip Withers among them—that "that plausible Golden Farmer, young Blount, had treated the forlorn thing shabbily."
About that time hoops came in, and the Splurge girls flourished the first that appeared in Hendrik.
One day, as Miss Wimple sat in a low Yankee rocking-chair, sewing among her books, she was favored with the extraordinary apparition of Miss Madeline Splurge,—her first visitor that day, whether on business or curiosity.
"I wish to procure a small morocco pocket-book, Miss Wimple, if you keep such things."
Miss Wimple, with a slight bow of assent, took from a glass counter-case a paper box in which was a miscellaneous assortment of such articles; there were five or six of the pocket-books. Madeline selected one,—a small, flexible affair, of some dark-colored morocco lined with pink silk. She paid the trifle the shy, demure little librarian demanded, and was taking her leave in silence, without even a "Good-day," when, as she was passing the door, Miss Wimple espied on the counter, near where her customer had stood, a visiting-card; her eye fell on the engraved name,—"Mr. Philip Withers"; of course Miss Splurge had dropped it unawares. She hastened with it to the door,—Madeline had just stept into the street,—
"This card is yours, I presume, Miss Splurge?"
Madeline turned upon her with a surprised air, inquiringly,—looked in her own hands, and shook her handkerchief with the quick, nervous, alarmed movement of one who suddenly discovers a very particular loss,—became, in an instant, pale as death, stared for a moment at Miss Wimple with fixed eyes, and slightly shivered. Then, quickly and fiercely, she snatched the card from Miss Wimple's hand,—
"Where—where did you find this? Did—did I leave—drop—?"
"You left it on my counter," Miss Wimple quietly replied, with a considerate self-possession that admirably counterfeited unconsciousness of Madeline's consternation.
"Come hither, into the shop,—a word with you,"—and Madeline entered quickly, and closed the door behind her. For a moment she leaned with her elbow on the counter, and pressed her eyes with her fingers.
"Are you ill, Miss Splurge?" Miss Wimple gently inquired.
"No. Did you read what is on this card?"
"Yes."
"You—you—you read"———Madeline's hands were clenched, her face red and distorted; she gnashed her teeth, and seemed choking.
"Why, Miss Splurge, what is the matter with you? Yes, I read the name,—Mr. Philip Withers. The card lay on the counter,—I could not know it was yours,—I read the name, and immediately brought it to you. What excites you so? Sit down, and calm yourself; surely you are ill."
Madeline did not accept the stool Miss Wimple offered her, but, availing herself of the pause to assume a forced calmness which left her paler than at first, she fixed her flashing eyes steadily on the deep, still eyes of her companion, and asked,—
"You did not turn this card, then?—you did not look on the other side?"
"On my honor, I did not."
"On your honor! You are not lying, girl?"—Miss Splurge thrust the card into the newly-purchased pocket-book, and hid that in her bosom.
"Miss Splurge," said Miss Wimple, very simply, and with no excitement of tone or expression, "when you feel sufficiently recovered to appear on the street, without exposing yourself there as you have done in here, go out!"
And Miss Wimple turned from Madeline and would have resumed her sewing; but Madeline cried,—
"Stay, stay, Miss Wimple, I beseech you! I knew not what I said; forgive
