the subject. It was not for us to pry into her secrets, and if any thing was to be said she should say it.
Every afternoon Belle went away, as before, with her book; but we did not accompany her, nor allude to her newly acquired love for solitary walks and studies. One afternoon we had callers, and she could not go. That night, after I had gone to sleep, Madeline awoke me with a little shake.
"Listen," she whispered. "Whom is Belle talking to?"
The night was warm, and all our doors and windows were open. Belle's chamber was not far from ours; and we could distinctly hear her speaking in a low tone. She was evidently holding a conversation with some one whose voice we could not hear.
"I'll go in," said Madeline, rising, "and see about this."
"No, no," I whispered. "She is talking to some one outside. Let me go down and speak to him."
I slipped on some clothes and stole quietly down the stairs. I unfastened the back door and went round to the side on which Belle's window opened. No sooner had I reached the corner than I saw, directly under the window, and looking upward, his hat cocked a good deal on one side, and his riding-whip in his hand, the jaunty young fellow with whom I had seen Belle talking.
"Hello!" I cried, and rushed toward him. At the sound of my voice he turned to me, and I saw his face distinctly. He was young and handsome. There was a sort of half laugh on his countenance, as if he had
